Aftermath

This is a better blog.  You should probably read his since he can actually write - A Guy Without Boxers

Edited from original of April 2014

Seven in the evening on Sunday.  The two and a half hours I was with the men from Minnesota took up an entire weekend.  Totally worth it.

I gave up on the good idea of leaving straight from work on Friday and hit the bars the that great metropolis because I was falling out of this chair Thursday night around nine.  I could hardly expect myself to party even later the next night after driving for almost five hours.  So, I waited until Saturday to leave.

Waking up relatively early, though probably the same time as the rest of Green Bay, for a Saturday, I had several hours to use up before I could reasonably hit the road.  I didn't want to arrive at my destination with time to kill in a city I don't know.  And anyone who's been from a small town to a large metropolis will know it's easy to get lost on the freeway system that services the city and the suburbs.  I doubted I would get lost - Google Rulz - but I could end up farther away from my intentions than I expected.  Late never looks good unless it's intended.

I ended up having breakfast with my ex.  I've been looking forward to such a meeting because, after six years, I wanted to see how he had changed.  Without getting into any specifics, he's not the man I spent years loving.  His current passions hold no interest for me.  What he considers important are mere intellectual ponderings to have during an esoteric conversation about how the world could possibly be, and then cast aside for more concrete and pragmatic concerns.  I don't disapprove of his interests in these things; rather I'm glad he's engaged in something.  I have my passions and will talk your ear off if the topic comes up, yet I don't really connect in what he was talking about.

I scurried home to pack an overnight bag.  Damned electronics took up most of the room - and since I was attending a nudist event, imagine how many clothes I needed to pack.  Toiletries, jeans, any shirt within reach, condoms - just in case, and my chargers.... egad, the chargers!

I stopped at the gas station to top off only to realize I needed a full tank.  Happily paid for my go-juice, I took to the highway with hard rock cranked through badly shaken speakers, smoking the first of too many cigarettes, and downing an ice-cold bottle of water.  Nothing could stop me at that point.

Except my car!  Just outside some blip on the Google Maps laid what was to prove to be nearly my ruin.  My car suddenly turned off the cruise-control and refused to re-accelerate.  Concern was my first reaction and lasted only long enough to realize I was surrounded by the Great North Woods.  Then I was pissed.  This ridiculous state can't even have the decency to have a house or two along the way - so barren and sparse.

I limped my way into another gas station to find Farmer Brown's ugly nephew and a woman who - by her tattoos - either wanted out or just move in.  The flow of patrons purchasing "moonshine" was constant and my attempts to find a service station futile.  Google did alert me to no less than three churches should I wish to be exonerated for my sin of impatience.

Fed up with the yokels, I went to see if my guess of a clogged fuel filter was correct.  Sometimes, letting the car sit will allow the gunk to settle away from the fuel line long enough to get to a garage.

It not only started, but I was able to make it a full twenty minutes down the highway at speed until it happened again.  This time I was near what passes for a city in this state.  Wausau, WI - center of commerce and Hmong immigration for the state.  I appreciate both, I just don't want to live there.

The Subway had a little girl taking orders from three other children, so I turned my tongue into Swiss cheese waiting to ask for the password to the wi-fi.

Google revealed I was mere steps from a service station (if I would have read the signs of the other buildings as I drove in) which purportedly was still open for... three minutes.  Still not realizing it was so close, I dialed the national number and was told they closed two hours previously.

By this time I was nearly without a tongue.  It seems to me that certain industries should assume a constant on-call work schedule.  It also seems that most emergency vehicle repairs would happen over the weekend.  It seems odd that service stations should keep bankers hours.

After being promised that a call would be made to "see if" someone would return to the shop and take a look at my car.  One did, a quote was made - though I wasn't listening, and the work commenced.

During this time I was dialing my insurance agents to as about what kind of services come with my monthly premium.  The road-side assistance package came in handy when I had a flat tire and such, I wondered if they could hook me up with a motel and other necessities should the mechanic fail in his task.  Turns out my policy number is not associated with my name, and so I will be making a politely angry visit to the agents tomorrow.

The mechanic told me the problem was a cam-shaft (no giggling) sensor who's wires were getting saturated with oil and essentially shorting out which basically means my car has no sense of rhythm.  Another politely angry visit will be made to the mechanic who already replaced such a part mere months ago.

Once I was able to resume my cross-state sojourn I phoned ahead to ask if late was acceptable.  Sweet as this host turned out to be, he said he'd put some soup in the fridge for me.  I tried to dissuade him to no avail.  I was more concerned with being the crasher who shows up as everyone else was leaving.  I made that mistake in my younger days and was too stupid to realize I should also leave.  Still, he insisted I come and he would set some food aside to eat after my grueling journey.

I need to start a petition to have the maps of Wisconsin redrawn to show Chippewa Falls as being much farther from the Minnesota boarder than it appears.  I had gone to Minneapolis for surgery when I was twenty and made this very trip a total of four times.  Yesterday I was reminded of the geographical fallacy that is Chippewa Falls.  It is nowhere near the state line.  No matter how intently I craned my neck around every curve of the interstate, the great city of Minneapolis was not to be found.  I was indeed almost another hour down the road.  Also remembered, as I approached the Muddy Queen herself, St. Paul is first, not Minneapolis.

Metropolis traffic is harrowing during the day, but at night it's life threatening!  Added to that I continuously consulted my tablet for the route I was to take around the loop and a minor twelve miles into the suburbs.  Three lanes at 75mph and I had to make sure I didn't act like a tourist lest I cause an accident behind me and I drive on oblivious.

Finally arriving on the darkened ultra-narrow street of the subdivision (of the like Green Bay does not know) and I saw many cars and trucks.  Surely I've gotten to the correct address, yet the parking spanned many house numbers.  Tablet consulted yet again, I noticed the men remembered the Motel 6 commercials and left a light on for me.

As I've remarked previously about my unremarkable physique, and having planned to stop at the motel for a shower and grooming, I was dressed only in my favorite, tight, lounging t-shirt and a pair of sweat-pants.  I wore no shoes nor under-things that would have made the drive even more uncomfortable.  Also, this proved wise as after I was greeted by smiles from around corners and asked to deposit not only my entrance fee but my clothing near the front door.

Apparently my readied state of dress was odd and repeatedly pointed out to those who didn't witness my apparent apathy for personal nudity.  With only two items to remove (the sandals already in the foyer) I really had no reason to dawdle.

What I seemed to have kept from the others was my heart-rate and shaking hands.

Immediately on emerging from reception (the spare bedroom where everyone else's clothes were) I was announced to what seemed like fifty men.  Holding my wadded towel at my side when I was taken by this surprise, I remained completely uncovered though I fought the urge to use the towel as a fig leaf.  My weakling's chest and stick arms are of no consequence.  My stomach, which threatens to become a belly, is also irrelevant.  Plenty of men look like me in those areas.  Many look better and worse.  My legs have always been moderately toned and I can sport a pair of shorts with the best... well, most of them.  I can't really see my ass, though my attempts with double mirrors suggests it's a little sagging, and so I don't generally concern myself with its appearance from other's points of view.  What I am conscious of is my wee willy.  I'm a gay man, I know cocks.  I know I'm small.  All attempts to suggest otherwise or chalk my experiences with men as lucky aberrations in "normal" is a load of bunk.  Don't get me wrong, it works fine and when engaged it's just about right, but flaccid I lack any impression upon a room full of naked gay men.

Before my host finished my introduction I scanned the room to see just how abnormally young, old, or thin and weak I was.  I spied a typical cross-section of upper-Midwest men, just naked.  I noticed two men younger than the rest.  One was Asian, the other has frosted hair.  The Asian wasn't looking at my face.  Oh well, at least I didn't see any immediate judgment from him - he just seemed to be looking.  At my dick, mind, but with no different expression than if he were observing the shirt I would have worn... had I been wearing one.

Already in plain view, announced, and observed, there was really no reason to slyly cover my little bits; so I simply leaned into the breakfast-counter at which I realized I was standing near, opened my water bottle refilled with vodka and orange-juice, and drank... several times.

My soup was served, I was encouraged to sit at the dinning table and eat, and I began to get to know some of the men I had driven to meet.  The soup was chunky, the men were polite, and I was without a spoon.

Another decision: continue to sit safely behind the screening slab of oak, or slide my chair back and retrieve the spoon myself.  It was obvious all things related to the meal were six steps across the room in the kitchen area and most likely near the microwave oven which heated my soup to temperatures rivaling the sun.  As I've made a bit of a show so far of apathy toward my own nudity, it would be noticed if I suddenly caught a case of shyness.  Also, my mother didn't raise one who couldn't do for himself.  My host was too kind to allow me into his home - even more so for offering the spare bedroom in light of my expensive trip out - so to demand his serving me a spoon as well as dinner should be classified as rude.  I hope my gait was normal when I went to and from the kitchen.

The conversation ranged from politics to brief personal histories to a mental note about an LGBT archive.  It took me nearly a half hour to eat the soup due to its temperature, but once I could tuck in, the combination of boiled vegetables and sausage reminded me of my own poor cooking habits.

My concerns about personal space and etiquette quickly found their answer.  These are gay men and so followed gay men's common practices when among their own.  Many a hand found my shoulder, back, arm, leg, and buttocks.  After suggesting his apology, my dick was fondled.  No apology was necessary, it felt nice.  The touch was also was gently re-directed without anyone around us reacting as if they noticed.

My host and I spent several hours after lounging and recounting stories past.  Just as the sun began to think about making its presence known, we finally gave up the night and went to bed.

Morning greeted me gently with a nearly painful need to piss and a gnawing nicotine withdrawal.  My host was preparing the promised breakfast and I remembered the promised coffee, so I got up.  I padded into the necessary to relieve some pressure then emerged to find my host wearing only a t-shirt.  As I was still naked, the shirt gave me pause until I realized it was just a tad chilly.  Next I handled my addiction temporarily then ate a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and a lovely bagel in need of schmear.  As I did nothing to prepare nor serve the meal, not to mention pay for it, I ate it gratefully.  It was amazingly good, but since we were discussing the coffee I failed to ask after the brand or flavor.

I hung out with him for as many hours as I dared before traveling back home.  I arrived at my apartment well after supper-time and decided to forego the chores I should have done - opting instead to write these few words and fuss about on Facebook.  I have a couple of friends who are in dire need of romantic counseling.  Surely they could opt for professional help yet they seem to listen to my stumbling advice.  Perhaps we're all just fools.