We hear the words “I knew I was gay since…” fall from the mouths of friends and lovers – sometimes from our own reflective lips—and we never even think to question the authenticity of such statements. “…I was five…the 7the grade…high school.” Sometimes these words are spoken in retrospection as we remember the way we couldn’t keep our eyes off Molly Ringwald, or the way our heart hurt when the captain of the football team made fun of our stonewashed Levi’s, but sometimes these reflections aren’t about hindsight. Sometimes they demonstrate 110% clear, confident knowledge of a lifetime of same sex sexual attraction. You remember wanting to kiss your science lab partner on the mouth, you fantasized about locker room hand-jobs. In either case (uncertain longing for a friend, or a clear cut hotness for a person of the same sex) most of the time there was no hook-up. Maybe by the time high school rolled around, more likely it was freshman year of college, but the lack of actual fooling around never negates your gayness. We don’t need to answer the awkward parental coming-out question, “But, how do you know?” because most of the time, you just do.

Unfortunately, this trust in the inherent nature of sexuality isn’t really shared with folks who identify as bisexual.

I know. Gay Face? What is Gay Face?
Gay Face is a very real thing. It is when someone just has a gay looking face.

We agreed on a place and time. Talked several times during the day as I did laundry, showered, changed three times and finally picked up the rental car. He makes me smile. I save his texts for days because they are cute, honest, sincere and without pretense. He recites poetry verses or makes an ass of himself, only I don’t think of him as an ass, so it just endears him more deeply to me. He lets me know that he is thinking of me and that it made him smile and for that he is thankful. Who does that?

There is a lot written about the magic surrounding the number three. Good things, bad things, sacred and evil things. What I know is this: I have had three dates with Brooklyn Boy in 4 days. I don’t normally have two dates with anyone in one week, let alone, three in 4 days. Let alone, canceling dates with one individual to go out with another. Let alone, Let alone, Let alone.

I arrived first, on time even, which is a rarity for me. I sat by the reading the NY Times Arts section as I waited. The bartender, a youngish musician type, made me a surprise rum cocktail because they were out of the usual cider I mixed it with. I heard someone come in and ask where the bar was before he realized that it was right in front of him. I looked up and smiled, greeted him warmly and started to hear voices in my head. Hmmm. He grabbed himself a Hendrick’s and tonic to start and we sat at the bench by the fireplace finishing our first drinks while we waited for a spot at the bar.

Straight BDSM, in my opinion, can go towards a stranger level of intensity that gay BDSM cannot, because there is that eternal distance/mystery of man vs. woman (and their never-ending clash of undisclosed motivations) involved whereas, with gay BDSM, no matter how heavy it gets, the playing field is always a little bit more (ironically) straight. Men understand other men and, in general, have a pretty good idea of how the score is going to play out.

 It really hit me more than usual during a dogpile of frisky gay men on a couch at a New Year’s Eve party. No, I wasn’t in the dogpile. I was to the side, watching with amusement and the sting of longing. How I wished I could be a part of that easy intimacy, to be desired and accepted without question in the community of gay and queer men. I sometimes feel as if I am just some token anomaly to be tolerated, not just “a guy” or even “the short, awkward lad with glasses”, but “the transgender dude.”

BDSM is kind of polarizing for most folks, especially once you get into the more obscure or heavy-duty practices so I’m going to try explaining what it is exactly that makes the blood boil.

There are some new BDSM enthusiasts who believe that, in order for someone to truly dive into the lifestyle, that they must have some kind of gigantic dungeon in their basement or whatever, with gear, gadgets, and chains hanging all over the place like some porno version of Saw. It’s as if you have to have a football stadium-sized space so that you can install those expected cages, pullies, bondage tables, etc. They imagine that it gives them the proper credibility to say “Yes, I own whips and paddles and I use them.” But that’s a bunch of nonsense.

Over and over I’ve had people ask me “Who are you, exactly?” “Where did you come from?” “How did you get into BDSM?” “How did you become a pro Dom?” etc. So, before I continue to throw my opinions and advice at you and your erotic adventures, I should give you a basic idea of who I am and how I got into this whole thing.