Matthew on Saturday night was ‘I will only look at younger men, I will only screw older men.’ It really was very wise and continues to be; I am too old — the younger ones can see that, there is that turkey neck and frankly all my skin is starting to sag noticeably (most pitifully on my ass). I am no longer as pliant, I don’t bounce back. I'm assuming you adore hearing the details of my decrepitude, and if you don't, I don’t care -- stop reading, really. A journalist read this blog recently and said (in print) something like ‘Sky’s blog has turned into some sort of personal diary’ implying of course that it is useless. Well yes what I write here is useless; God help me if it was useful, there is nothing worse (as Wilde said) than writing that is useful. That might as well be an instruction manual, which is never entertaining (even when the the cartoon figures are having fun putting together that f-ing wardrobe, while you are still cursing IKEA over a missing bolt). So no, this will not, God help us, be useful. And it will not contain information — except about my increasing dementia. Only joking (it was a poor joke) or maybe not — perhaps it was very apt— after all, one never knows. As you get older two things happen: a) you must gradually separate from your body (that must happen, your body is not of much use to you anymore, as you will be leaving it relatively shortly, anyway) and b) you find yourself alienated from from the young, which is a good reason not to chase after their bodies. (Has any of this been useful so far? I do hope not. Hopefully you have already discerned that these observations are nutty, irritatingly personal, extreme — at least they are meant to be). So on Friday night (this is the diary part) I was chasing after the young. No, to be perfectly honest, it was worse than that. I was chasing after poppers. I must have let 20 guys into my room at the baths in Montreal (only one at a time, I'm still a lady, don't you know!!) only to reject them summarily. I rejected them because they didn’t have poppers. (Ergo, they can hate me instead of their feelings being hurt.) But of course I would have been pleasantly surprised if they did in fact, turn out to have poppers. So I rejected men who were attractive and probably nice, because I deemed them not attractive enough. This is gay lunacy, and it's rampant on a Friday night at the baths, especially now as we all have COVID-19 PTSD in the form of ‘I’d better find a beautiful one now, because if I don’t, there could be another lockdown at any moment.’ (I hate Dr. Isaac Bogoch! I hate his ugly face when it appears at a movie theatre, siting stiffly in the trailer that features aptly diverse persons talking about COVID-19 safety measures! Get out of my face get out of my life get out of my movie Isaac Bogoch! You deeply unattractive, sad, self-important careerist fart! It’s Isaac Bogoch who drove me to this, rejecting men willy-nilly and then happily pouncing on poppers!) Well anyway I won’t tell you who I ended up with, but he wasn’t my dream man, and it was 4 in the morning. (Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?) I got up the next day; hung over, depressed and very unhappy with myself. So on the following night, when it came to the witching hour — instead of retying the birch bristles with new willow wood on my broomstick -- I made promised myself and Matthew that I would only screw older men, but continue to look at young ones. Lo and behold, beauty came my way. I must assure you that it was inner and outer beauty in the Neo-Platonic tradition. I knew he and I were meant to screw each other — not just because of his tight muscular body and petrifying ass (more about that later) and sweet face, but because he just radiated sweetness. When I started kissing him he let out an audible sigh that said: ’Oh, you kiss, thank God, and thank God you do it well!’ When you’re having sex with a nice stranger — and you happen to be sexually compatible — everything falls into place --there is no embarrassment (fear of embarrassment is key to my sexual fuckedupedness) it just happens inevitably, and yes of course, you both come when you want, how you want. Of course he may have just been pretending to be my perfect fantasy come to life. But he was flesh and blood and goddammit I deserved him! I deserve beauty, we all deserve it. But would he have been beautiful if I had been desperately searching for the perfect younger man? (He was young by the way -- I throw that in just to brag -- and to confuse you!) And it’s not that the lighting was finally right or that I managed to finally successfully suck in my gut at the right moment. It’s that my energy was so friggin’ generous that I was open to beauty, and so beauty was open to me. Yes there was some face-sitting involving his gorgeous furry butt (You knew we’d get to that, didn’t you?) Perpetual readers of this column — and there are some, believe it or not — know that in the end, it must always comes to this. I rid myself of my Norwegian Wood and and take a deep breath, at last, the way The Beatles do in ‘Girl’; i.e. more like a prolonged sniff, a gargantuan whiff, of love. I'm not size queen, when it comes to love; it can last only 15 minutes. And if you are skeptical of that it's you I pity, because, after all, there's more than enough pity reserved for me.
