Sperm Banks Will Reject You Because You're Gay. Seriously.

I'm hardly a gay rights activist. I think the National Day of Silence is ridiculous and that pride parades, or at least the one in NYC, are just an excuse for queens to have a daytime circuit party. That being said, once I discovered that I wouldn't be allowed to donate my sperm because I'm gay, it was incredibly offensive, even more so because nobody seems to be either aware of this or willing to address it.

The premise of donating to a sperm bank is simple. You walk into your local bank, head into a private room full of porn, and masturbate into a cup. The process of being selected to do that isn't so simple. It's a several month procedure that involves full-blown physical examinations, a mental evaluation, drug testing, blood work, obtaining the medical history of all immediate family members, and a lengthy interview process. Once you're selected, you are usually still required to do monthly blood work to test for illicit drug use or STD's.

After getting past all of that, the pay is pretty decent. You're paid $100 for each sample, and typically come in three times per week. An extra $15,000 over the course of a year to do something I'd be doing anyway sounded pretty nice.

I logged on to the websites for a few of these sperm banks and was immediately rebuffed by one. In addition to being over 5'9", between the ages of 19-40, and having a college degree or currently working towards getting one, California Cryobank lists one of its basic requirements for donors as exclusively female sexual partners.

Second try. Filled out the online application for Repro Lab Inc. and was rejected by e-mail. They said that I did not meet FDA regulation requirements, but because of their company policy, could not disclose the specific ways that I did not meet these requirements. The New York Sperm Bank also sent me an e-mail saying the same thing.

This seemed bizarre. I'm in perfect health, have a college degree, and apart from my grandmother developing dementia when she was in her early 80s, have no unsettling illnesses in my immediate family. To be fair, I also lied about not smoking pot on the application (although if they selected me, I would be willing to quit). The only part of my application which I responded "yes" to was if my sexual partners in the last 5 years were male.

After a little more digging, it turns out that the FDA has actually implemented these rules, recommending that any man who has engaged in gay sex within the last 5 years be barred from serving as an anonymous sperm donor. Even if you don't have HIV or any other STD and meet all the other requirements. They insist that gay men have a higher than average risk of carrying the AIDS virus. They also haven't publicly commented on the matter since saying that.

Even though these are recommendations from the FDA and not laws, sperm banks generally adhere to them. Although a woman who wants a sperm sample from a gay man can still request and obtain it, and it's not considered a felony to lie about your sexual history during the interview process, donors can be flat out rejected because they've had gay sex.

This is offensive to me for a variety of reasons. It's insane that a straight man who has sex with HIV-positive prostitutes could qualify as a sperm donor, but a gay man in a monogamous relationship would not. Secondly, this is a decision that has no scientific basis. Thirdly, even if you've had gay sex, they test you constantly for HIV and other diseases while you're donating, after you've passed the rigorous initial screening, which makes the chances of a positive sample basically zero.

Shouldn't the screening process be based on sexual behavior and not sexual orientation? Disqualify people who have used drugs intravenously, or have had unprotected sex with an HIV positive person/someone who doesn't know their status.

The notion that you protect people by putting gay men out of the pool is quite bothersome to me. It's basically saying that we're something to fear, or that all of us engage in risky, unsafe sex.

So since I can't donate my sperm, does anybody reading this want it? I offer a reduced rate.

Koala Bears and Sperm Donors

The accompanying photo is of the individual that I dated for most of this year.

No, I didn't actually date a koala. (And before anyone says anything, I know that koalas are marsupials and not bears. It was a pet name. Fuck off). However, he pretty much resembles one. He looks incredibly cute and cuddly, but in reality, is an aggressive, moody little fucker that sleeps for 20 hours a day.

We first dated in the summer of 2009. Things were going well, but he abruptly ended the relationship. Several months later, he was in a better head-space and we gave it a second try this spring.

It was exciting for a bunch of reasons. In addition to being my first relationship in well over five years, the second go-round was far better than the first one, a rare event for couples who decide to give it another try. He even met my family, who loved him (although privately urged me to convince him to remove the Dennis Rodman style nosering that he sports).

Alas, the relationship ultimately fizzled last month, through no fault of our own and about as well as it could have. We have always been extremely affectionate towards each other, but somewhere along the way, the passionate part of the relationship subsided. It was like cuddling with your best friend. This was confusing for both of us since we always enjoy spending time together and still found each other physically appealing. The fact that I find someone who is 5'4" and socially awkward (by his own admission) to be sexually attractive is probably something that I should be on a couch for anyway, but that's neither here nor there.

In the end, we mutually decided that the parts of our relationship we enjoyed the most could still be done as friends, but that it didn't necessarily translate into a romance. This would be fine if we were in our 70s, or lesbians, but we're both too young to settle for that. So he still comes over and spends the night. We still roll out of bed at noon, grab a slice of pizza and watch the Golden Girls. We just don't have sex. And somehow, it works. Not only does it work, but it actually makes more sense for now.

Since then, I've gone on a couple of one-and-done dates, but the idea of starting something up again isn't very appealing right now. And after experiencing the highs of the relationship, the idea of whoring around Brooklyn isn't very appealing either (give it a couple of weeks, though).

The plan for now is just to be alone. But if I'm not spreading my seed, it certainly shouldn't go to waste. In the interest of extra cash (and frankly, just good blog entries), I recently applied to be a sperm donor. I'll be sure to keep you posted on how that process goes.

Let's Talk About Sex...With My Parents?!?

I had a great discussion on dating and sex with my parents the other day. Our relationship has become extremely close in recent times and over the last year, I’ve begun to see them as an invaluable resource on this topic, more so than my friends. They’ve each been divorced once before, and have now been married together for over 30 years. They’ve been through the worst elements of a relationship, as well as the best. They’ve experienced firsthand why a relationship fails, and why it succeeds. The idea of discussing personal issues with your parents is an uncomfortable thought for a lot of people, but simply based on an extra 40-45 years of life experience, they’ve been around the dating block more than anyone else I know. Why wouldn’t you take advantage of that?

I’ve been dating someone for a little over a month and while it’s going quite well for the most part, we move at two different speeds. He gets into the cold pool feet first, then knees, then legs. I just dive in. When he told most of his long-term relationships usually involved 4-6 months of dating first before getting to that point, my stomach dropped. It already felt like I was moving at a crawl. You mean to tell me I’ve now got to move slower than this?

By nature, I’m an extremely driven person. I know what I want and go after it. It’s this quality that has been invaluable in my career, but a hindrance in my personal life. If I see the potential that a dating scenario has or how it might not work out, I inevitably think two steps ahead and play out those best case/worst case scenarios, rather than remain present and focus on where we are now.

Either way, this still felt like it was too slow. Wouldn’t you just know after a couple of months whether or not something was going to work out?

My dad listened calmly, taking this all in. He falls under the talks the least/says the most category, while my mom just blurts out whatever comes to her head. (Clearly, you can see which side I take after).

“What are you rushing to?” my dad asked.

A simple enough question, but one I didn’t have a straight answer to. Silence. I picked up my beer.

“The difference between a couple of months versus four or five months is, in the big picture, not important,” my dad said. “You’re both young enough to take the time to let this build up. You’re obviously looking for something of substance. Wouldn’t you rather take the extra time to make absolutely sure you’re going to get that, rather than jump into something and live through it after?”

Ultimately, he’s right. As easy as it is to blame a bad dating history on the city you live in or the people you’re involved with, sometimes you have to look at your own patterns. My last relationship was as a freshman in college, and if I knew then what I know now, it would have never even entered that point. Either way, freshman year of college was a lifetime ago. Apart from this current situation, I haven’t dated anybody else for longer than a month since then. Maybe I’m the idiot.

If I want to have the adult relationship that I so crave, perhaps it’s time to approach dating in a more adult manner and look more inward.

First Date Etiquette

In the infamous words of Chris Rock, "When you're dating somebody early on, you're not dating them. You're dating their representative."

For the most part, we all put our best foot forward in the initial stages of a dating situation. I certainly don't mention this blog or my past sexual escapades to a potential suitor, figuring it will all come out in the wash if it needs to. There's also the simple fact that if you throw all your cards on the table too quickly, eventually you run out of things to talk about.

Then, there are the situations where it feels mutually appropriate to become revealing, and the other person takes it WAY too far, to the point where you never quite look at that person the same way again.

I dated somebody this winter, who, well-intentioned as they may be, committed that ultimate cardinal sin. We had been going out for a couple of weeks when, after a night of drinking, he asked me what the worst thing I had done to somebody in retaliation was.

It's not in my nature to lie, but I also didn't want to scare this guy off. In the end, I decided that honesty was the best policy and to tell him.

I lived with a guy who I had been dating for about a year, and eventually we broke it off. He started bringing a new boyfriend to the apartment shortly after, who was a total asshole to me despite the fact that this was clearly not a competition. After moving out of the apartment, I got drunk one night and decided to take action. I got a box, went into the bathroom, shat in it, and mailed it (with a fake return address) to this individual. Inside the box was a note from me that said, "I heard you have an eating disorder. Eat this."

Luckily, he thought this was funny. Unfortunately, his story wasn't quite as amusing. As nervous as I was about telling my story, his vindictiveness trumped mine by a long shot.

"I dated a guy for three years and he dumped me by fax," he said. "CBS letterhead fax. And then I found out he had been cheating on me with more than one person for the last six months of our relationship."

"That's horrible," I said. "So what did you do?"

"I got him deported out of the country," he said with a straight face.

"WHAT?!"

"My uncle is a judge," he explained. "I had him look over his papers and he had been in the country for a year longer than he was supposed to without renewing his paperwork, so I had him kicked out."

I sat there incredulously as he took his drink off the table.

"It's the only way these faggots are gonna learn," he said, taking a swig of his beer.

If a friend were telling me this story, it would be the funniest thing ever. However, when a potential boyfriend tells you this, it's slightly more horrifying. I have no desire to be booted from the States. Needless to say, it eventually fizzled from there.

The Naked Tennis Instructor Does Dallas (And Your Windows)

“So, who do you think is going to win the election this year,” a voice called out next to me.

My boss sat in a chair, calmly observing me. I had never discussed politics with an employer before, but this was the first day at my new job and I didn’t want to risk offending him by not offering an opinion.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I think Obama has far more redeeming qualities though.”

He gave me a condescending smirk before getting up from his chair. He was shirtless, with a beer gut that likely protected him from seeing his penis within the last decade.

I was on my knees scrubbing his kitchen floor, completely naked. Shortly after returning from a post college trip to Australia, I moved into a dilapidated two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn that my roommate referred to as, “the last cheap shithole in Williamsburg.” After being rejected from a series of low-paying temp jobs and running dangerously short on cash, I soon found myself scouring the “Adult Gigs” section on Craigslist for any job that didn’t involve a video camera or anal beads.

Eventually, I interviewed for a now defunct agency called Your Nude Maid, which offered erotic cleaning services. They screened the clients beforehand and, for a cut of your salary, gave you the option of showing up with an armed bodyguard. I had never worked as a houseboy before, but figured that having my ass in the air in front of a complete stranger couldn’t possibly be any more degrading than moving back in with my parents.

The interview took place at a run-down building in downtown Manhattan that also shared space with The Sex Herald, a monthly publication whose content was self-explanatory. Interns who were clearly being taken advantage of in the name of college credit sat in their cubicles, frantically typing away their reviews on the latest butt plug. I wondered if they were allowed to test these products at home, or if all their “work” was done on-site.

A strikingly beautiful woman appeared out of an open room, wearing a short black skirt and black boots that rode up to her knees. She was at least six feet tall, with pale skin and her brown hair tightly pulled back in a ponytail. She was also holding the largest dildo I had ever seen in my entire life.

“Company meeting,” she said, continuously smacking the dildo against her palm with a startling lack of emotion.

That would be the cue for most people to run to the nearest exit, but the whole situation was so absurd that I found myself unable to get up from the chair. If nothing else, this was going to make a great happy hour story for later.

“I’m Olga,” she said, extending her hand out. “Are you here for the agency?”

“Uh, yeah,” I stammered, shaking her hand as I looked around for the nearest bottle of Purell. I didn’t want to know where that dildo had been, or when it had last been washed.

She led me into a room that most closely resembled an FBI interrogation chamber. It was barren save for a desk and computer, and two hard folding chairs. The walls were painted white and a small lamp dangled from the ceiling with a fluorescent light that made fully opening your eyes almost impossible. She sat down at the desk and pulled out a pen.

“First question,” she asked. “Are you straight or gay?”

“I don’t think that question is legal,” I said.

“Neither is this agency,” she replied.

Touche.

It turned out, unsurprisingly, that many of the cleaners that the agency hired were also prostitutes. Olga had nothing to do with that part of the deal, but many times the client and the person they hired would work out some sort of arrangement on their own. I made it clear to the agency that my services would strictly start and end at fantasy, and was comfortable with receiving less work as a result. Watching Oz as a small child instilled a crippling fear of being ass-slammed in prison, and I didn’t want to even entertain the option of doing something which would cause that to happen.

The rest of the interview went smoothly and Your Nude Maid offered me a job. To the shock of no one, the people who signed up for this service were total freak shows. I opted to go without a bodyguard the first time, only to realize this was a terrible idea when the guy whose house I cleaned reached out to give me a good-bye hug at the end of the session. This was no mere hug. He charged towards me like a pole vaulter, wearing only multi-colored boxer briefs, leapt onto my midsection, and wrapped his legs around my hips as though he were a koala clinging onto a tree branch. I felt tufts of back hair in my hands and didn’t like it one bit.

“Don’t go!” he yelled.

“What?”

“I’ve never had that kind of connection with anyone else,” he said. Considering that only minutes earlier, I unclogged the sink in his bathroom as he sat on the edge of the shower, with my penis dangling inches away from his mouth, I was willing to take his word.

“This is ridiculous,” I said. “You need to let go.” He clung on tighter.

“My body, my choice!” I yelled, pushing the orangutan off me as he crumpled to the ground.

Central Park Zoo wasn’t hiring at that time, so if I wanted to continue working with animals in their natural habitat, a bodyguard was going to be necessary. My second session with the agency took place at a swanky Midtown location, and I was accompanied by a gigantic black man. His name was Terrell, and he was scary. He was about 6’6,” with tree trunks for legs, wearing a t-shirt that could have sheltered multiple Vietnamese families which read, ‘Guns don’t kill people, I do.” Although he was carrying a gun, I felt confident that Terrell would be able to protect me even without a weapon. If anybody shot him, it would probably just make him mad.

We walked to the apartment and he knocked on the door in appeared to be normal manner for him, but which resulted in the second coming of the Kobe earthquakes. I fell back a couple of steps, now questioning whether to be more afraid of the client or the bodyguard. We waited for a few seconds with no answer.

“Do you get to kick the door down?” I asked.

“No,” he said in a booming baritone.

“Would you consider wearing a gold chain and periodically saying, ‘I pity the fool?’”

“No.”

“Great,” I said. “Let’s get this party started.”

That session went smoothly and surprisingly, the handful I did after that went without incident as well. What caused me to quit was the lack of work from the agency. I naively assumed that my clients would continue to hire me weekly, in the same way that one would hire a traditional housekeeper. This proved to not be the case. The bottom line was that not putting out was killing my chances at more clients, and waiting weeks at a time for a normal gig just wasn’t satisfying. If I was going to be a whore, I wanted to be a well paid one and do it on my terms-- which means that I really didn't want to be a whore at all.

Lance Bass Found Me A Fuck Buddy

Apart from coming out of the closet in a desperate publicity ploy, Lance Bass has disappeared off the face of the earth for the better part of a decade. Like most of the free world, you probably lie awake at night, wondering where this man has been and what he does with his days.

Well, my friend, I’m here to tell you that he’s been spending his days infiltrating my sex life. That’s right. I’m living every teenage girl’s dream from ten years ago.

I had sex in his apartment (although not with him), and my newly acquired fuck buddy is a result of a six degrees of separation scenario.

Cue to last August, working at the US Open in the media center. In addition to the wonderful absurdity of being paid to drink beer and watch tennis in courtside seats, the US Open has resulted in some of my most memorable sexual encounters. Shagging the USA Today reporter in the empty interview room, 20 minutes after Federer was done with his press conference, has left a permanent smile on my face whenever the 7 train pulls up to the stadium from Manhattan.
A guy named Ryan who worked for Adidas started talking to me in the middle of one of the matches and we hit it off. He invited me to a player party later that night, which ended up not being my scene.

“I’d love to grab a drink somewhere, but just need to drop my suitcase off at my friend Lance’s place,” Ryan said.

“Does Lance work for Adidas,” I asked.

“No. Lance Bass.”

I snarfed my wine and burst out laughing. Seriously? This was going to be a good night.

We took a cab to Lance’s apartment, and needless to say, I wasn’t going back out for a drink. This situation had to be taken advantage of. After a great roll in the hay in Mr. N’Sync’s bed, I walked out of the apartment into the morning sun, promptly threw up the remains of the previous night’s sake all over the sidewalk, and proceeded to text everyone I knew about what just happened.

Cue to three months later: I met a guy named Ward at a bar and he asked me out on a date. On the night we were supposed to meet up, I texted him to see where he was.

“I’m at the Standard Hotel having a drink with Lance Bass,” he wrote back. “Care to join me?”

This was too good to be true. Even though the hotel was just a 20 minute walk from my apartment, I jumped in a cab because every minute saved by not walking was going to be totally worth it.

I met Lance and Ward for a few drinks, and then Lance invited us back to an impromptu party at his apartment. As we walked there, Lance regaled us with how wonderful his new pad was.

“You guys are gonna love this place,” he drawled in a hint of a Southern accent. “I just bought the place five months ago and the building is amazing!”

It took every ounce of self-control to not burst out into uncontrollable laughter, and it proved damn near impossible to do so when Lance proceeded to give us a guided tour of the apartment.

“Seriously Connor, sit on this bed,” he urged. “Isn’t this the comfiest mattress ever?” Clearly, he had no idea that I was all too familiar with the comfort of it.

Ward proved to be an absolutely ridiculous human being. In addition to being so drunk that he could barely stand when we first met, he disappeared into an empty room at Lance’s place with a group of people, and popped back out 20 minutes later, clearly on coke.

If this wasn’t an indication that Ward was full of redeeming qualities, having him invite me over to watch a movie at his apartment for our 2nd date showed this obviously wasn’t going anywhere. When I complimented him for being uninhibited in bed, he told me he wasn’t because he used condoms. He thought uninhibited meant barebacking! Clearly, Ward may or may not have been retarded. What can I say? I always had a thing for Corky from Life Goes On…

A casual sex relationship would have been fine, but Ward kept insisting that he was looking for something serious. I wasn’t sure if this was his method for trying to get me into bed, or if he really was that absurd. Either way, I didn’t have to time decipher this, and walked away from the situation.

Clearly, the universe was listening to my requests for a fuck buddy (Thanks, Big Man!). Recently, after a four month period of silence, Ward texted me and asked if I would be an interested in a casual sex scenario.

This couldn’t be more ideal. Ward has a gorgeous body, is an animal in the sack, and I have absolutely no respect for him as a human being. Perfect! Having this scenario in place also allows me to jump back into the dating pool a little more freely. If something of substance comes along, then obviously a fuck buddy will be kicked to the curb. Until then, though, I’m a happy camper.

Women Actually Have Sex This Way?

I was having drinks with a close friend of mine last week, and the topic inevitably turned to sex (as it tends to after a few drinks). She described her sex life with her current boyfriend, who she's been seeing for a few years, and honestly, I was horrified. The discussion was fine, but I couldn't believe her approach to getting it on.

"He's somebody who needs to cum every day. There are times when we have romantic and passionate sessions, but there are other times where I'm like, 'Okay, if you get off, does that mean you're going to leave me alone?'"

Um, what?! Regular and intense sex isn't something I expect in a relationship. I demand that shit. Maybe this is just the fact that my experiences have exclusively been with men, and it takes next to nothing for us to be in the mood. However I would not be pleased if my partner was that uninterested, or putting a time limit on it.

So, question for the women who read this: Is your sex drive that radically different, or are you just (not literally) fucking with us?

Finding a Fuck Buddy

It seems simple enough on paper, but I’m starting to realize that the process of searching for a reliable sex partner is a small level down in difficulty from searching for an ideal mate.

My Time Out New York singles issue experience was overwhelmingly positive, but ultimately a bust. Between the guy who wanted an open relationship, the guy who couldn’t get it up in bed, and the sweet guy that I just didn’t fully click with, I’m ready to declare a moratorium on actively pursuing something serious. This is the first time I’ve enjoyed being single, it’s a new feeling, and I want to run with it. I'm still open to higher levels of intimacy, but there’s no rush for me in forcing it there.

That being said, one-night stand sex often leaves a lot to be desired. Sometime it’s wonderful, but a lot of times it’s unimaginative, one-sided, and entirely too brief.

The DL/cheating and “straight” men I’ve been involved with as of late would seem like a great idea in theory, but their lack of awareness about what turns men on is confusing, particularly since, well, they are men. Not climaxing because you want to “save it for your girlfriend” is the last thing that’s going to excite me, and telling me you want to “fuck my pussy” is going to get my boxers thrown back on in a nanosecond, and your ass thrown out of my apartment.

Part of this need for a regular fuck buddy also comes down to safety precautions. I feel like my number of partners the last few months may be getting out of hand. Condoms are used EVERY time, without fail, but NYC has the second highest percentage of people inflicted with HIV/AIDS in the country. Honestly, it might as well be Rwanda. Why tempt fate?

So where does a guy find someone who’s pretty to look at with a crazy sexual appetite (Uninhibited? More than three times a week? Up for being experimental?), yet possesses none of the qualities I would want in a potential partner?

The latter is essential for my fuck buddy, arguably more so than the former. Any time genuine attraction or feelings come into play on either side, the no-strings sexual agreement goes out the window. Ideally, this no-strings partner would be a Republican, work in finance or as a lawyer, have no sense of humor whatsoever, and hold views on society that I find to be completely repugnant.

Even better, I shouldn’t know any of these things about them. I shouldn’t even know their name, or at least not their real one (They certainly won’t know my real one). Don’t take me out for drinks or a date first. We both know where this night will end up, and I’d rather not be at a bar I don’t want to be at, engaged in painfully dull small talk I have no interest in having. Don’t ask me how my day went or how I’ve been, because you obviously don’t care. I want to walk into your apartment, strip down, and get this party started.

Hey Guys. Wanna Smell Like a Vagina?

I would have loved to be in on the brainstorming meeting where a room full of people actually greenlighted this idea. Seriously? Who would ever go out in public smelling like va-jay-jay?

http://www.smellmeand.com/gb/#/home/

Am I a Commitment Phobe? Or Just Slutty?

Ever since I came out of the closet, I've wanted to be in a relationship. Not settle down, mind you, but the idea of a partner always seemed appealing because it would be like having a built in friend, travel companion and drinking buddy.

One night stands never came easily. My rural college campus in Ohio had about 12 openly gay men, none of whom were the least bit fuckable. I spent my time converting DL rugby players and musicians instead, but these hook-ups never lead to sex. Once penetration came into play, my body completely froze up and extreme pain shot across my body. Half the time I couldn't even finish, and those times when I could were far from satisfying. It was only when with a lover that this didn't occur. Completely psychosomatic.

Cue to last November. I was prescribed an anti-depressant medication for multiple reasons. "One of the possible side effects is a loss of interest in sex," my doctor said. "Of course, that's not an acceptable trade-off, so let me know if that happens and we'll switch to something else."

Cue to last December, after fucking five people over the course of a month. "I think the opposite issue is happening," I said to my doctor. "It feels like I'm in heat."

Whether this is a medication issue or simply becoming more comfortable with myself remains unclear. The only thing that was certain is that I became sex-crazed. The self-made stigma attached with one night stands went out the window. Introductions to threesomes came into play. Then light sadomasochism (ie cigarette burn on my back). My total number of partners skyrocketed, as did my confidence in my own sexual performance.

Cue to last month. For the first time in my life, I truly enjoyed being single. Then it happened.

Boyfriend material.

We hit it off on our first date. He's funny, opinionated, and incredibly sweet. I threw him questions and he knocked them out of the park. He knew how to playfully push my buttons. He called when he said he would. This continued on through dates 2 and 3.

Yet every time the dates ended, the walls would come up on the long walk home. I'm not ready for this. I can already see the finish line.

There had to be a reason for this. Fear? Self-sabotage? Do I not want to be in a relationship right now?

The bottom line is that there's so much I want to do in the way of traveling and exploring, and that takes top priority now. I don't want to have to answer to anyone. Of course, I'm still open to intimacy and relationships, but anything that gets in the way of that simply needs to be removed for now.

Why Open Relationships Don't Work

Made famous by Facebook, the term "open relationship" is used by shallow people in denial of their own whoreditude who need a sense of emotional security while avoiding mutual exclusivity. These relationships always end badly and leave the formerly abused children to slit their wrists while listening to Mindless Self Indulgence.

Many people might think that since the word "relationship"is contained that some kind of commitment is implied. Many people would be wrong. I sleep with random people all the time. It's called being single. There really isn't a difference here.

Anybody who subscribes to this kind of relationship has various, and ultimately bullshit, reasoning for it. There's the argument that humans are not monogamous creatures by nature. I can bite on that. However, we are jealous and territorial by nature. People get jealous when their significant others talks to someone else at a bar. You mean to tell me you're now okay with them shagging someone else?

Then there's the justification for it because there are "rules" attached to it. No sleeping with the same person more than once. We only do it when it's on vacation. We give up monogamy for Lent, and so forth. Most of these so-called couples also have the stipulation that they don't tell their partner if they do stray. I'm sorry, but if I close my eyes and stick my fingers in my ear, it means that I don't want to hear it, and therefore, I'm really not okay with it.

There are also the couples that claim they only play together. When considering frequent threesomes, there's always one person in the relationship who wants it, and the other one that's drunk and on Vicoden at 10:00 in the morning in preparation for it. Threesomes typically end with two satisfied people, and a third party crying alone at a Taco Bell at 3:00 am.

In my opinion, this is the most dangerous form of open relationship. I've destroyed at least four relationships through participating in threesomes. It's inevitable. I connect with one person more than the other, we go at it, the other partner gets X'd out of the picture, he gets pissed because his boyfriend doesn't look that happy when they're having sex alone, and jealousy takes place. There have been times when screaming matches take place within seconds of my exiting the apartment.

Relationships are sacred, and should be treated as such. They take work. They take time and effort, but the rewards are invaluable. Until I meet someone who deserves that much attention, to use that infamous Sex and the City quote: I will see whomever and blow whomever I want as long as I can breathe and kneel.

How Naked Tennis Came To Be

To answer the two questions most asked about this blog: Yes, that photo really is me. No, I didn't photoshop a butt dimple in.

Even if you compulsively plan your life out like I tend to do, there's always some slight alteration in the plan. When I first moved to New York, coaching tennis seemed like a real possibility. Two years later, I am coaching tennis...just with my balls swaying in the wind.

After spending a few months post-graduation on a blow-up mattress in the living room of my mom's apartment, I moved into an dillapidated building with a friend in "East Williamsburg" (otherwise known to New Yorkers as the white part of Bushwick). Facing the realization that four years of my life was spent obtaining a degree that was essentially worthless in the real world, I found myself flat broke and struggling to pay even the smallest bills.

It didn't help matters that despite my Jewish upbringing, I've never been very good with managing money. I distinctly remember holding 40 dollars in my hand for almost an hour one day, debating whether to spend the money on the electric bill or marijuana. Three days later, my roomate came home to find a candlelight vigil in the apartment, as I furiously puffed away on a blunt that would put Snoop Dogg to shame.

My roomate and I were talking over a bottle of cheap wine one night when I told her how expensive tennis lessons were in the city. "Holy shit, can you imagine how much it would be if somebody taught naked," she drunkenly giggled.

This was the stupidest idea I had ever heard in my life, but was also ingenous.

I put an ad up on the adult gigs section of Craigslist (my only form of advertising to this day), asking if anybody had a private court in their backyard they would let me use in exchange for a percentage of my earnings. Within six hours, somebody with a grass court in their backyard in Northern Westchester responded, and arranged to meet with me.

To the shock of nobody, the guy was a fucking freak show. He was basically a carbon copy of the old pervert in Family Guy, but he had a court that I needed. I sat him down, handed him a gun, and told him he was going to earn his 25% by shooting someone in the unlikely event that a client tried to attack or rape me.

I then put up another ad on Craigslist, offering nude tennis lessons that weekend for $150 an hour. Four people showed up on Saturday. Four people showed up on Sunday. This continued on for about a month, until I earned enough to hold myself over for about three months, and by that point a big boy job was obtained.

Cue to 2010. I still think this concept is ingenous, and a recession is a perfectly appropriate time to exploit weird people with way too much money on their hands. Hence, the reopening of the nude tennis business. I have a court in East Hampton to teach on, have hired two naked ballgirls to cater to the straight male clientele, and am hoping to kick things off in April with a nude exhibition tennis match. So far, 12 lessons have already been signed for next month.

This probably isn't my life calling, but what the hell. It's a story, and that's all living in New York is, really.

Vancouver Medals in Condom Distribution

The medals have been presented, the caldron extinguished and the crowds dispersed, but there's one record from the 2010 Vancouver Olympics that may have been overlooked: Most condoms distributed at a Winter Games.

It's hard to say this conclusively, and judges from other host cities may demand a recount, but Clay Adams of Vancouver Coastal Health said the word on the public health street is that Vancouver is king of the prophylactic winter rings.

Over the course of 17 days, the health agency doled out 100,000 condoms, supplied by the British Columbia Centre for Disease Control. And after buzz, some based on rumors, grew that there was a shortage -- "We were not getting calls from people saying, 'Help, I need condoms,'" Adams laughed -- an emergency shipment of 8,500 additional rubbers came in from the Canadian Foundation for AIDS Research.

Some media outlets reported that the supply was strictly for Olympic and Paralympic athletes and officials, totaling about 6,500 people according to the Vancouver Organizing Committee. That would suggest an average of at least 15 condoms per person, and rampant sex of Olympic proportions.

But Adams, spokesman for Vancouver Coastal Health, clarified and said the free condoms were available not just to athletes and game officials. They were on the cruise ships that housed security, support staff and volunteers. They were in washrooms at public venues, including the downtown pavilions where visitors gathered for free concerts. They were handed out by volunteers and readily available in clinics.

The mass distribution of rubbers was part of a greater effort to improve HIV and AIDS awareness, Adams said.

Lots of people don't have the same kind of access to public health messages about disease prevention, and "when you've got a global audience like this, it's a huge opportunity to educate the world," he said.

Since the 1992 Summer Olympics in Barcelona, Spain, condoms have been distributed free to athletes. About 40,000 of the original 100,000 in Vancouver were for those staying in the athlete villages in Vancouver and Whistler, Adams said.

How many of them were actually used is an impossible question to answer. Some say condoms were snagged as souvenirs, although Adams said they were not branded with Olympic rings. He said he did hear stories of athletes from countries with inferior condoms stuffing their suitcases with the coveted rubbers.

But no matter what happened to the condoms, the public health effort in Vancouver is one that makes him proud.

"Indications are that Vancouver topped the podium for Winter Olympics," Adams said.

"Although we recently heard that they issued 35 million condoms for Mardi Gras in Rio, so I suppose we all have a long, long way to go to reach that mark."

(Taken from CNN.com)

Online Dating--A Necessary Evil Or Just Evil?

I'll be the first to admit that over the last year, I jumped into the online dating scene and found it infinitely easier meeting people this way. You name it, I've probably tried it once--Match, Connexion, the seedier sites like Adam4Adam and Manhunt, and even the Time Out New York singles issue. However, the inability of almost all of my friends to keep a straight face after hearing this shows that there is still definitely a stigma attached to the concept.

As a guy in their mid-20s, I grew up with the internet. We all remember AOL chat rooms, the socially inept people trolling them, and the attrociously bad grammar and spelling (how many times did you come across someone telling you they wanted to "suk ur big fat clock?") . The main assumption is that 15 years later, it's still the same game and that anybody who uses these sites isn't able to get laid on their own.

However, in a major metropolitan city like New York, online dating is almost essential. Imagine walking into a bar. Now imagine walking into a bar and being able to determine which people were looking for sex, and which people were open to a relationship. Of course, it's possible to lie on your profile (or simply be unaware of what you really want), but I've found that dating sites are a really effective way of weeding out the bullshit.

My dates are also far less of a trainwreck experience than they were when I was picking people up at clubs. I still know where all the fire exits are before sitting down at the restaurant or bar, and there's been more than one occasion where I've excused myself to use the bathroom and slipped out the back door. By and large though, I'm at least able to get through the night comfortably, and occasionally another date with that person happens.

However, I honestly believe that internet dating has worsened the already rampant Peter Pan syndrome in New York. It's not enough for there to be so many beautiful people in this city that I walk into work with a boner half the time. Now, dating has become like shopping for a car. At the click of a button, you can find out somebody's age, height, ethnicity, cock size, and whether they're a top or a bottom (if it's a gay site). Some people also have shirtless, or fully nude pictures on their page, so you get the goods without even having to buy them a drink. Sweet!

As much as I'd like to think otherwise, George Clooney isn't going to bang on my door and beg to take me out to dinner. There's inevitably going to be something about the person I'm dating that I find weird or pisses me off, and vice-versa. It's just a question of whether these issues matter in the big picture. To use two recent examples, having Paris Hilton and High School Musical on your iPod is something I can live with (although will definitely be worked on). Having rampant back hair is not.

Thus, the conundrum of online dating (and dating in general here). How do you search for the closest thing to perfection for your own life, while also maintaining a semi-realistic attitude?

Sex and the Olympic City

This is an article written by a former Olympian, Matthew Syed, during the Beijing games in 2008, but one can only assume the same stuff is going down in Vansterdam as we speak. It only makes sense though. These people are up at sunrise, in bed by 8:00 pm, and make innumerable sacrifices in their personal life for the sake of possible Olympic glory. It's a little inevitable that some speed skater is getting double teamed once they're eliminated from the competition...

I am often asked if the Olympic village - the vast restaurant and housing conglomeration that hosts the world's top athletes for the duration of the Games - is the sex-fest it is cracked up to be. My answer is always the same: too right it is. I played my first Games in Barcelona in 1992 and got laid more often in those two and a half weeks than in the rest of my life up to that point. That is to say twice, which may not sound a lot, but for a 21-year-old undergraduate with crooked teeth, it was a minor miracle.

Barcelona was, for many of us Olympic virgins, as much about sex as it was about sport. There were the gorgeous hostesses - there to assist the athletes - in their bright yellow shirts and black skirts; there were the indigenous lovelies who came to watch the competitions. And then there were the female athletes - literally thousands of them - strutting, shimmying, sashaying and jogging around the village, clad in Lycra and exposing yard upon yard of shiny, toned, rippling and unimaginably exotic flesh. Women from all the countries of the world: muscular, virile, athletic and oozing oestrogen. I spent so much time in a state of lust that I could have passed out. Indeed, for all I knew I did pass out - in a place like that how was one to tell the difference between dreamland and reality?

It was not just the guys. The women, too, seemed in thrall to their hormones, throwing around daring glances and dynamite smiles like confetti. No meal or coffee break was complete without a breathless conversation with a lithe long jumper from Cuba or an Amazonian badminton player from Sweden, the mutual longing so evident it was almost comical. It was an effort of will to keep everything in check until competition had finished. But, once we were eliminated from our respective competitions, we lunged at each other like suicidal fencers. There may have been a fair amount of gay sex going on, too - but given the notorious homophobia in sport it was rather more covert.

This sex fest was not limited to Barcelona: the same thing happened in Sydney in 2000, my second Olympics as an athlete, and is happening right here in Beijing, where this time I'm a commentator. I spoke to an Aussie table tennis player this week to check out the village vibe and he launched into the breathless patter common to any Olympic debutant: “It is unbelievable in there; everyone is totally crazy once they are out of their competitions. God knows what it is going to be like this weekend. It is like a world within a world.” A British runner (anonymous again: athletes are not supposed to talk to journalists unaccompanied by a PR type, least of all about sex) said: “The swimmers finished earlier in the week and it was like there was an eruption.”

Ah yes, the swimmers. For some reason the International Olympic Committee insists on bunching the swimming events towards the beginning of the Games with the inevitable consequence that the aquatics folk get going earlier - sexually I mean - than everyone else. So much so that, at the outset of the Sydney Olympics, Jonathan Edwards, a Christian and triple jumper extraordinaire, caused a ripple by telling them publicly to keep a lid on it. Edwards was simply concerned about getting woken up by creaking floorboards, but given his biblical credentials, it became a story about morality. Not that his intervention made a blind bit of difference. There is a famous story from Seoul in 1988 that there were so many used condoms on the roof terrace of the British team's residential block the night after the swimming concluded that the British Olympic Association sent out an edict banning outdoor sex. Here in Beijing, organisers have realised that such prohibitions are about as useful as banning breathing and have, instead, handed out thousands of free condoms to the athletes. If you can't stop 'em, at least make it safe.

Which all begs a question, or possibly many questions. First, and most importantly, how can one get access to the village? The bad news is that you can't, unless, of course, you happen to be an athlete with the relevant accreditation. But secondly, where does this furnace of sexual energy come from? Or, to put it another way, why do sportsmen and women have such explosive libidos? I am not implying, for one moment, that every athlete in Beijing is at it. Just that 99 per cent of them are.

Before we get to that, however, it is worth noting an intriguing dichotomy between the sexes in respect of all this coupling. The chaps who win gold medals - even those as geeky as Michael Phelps - are the principal objects of desire for many female athletes. There is something about sporting success that makes a certain type of woman go crazy - smiling, flirting and sometimes even grabbing at the chaps who have done the business in the pool or on the track. An Olympic gold medal is not merely a route to fame and fortune; it is also a surefire ticket to writhe.

But - and this is the thing - success does not work both ways. Gold-medal winning female athletes are not looked upon by male athletes with any more desire than those who flunked out in the first round. It is sometimes even considered a defect, as if there is something downright unfeminine about all that striving, fist pumping and incontinent sweating. Sport, in this respect, is a reflection of wider society, where male success is a universal desirable whereas female success is sexually ambiguous. I do not condone this phenomenon, merely note it. Not all athletes are finely tuned specimens of perfect physical health, of course. A fair number are smokers, not prepared to give up despite the nagging of coaches and physiologists. At Barcelona, there was an area where the puffers would congregate near the transport mall. At the table tennis events in Beijing, a male player from Serbia and another from Greece have often been out catching a drag during breaks in play.

But let us get back to all the sex going down in the village. One possible explanation centres on the fact that Olympic athletes have to display an unnatural (and, it has to be said, wholly unhealthy) level of self-discipline in the build-up to big competitions. How else is this going to manifest itself than with a volcanic release of pent-up hedonism? It is a common sight to see recently knocked-out athletes gorging on Magnums and McDonald's, swilling alcohol and, of course, shagging like crazy. Sometimes all three at the same time. Yet this can be only a part of the explanation because most of the athletes I know are as up for it before and during competition as they are in the immediate aftermath. It is as if sportsmen and women have a higher base level of sexual energy. But why? Can it be that one of the underlying drivers of sporting greatness is also the very thing that produces an overactive sex drive?

If so, you can bet your Olympic accreditation that testosterone is implicated. Testosterone is the hormone responsible for many of the differences between the sexes and is also a key physiological driver of aggression, competitiveness and virility. This is particularly so with regard to women. The dual effect of testosterone on female sporting performance and sexuality was demonstrated - somewhat sinisterly - during the state-sponsored doping programme in East Germany. An average teenage girl produces around half a milligram of testosterone per day. In the mid-1980s German female athletes were doped with around 30 milligrams of androgenic steroids per day. The effect on sporting performance was breathtaking - East German women dominated the world in swimming and athletics - but it also produced libidos (according to the testimony of the athletes themselves) that spiraled out of control.

This is not to say that the athletes in the village are all on steroids, or that elevated levels of testosterone inevitably lead to lots of sex. It is merely to say that, at a population level, higher naturally occurring levels of testosterone in both genders would provide a powerful explanation for the combination of sporting prowess and sexual potency.

I also think it is significant that, for most athletes, the village is thousands of miles from home. The old “what goes on tour stays on tour” mantra is still alive and kicking, not just in sport but beyond. There is something deepseated in humanity that leads us to play by different rules whenever we leave town, a phenomenon that has caused instances of terrible inhumanity. When it comes to sex, it simply means that those in relationships no longer recognise, or at least ignore, the boundaries of fidelity and honesty that underpin human monogamy. Philosophers call it moral relativism; the rest of us call it hypocrisy.

I suggest that it is the coming together (if you will forgive the expression) of these factors that creates such an explosive sexual cocktail within the security-controlled perimeter of the Olympic village. Not that this is a bad thing. I have always regarded sexual promiscuity - for a single person at least - as a basic human right, even if it is no panacea for happiness or, indeed, anything else. Of course, many athletes will abstain, others may even disapprove. Only one thing is certain: they will never again enter a place quite like the Olympic village. Not, at least, until London 2012.

Microsoft Werd

I've always been amazed at how ridiculously some people behave during sex. What makes them think they could say that, or do that? Obviously things slip out in the heat of the moment, but I've never done anything that cringeworthy and would immediately own up to it if I did.

A couple of years ago, I briefly dated a bartender at a prominent NYC gay bar. Because I don’t hold grudges, I won’t say that the persons name was Jarrod and he worked at Phoenix. If you’re looking for substance, bartenders are not the way to go. They’re really just a small leap up from hookers. They will say and do anything to get as much money from you at the end of the night as they can. By and large, they’re pretty stupid as well. By the second date, I was amazed Jarrod could form complete sentences, let alone double the amount of money that I was making.

As much as he claimed to be looking for something serious, seeing him strip off his clothes within seconds of entering my apartment would seem to contradict this. A few moments later, my face was shoved into a pillow and I was getting the bottom knocked out of me. Maybe Jarrod wasn’t as stupid as he appeared. He obviously knew his away around a dude.

Then it happened. After an hour of pure bliss, the primal grunts emerging from his throat signaled that the end was near.

“I’m almost there. Yeah…yeah…ohhh, weeerrrrddd!!!!"

It would probably be helpful to note at this juncture that Jarrod isn’t black, but in fact a white boy from North Carolina. He was still inside of me and at this point, it felt like rape. Werd?! Was he fucking serious? What do I say to that?

“Shazam!” I yelled back.

He wrapped his arms around me and settled into spooning position. Normally, I’m a huge advocate of cuddling, but I could no longer take him seriously. He had morphed into a douchebag within a matter of seconds. Celebrity Apprentice was coming on in 10 minutes, and I wanted him out of my apartment.

“This is kind of awkward,” I said. “But you need to leave now.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Werd?!”

“It slipped out.”

“Werd doesn’t slip out,” I shot back. “You’ve clearly done that more than once, because any normal person would be embarrassed beyond belief right now.”

I motioned my head towards the door, fully accepting the consequence of paying for my drinks in full at the Phoenix from here on in.

Naturally, I relayed this story to anyone within earshot for the next two weeks. The only complaint they had was that I didn’t do something morecreative besides motion towards the door when kicking him out of my apartment.

The next time I want to kick someone out, I will be using reality show catchphrases. Think about it. The same way you eliminate someone from The Bachelor applies to eliminating someone from your personal life. You’re fired. The tribe has spoken. Your time is up. Your tour ends here. Your shot at love is over. You’re just not a good thing. Pack up your knives and go. Sashay away. And my personal favorite, I’m going to have send you upstairs to clean up your space.

And if you're wondering what happened to Jarrod, he got fired from Phoenix 2 weeks later. Weerdddd.

The Whoring Twenties

Contrary to the title of this post (and this blog), I'm not a whore.

Or maybe I am. Honestly, I'm not even sure anymore.

I do know that I've recently become obsessed with sex and the culture that comes with it, a likely result of my late in life start with the subject. I didn't lose my virginity until I was 19. My college campus only had seven openly gay students, almost all of whom slept together in some weird form of incest. I chose to not partake in this, spending my college years converting several straight guys, a few of whom are now married and undoubtedly receiving ass poundings on the DL via Craigslist or Manhunt.

Moving to New York City in 2008 was my first real exposure to gay life, but the last six months have marked my entry into the often tragically comic sexual forays that come with it. It turned out some of the more alternative methods of dating like open relationships were more common than I realized, and as I dove further into exploring these alternative practices, the more I wanted to try out a few on my own.

My views on sex are probably liberal for most of the country, but conservative for gay culture. I want the boyfriend and the creature comforts that come with it, but also want the boyfriend to tie me up and slap me and offer the kind of uninhibited sex that requires safety words.

Hence, this blog. A commentary on my own dating and sexual experiences, as well as those around me. A chronicle of re-opening my nude tennis business. And hopefully, a good laugh when you're bored at work.