Sin­gle gay guardian & the quest for sex

GA Voice - - Sex & Dating -

“I now yearn for the predawn and late-night drone of tele­vi­sions, al­though even in those soli­tary hours, I watch porn on my cell­phone in­stead of lap­top be­cause it’s more dis­creet and eas­ier to dim ...”

I miss my sex life. Most of all, I miss be­ing able to mas­tur­bate with­out hear­ing the boner-crush­ing creak of a door open­ing. When my nephew and his girl­friend moved into my one-bed­room apart­ment with me last fall, I made a slight mis­judg­ment in giv­ing them my bed­room while I camped out in the liv­ing room.

Given that they were leav­ing the South Side of Chicago to pur­sue a bet­ter life, it was im­por­tant to me that their new en­vi­ron­ment was com­fort­able and sta­ble, rather than them feel­ing like tran­sients bum­ming on my couches. It was also a strate­gic at­tempt to pre­serve a bit of pri­vacy, so that I, and any guests, would not have to en­dure a walk of shame through the liv­ing room.

How­ever, in the four months they’ve lived with me, I’ve had only one sex­ca­pade while they were in the apart­ment. With my nephew be­ing 20 and his girl­friend 18, I be­lieved they were ma­ture enough to ap­pre­ci­ate my re­quest for them to re­main in the bed­room while I had a lit­tle boo com­pany. How­ever, at the ex­act mo­ment of pen­e­tra­tion, heard the bed­room door open, caus­ing me and my nude com­pan­ion to dive un­der cov­ers.

Who­ever opened the door didn’t come into the dark­ened liv­ing room, but aside from the even­tual sex, the episode was un­pleas­ant enough for me to ar­range for hookups only when nei­ther of them are home, which is rare. The more dire—daily—chal­lenge has been try­ing to jack off with­out in­ter­rup­tion, and is my only re­gret about our liv­ing ar­range­ment.

It’s easy to lose track of the fre­quency of one’s mas­tur­ba­tion when liv­ing alone. I now yearn for the predawn and late-night drone of tele­vi­sions, al­though even in those soli­tary hours, I watch porn on my cell­phone in­stead of lap­top be­cause its more dis­creet and eas­ier to dim, and there’s a peren­nial risk of hear­ing their bed­room door open.

Bless­edly, they’ve signed a lease for an apart­ment they’ll be mov­ing into in a few days, but the im­mi­nent re­turn of my sex­ual sat­is­fac­tion ranks low in my thoughts. I’m proud of the two of them—their courage to leave ev­ery­thing they’ve ever known, and their com­mit­ment to fight­ing for more than what had al­ways been await­ing them in Chicago.

They made the ex­pe­ri­ence far less bur­den­some than I had feared, as both found jobs within a month of their ar­rival. All three of us have made mis­steps, of course, and I’m con­cerned they may be on the brink of their big­gest thus far.

I called them South Side refugees when I first wrote about them com­ing to At­lanta, and my nephew has the noble in­stinct to reach back and res­cue his older brother, his girl­friend and their in­fant daugh­ter by bring­ing them down to share their two-bed­room apart­ment. I’ve ob­jected to the wis­dom and tim­ing of this im­me­di­ate re­set­tle­ment in the bluntest, most alarmist terms pos­si­ble, but ac­cept its in­evitabil­ity.

This will be their apart­ment, their first apart­ment; their lives, their young and hope­ful lives; their mis­takes to learn from or odds to defy. I worry about their un­ripe in­stincts, but I trust their grit.

Ryan Lee is an At­lanta writer.

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