New

Great day yesterday.

Took the train down to Philadelphia to meet up with the Baron. We spent endless hours at La Colombe (best coffee in Philadelphia, and possibly the world) talking. Missed my train coming home by mere seconds, and had to wait for the next one. This meant a huge rush when I got back to Doylestown. (No time to check in with Bucky at Starbucks!) Rushed home, made dinner for my father, walked faithful companion, and headed out again.

Cuz I had a date. Hot man from North Jersey. The plan was for us to get into some mutual stuff. As I was tearing down River Road, he called on my cell phone. As he had been fearing, the bronchial asthma he's been battling in the wake of the flu was still with him, and all that phlegm made the prospect of play unsavory. So we took a raincheck from each other.

Undeterred, I decided on a night in New Hope.

And that was nice. I went into one of the best bookstores in the world, Farleys, and found a couple of books to read (Feed the Beast! I need Data!). Then I had a light dinner at Karla's (where, in a byegone era, I worked as a busboy). Soooo strange the way New Hope used to be gay, but isn't gay any longer. Being back there after a fifteen year hiatus is almost a little chilling. Like waking up in Germany in the Thirties, and all of a sudden, all the Jews in town are suddenly absent. Although in this case, the method was not boxcars but real estate. Everybody is now up the river, down the river, or in Lambertville. And they have this weird new parking regulation (Welcome to New Hope! We hope you brought quarters!) that only allows one motorcycle in a parking space. This has significantly diminished the town as a biker destination.

After briefly contemplating a trip down to the Bike Stop in Philadelphia, I opted for the Raven.

And that's where things got interesting.

The place was packed when I got in. There was one guy (One!) that caught my eye. Big, bald, hairy, bushy black goatee. Tourist, of course, in town from Virginia Beach. He was either completely uninterested in me or socially inadept. And he had that vaguely hostile and combattive aire about him that I just don't get. He was on his way up to New York to see some theater and hit the museums. Said that Virginia Beach was a cultural wasteland.

I recommended a trip up the Hudson to visit the amazing DIA Art Center. He said he wasn't interested in contemporary art. He wanted the French Impressionists. Monet in particular. Ah! says me, so it's off to MoMA to worship in front of Waterlilies. No, he corrects, sort of schoolmarmishly, he was going to the Met. Now, not that French Impressionism is my thang particularly, but surely MoMA's collection outstrips the Met there, no?

No.

As far as he was concerned.

I was saved from fisticuffs when I was approached by yet another New Hope boy who confessed to me an abiding fascination with bondage that he has heretofore never explored. I suggested that we both take a trip down to the Philadelphia Bondage Club sometime, and he eagerly assented.

*sigh* What New Hope needs is GMSMA. But then, every place needs GMSMA. A nice safe place to get your feet wet.

But neither Combat Bear nor my budding Top were the Big Thing that happened at the Raven last night.

I... I... I met a guy.

There I was, standing there looking dismissive, when I was hailed by this queeny, sweater-clad guy. (Those New Hope boys might be twinks, but they don't lack chutzpah!) He got me over to his bevvy, introduced himself, and then introduced me around. One of the bevvy sidled up beside me. At first glance, I was dismissive. No facial hair. Lord knows no cigar. But he seemed keenly interested in me, punctuating just about every sentence with physical contact.

And he was a really nice guy. He went to my father's alma matter and studied horticulture, and now teaches horticulture at a vocational high school. Owns a house on the canal down the river. He likes to laugh, and he has a great laugh. From the way he interacted with his buddies, he knows who he is. And underneath the sweatshirt and jeans that he was wearing (and boots!), he is built like a Colt model.

We got to neckin' (something you never, ever see in the Raven). He liked my pierced nips. I liked everything I found. He's a great kisser. World class. And has a great touch. Wonderful hands.

Oh. And me, Hort (as we'll call him), and Lauren Hutton all have gapped teeth.

There was quite the spark there. I like this guy. Liked talking to him. Liked his look and his manner. And I think it was mutual. He had to leave as he's visiting family down in Maryland this weekend, but wanted me to have his number. So he says, "Walk me out to my truck."

Buddy, you just won the sweepstakes.

We went out to the parking lot and necked some more leaning up against his truck. It was messy inside. He had this goofy little Christmas wreath in the back window that plugged into the cigaret lighter. And a bunch of crap in the back.

Hort gets a sack full of points for his truck.

It crossed my mind to have a Full Disclosure Moment: "By the way, you should know that I'm heavily into S/M. I'm a Top and I work with singletail whips. And I'm not relationship oriented. And even if I was, at this point in my life, I live with my father, so I'm not without obligations that come first."

But I didn't.

Did I do a bad thing?

Should I just go for it?

Idaknow.

Now, in the clear light of day, I'm just thinking it would be nice to date somebody. A nice guy. Another warm body in the bed in the bleak mid-winter.

Surely, I should be distrusting this inclination, right? I am who I am, and he is who he is, and we're sort of different people, aren't we?

But, maybe not. I mean, he doesn't strike me as proto-anything. Not proto-bear, not proto-Dad. Not proto-boy. He is who he is. And he's secure in that. And he likes who he is.

And I think I like who he is, too.

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