Not Quite Bad Enough

About eighteen I met a man who knew my father when he was young. Even had some photographs of him. It was weird to realize that the old fiend had been quite a hunk. At least if you like muscular, tough looking guys. In both demeanor and surface he was what nowadays would be called a bad boy. (I cannot watch movies starring Robert Mitchum: he reminds me far too much of my father.)

I find a bit of ironic humor in this. And a slender thread of regret.

When I was young and I thought queer I knew that boys were attracted to me because I looked like a hoodlum. “Deep voice and steely blue eyes” as one sweetie put it. A few times middle-aged people were downright nervous if I stopped them on the street to ask a question. That was so silly. I’ve never been formidable. I’m utterly harmless.

I was a bad boy manqué.

It was only a few years ago that I understood all this. Certain memories aligned. Like the guy who confessed that he hoped I possessed some of the emotional violence that led my father to knock my momma’s teeth out.

Anyone who has read what I’ve written about my relationships with Charles and Alexandra knows that I’m a gooey romantic. The devoted tender type. Like my momma would’ve wanted me to be.

I’ve come to realize this explains why a number of affairs fizzled out. They were looking for aggression I wasn’t delivering. My involvement in D/s is the source of this insight.

No, I don’t think they should’ve been happy with what they got. You need what you need: if there’s any sexual truth that is it.

Were I able to do it all over again I’d be more demanding and pushy. That is what they wanted. Deserved.