Inaction. Figures.

I've been reading Antonia Fraser's biography of Marie Antoinette. After seeing the movie, which I adored and couldn't get out of my head for days, I craved more of the story and finally picked up the book.

(The film ends with the King and Queen's departure from Versailles - while I know how the story ultimately ends, I'm curious as to what happened after they fled. Which is perhaps a bit dark of me, but I'm sure I'm not the only one who has picked up the book for this reason. Which I'm sure pleases Ms. Fraser - and, no doubt, her accountant.)

I've come to the part of the story where, after seven years of marriage, Louis XVI finally starts properly sticking it to Marie. The main reason for the marriage was for Marie to give birth to an heir. Louis XVI showed almost zero interest in spending time in the marriage bed trying to make it happen, however, and when he did try his deposits, apparently, landed mostly on the sheets. This was frustrating for many and humiliating for Marie, who took the brunt of the blame for the lack of matrimonial action. Teenagers when they were wed, it's surprising to me that it took so long. I remember being fifteen, and I would've stuck it in pretty much anyone if it meant even a small dose of hormonal relief. Even if I didn't really know what I was doing, I certainly would have been happy to have someone with whom to figure it all out.

Poor Marie Antoinette - she was pretty much openly mocked in the court at Versailles, falsely accused of all sorts of inappropriate behaviour - but despite her immense frustration, she showed a great deal of patience. And eventually the bedroom problems sorted themselves out.

Reading all of this has served to remind me of my current romantic situation. I've been seeing a man for just over a month now, and we've yet to get down to business. Oh sure, there's been some making out, a bit of groping - it's not all kittens and sunshine. But I'm a healthy, attractive young gay man, and I'm starting to get impatient. I mean, when the fuck are we gonna fuck? Let me state this clearly right now: this boy is not waiting seven years before things start to get going. I have needs. I have settled for a less-than-lustrous sex life in the name of love and companionship in the past and, frankly, I'm not prepared to do so again.

I can appreciate the old-fashioned novelty of taking it slow and getting to know each other. I won't lie - it's refreshing. And many would argue that a month is not really that long, and they would be right. But this hasn't been a date-once-or-twice-a-week deal, it's been three to four, with more or less daily communication. Perhaps, seeing as I've spent much of the past year being a slut and engaging in more one-night engagements than I care to count for fear I'll run out of digits, my sense of "normal" is out of whack. But to me that seems like an awful lot of dates to not be past the dry humping stage. Christ, I've yet to see him half-dressed, much less naked.

In an effort to see some skin I even suggested, under the guise of "fitness," that he come over to my building to use the sauna and pool. Cruelly, the day after he agreed that was a great idea, a notice went up in the lobby stating that the pool would be closed indefinitely for repairs and has yet to be removed.

It all started out innocently enough. After revealing to each other through a match-making friend that we find each other attractive (I believe he used the words "hot" and "foxy") the dates began. I was aware from the outset that in his 32 years he has never had a boyfriend. Worried there was something wrong with him, in an opportune moment I asked him point blank: "That's been by choice, right?" I was assured with a laugh that it was. Although if there was something wrong, would he really just come out and say so? Probably not.

Around the third or fourth date, there was some joking about "going all the way" which led to him telling me that he can handle pretty much anything "except pressure from boys." I told him "hey, no pressure, I don't believe in rushing into things." Which, when I later thought about it a little more carefully, is a bold-faced lie: I do like rushing into things. If I'm sure about someone or something, I tend to jump right in. (I operate mostly on instinct, and nearly every time I've stumbled in life it's because I've made the mistake of ignoring it.) That said, I think it's important to be open-minded and flexible - just because I usually jump doesn't mean I have to this time, right? The fact that I'd be willing to jump is the important factor here.

My instincts are still telling me to stick with him. This seems to be the start of a potentially really amazing thing (although I'm making a keen effort to not weigh things down with too much expectation, a mistake I've made time and time again). We're definitely into each other, and in terms of personality we complement each other in all the right ways - we have a great deal in common, with differences that counter each other just so.




But my instincts are also telling me that if I want some more action, I'm going to have to be the one to lead the way. Well... they're not 100% telling me that, but I'm sort of getting that vibe. Maybe it's more like, say... 82%? Regardless, I find myself in a precarious situation. He's told me he can't deal with pressure from boys, so I'm extremely hesitant to be pushy in any way. I feel like even bringing up the "when are we taking this further?" topic would potentially invite an elephant permanently into the room. Not exactly a threesome to which I aspire. At the same time, I feel like if I don't say anything at all, he might think I'm not interested. And to complicate things even further, I am not a leader in the bedroom department. Or rather, I am not generally the one who leads to the bedroom. My tendency is to let the other person do the leading. Once there, however, all bets are off. And once there once, I'll happily lead from that point on.

I think it's safe to say I may have some "control" issues.

I could, you may be thinking, just go out and find some sex (and indeed I did while in Montreal a few weeks ago) if it's so bloody important. And I could - there's been no talk of "exclusivity" or anything - but I don't really want to.

Like Marie Antoinette's, the general opinion in my court (read: my homo friends) seems to be that something is either wrong with me, or wrong with him:

"Sooo," Shawn asked me a couple weeks ago. "You banged him yet?"

"Um... no."

"What?!?" Pure shock. "Are you serious?"

"I never joke about sex." Well, at least not when I'm not having any.

"Dude, why not? What's the matter with him?"

"Nothing's wrong with him. We're just... taking things slow, that's all."

Silence, with a faint hint of... what's that? Derision?

"Did I mention he's never had a boyfriend?"

"So, anyway..." (insert random change of subject here)

This is not the only exchange like this I've had on this subject. In the spirit of Marie Antoinette, I smile, behave like everything is hunky-dory, and approach the subject, should it arise, with defiant optimism. Obviously I'm going to have to figure this one out on my own. And, hopefully, it will happen within seven weeks which is, based on everyone's reactions, roughly the gay equivalent of seven years. Which means I should see some head sometime before Christmas.

If not, it may be off with mine.

I Love Trouble

I'm in trouble again. I'm sitting here, trying not to freak out, because I haven't heard from the guy I'm seeing in two days. I can't help but think I've done something to make him mad at me. It's not like him to take more than a day to reply to one of my emails. But with the exception of a possible faux-pas on Friday night, I can't think of anything that I've done that would make him mad at me.

Or maybe that's just it: he's upset because there is something I'm supposed to have done that I haven't, only I don't know what it is and so therefore can't fix it.

See? I could run around my head like this all day. I'm definitely in trouble. This is beyond crush. I'm getting paranoid when I don't hear from him for a period of longer than a day, which, in sane people time, is not a terribly long time, which means I am beginning to fall, which, if recent history and the law of averages are anything to go by, means I am Fucked. Capital F, can't think, can't eat, can't sleep Fucked.

While the guy I'm dating seems to have nothing in common with my previous love interests on the surface - he rarely drinks, he has not tried (much to my frustration, now that we've been dating a month) to get me into his bed, he has never had a boyfriend, he seems genuinely nice - I have been checking below very carefully in case I've missed something. I'm wary of repeating previous mistakes, of falling into a pattern of falling for the same kind of guy over and over again only to end up bitchy and alone. While this guy seems generally pretty fantastic, I'm worried that I've overlooked something, some flaw that makes him similar to my past lovers that will come back to haunt me later. I mean, if I like him this much, there must be something wrong with him, right?

But other than some guardedness and a need to call the shots/be in control that reminds me of my last long-term boyfriend (qualities that, in this new guy, are tempered by self-awareness and a striking sense of humour - and besides, every relationship has an inevitable power struggle) I haven't really seen anything that could be indicative of a pattern. In fact, I'm pretty sure he's really into me, but wants to take it slow to ensure we don't fuck it up.

Real-time update: I just received a text message from him, wondering if I'm free tonight (which, dammit, I'm not.)

See? All in my head. I just need to chill out. Or I will fuck it up by creating problems where there aren't any.

Next time: how slow is too slow? Discuss.

Me and the Technicolour DreamPatch

Wow. I spent last night at a long, relaxing lakeside photo shoot with Justin Timberlake somwhere north of Temagami. Did you know his body is much more cut in person? It's especially obvious when he's been dipped in the cool waters of a northern Ontario lake, providing ample moisture for the bright sun overhead to shine off his rippled, golden abdominals.

We needed some designer pieces for the shoot, so I was sent off to Dior's Hedi Slimane to seek out the appropriate items. Not surprisingly, his studio was crammed with bolt after bolt of black fabric in every imaginable sheen and texture. That it looked like a junky, overcrowded used clothing store in Kensington Market with only Hedi running the show was, however, a tad unexpected. I found myself trying on a number of slim-cut dinner jackets while telling Hedi about the travails of quitting smoking.

"Yeah, so I'm on the Patch, but I haven't been leaving it on all day. The package said you can leave it on for 24 hours, but apparently leaving it on at night can give you crazy dreams, so I've been taking it off before bed. It's not like I ever smoked in my sleep anyway, right?"

I laughed gaily, but stopped when I noticed Hedi looking derisively at my feet.

Although I don't recall trying on any trousers, I somehow managed to misplace my shoes. I searched the dressing room and surrounding areas, and then ran out into the street barefoot. The bright summer day outside made me momentarily sun-blind after spending so long in the cramped, darkened studio.

Jump cut to New York, where I watched Boy George - or perhaps it was Alan Cumming? - hosting Saturday Night Live. Unfortunately, his tragic opening monologue failed to elicit a single laugh. First Taboo, then this. The poor thing. I was then whisked off to the post-monologue skit, in which I played one of Alec Baldwin's children. It was Christmas Eve, and me and my siblings were trying to convince our parents to open our presents right away instead of waiting until morning. Much hilarity ensued. The sketch concluded with me suggesting we simply smoke a joint instead of opening presents. Everyone agreed that this was a great idea so Mom, aka Amy Poehler, ran upstairs to get her stash. While looking for the rolling papers, I became distracted by one of those plastic tubes filled with icing that you use to write on birthday cakes. Seeing as it was filled with hot pink icing, I couldn't resist giving it a try on the nearest available surface and proceeded to write "Ho Ho Ho" on some wall panels next to the Christmas tree. I was concentrating very intently on getting the lettering just so when Amy returned from upstairs. She began reaming me out for suggesting she was a ho - never mind that I'd just frosted the walls in baker's graffiti - when I suddenly started awake. I look around in bewilderment for my cell phone to shut off the alarm, then realize there is no alarm.

Uh-oh.

I find my phone. 9:52am. Wonderful. I have eight minutes to get dressed and make the 15 minute journey by cab to work. I jump out of bed, throw on some clothes, and wait - what's this? I see something odd on my arm as I'm pulling on my shirt. It resembles a scratch-n-sniff sticker. Shit.

I fell asleep wearing the Patch.

I've never used the Patch before. I decided, rather impulsively, to quit smoking eleven days ago after seeing a British television programme called Honey We're Killing the Kids* at Shawn's place (I was visting him in Montreal for the weekend). Actually, the quitting was Shawn's suggestion. I sort of went along with it to be a good sport. Seeing as I'm kind of on a self-improvement kick anyway, the thinking was that it could help Shawn stick to quitting if he had a co-conspirator for support. And, you know, that for the same reason, I might really quit this time, too.

[*The television show, by the way, basically shows parents, with the aid of the lastest computer aging techniques, what their children, after participating in a battery of physical and psychological testing, will look like at age 40. After the "don't-fuck-with-me-this-is-for-your-own-good" reality-tv life advisor/bitch/doctor reveals these terrifying and monstrous images to them, the parents are given a four week plan they must implement in the hopes of getting their kids off the path of ugliness, malnutrition, and general despair onto one of health, success, and fulfillment. The parents, of course, are so ridden with guilt and self-loathing after seeing the ugliness they will be responsible for springing onto the world that they willingly submit to whatever suggestions the doctor lady makes. Usually this involves drastic things like: making sure the kids eat breakfast, monitoring their television watching, not letting them eat any sugary shit they can get their hands on anytime they feel like it, having dinner together at a dining table, making sure they go to bed on time, and spending time with them doing something other than watching television and eating crisps. After the plan is completed, the parents are shown the new, drastically improved, bright and shiny digital versions of their kids at 40, complete with smiles where there were once frowns, and the parents vow they will be better people and do right by their kids. I think they should show this programme to every single new parent everywhere. It was pretty eye-opening, not to mention scarier than The Exorcist.]

Typically, I am now on Day 12 of SmokeFree Living (with a brief lapse period at my birthday party last weekend consisting of about ten cigarettes) while Shawn had two cigarettes on Day 1 and resumed regular smoking habits on Day 2. So much for having a support buddy; I've been thrust into playing a role model, something, I've learned, I have far too much ego to do without filling up with gallons of hot air. Quick, someone find the understudy, I don't want to be here!

The Patch has proven to be very effective in making me not insane. Instead of a constant headache and hearing nattering voices in my head urging me to Kill, Kill Them All, I have been relatively bearable to be around. I do have occasional flashes of extreme irritability, but they pass fairly quickly, as do the cravings. And frankly, I had flashes of extreme irritability before I was a smoker, so it's hard to say which are the result of withdrawal and which are simply intrinsic to my effervescent personality.

On Day 9 I forgot to put on a patch in the morning and went to work. Around 1.30pm I was a hit with a craving that left me breathless. It was like being tossed off a mechanical bull into a pile of boulders. I popped a piece of gum into my mouth, tried to focus on all the work I had to do, and thought about how proud of me the non-smoking healthy guy I've been seeing for the past month will be if I get through this.

Not that I'm quitting for him (in fact, I'm not even sure the smoking bothered him enough to be a deal-breaker). But I'm going to grasp at any motivational straw I can find. As long as there's no coke around, it'll be helpful. I'm proud to say I made it through Day 9 untainted. Thinking of how god-awful the first one of the lapse tasted is also a useful tool.

But while the Patch may be keeping me sane during the day, after last night's Technicolor extravaganzas, I'm a little fearful of what havoc it may wreaking on my subconscious that I'm not aware of. And to think, that wasn't even the super-duper patch, but the 7mg, you're-almost-done baby patch (I ran out of the other ones and forgot to pick up more, okay?)

Or maybe the Patch has nothing to do with it. Maybe that's what SmokeFree Living dreams are always like, it's just been so bloody long since I've had one that I've forgotten. Really, there are worse things than lounging lakeside with a wet Justin Timberlake and parading about in Dior jackets. Maybe I should start wearing the patch to bed every night. Although for that I need a louder alarm clock.

Do you think there's such a thing as an alarm gong?