What happens when a sizzling sexual interlude gives way to a raging case of sexual amnesia?

By J. Corbett Holmes

I was pulling. He was pulling. I began to grunt. He started breathing heavily. Tiny beads of sweat began developing on my shaved head. An obvious trail of perspiration gained momentum as it trickled down his spine and disappeared into his shorts. Eventually I became physically exhausted and had to stop. He kept going. His pulls were long determined strokes. He was so close to me I could practically taste him. The whole scenario could have been incredibly hot—two guys worked into a sweat, breathing heavily and grunting as they ardently pulled away. The situation was made all the more hot because there were cables involved. No—he wasn’t the hunky cable man we all fantasize about. And no—we weren’t engaged in some elaborate bondage scenario. We were side by side on the cable machine at the gym: Me, somewhat distracted by our situation, doing a shoulder exercise, and him, feverishly hauling his way toward a broader back.

For anyone observing the situation, they would likely deduce that we were complete strangers. But, the man beside me was uncomfortably close. And as he continued to busy himself, pulling away at the other cable as if I wasn’t there, I felt like the walking dead.

In terms of gym space, he was well within a socially acceptable distance. So why was the fact that he was so close making me feel as if he was smothering me with a pillow? Well, because we’d been much closer before—sleeping together close! And now, as we both passionately pulled, the ridiculousness of the situation began to really pull at me. But, because of our history, I played along. See this wasn’t the first time I’d become invisible. The first time I spotted him after we’d slept together, my face was bright and filled with welcoming expectation. We both knew—I think—that our drunken interlude would lead nowhere other than the climax of the moment. But I expected that the naked intimacy of our shared encounter would at least be worth a cordial hello in passing. Instead, he chose to simply pass. His expression remained blank—like the walking dead. Thus, I became one of the countless men buried alive by those I like to refer to as “bed people.”

This bed people condition, or BP, is, thankfully, one that I have only encountered one time before. But, apparently the condition is anything but exceptional. For years, I have listened to stories of trysts with a similar twist—morning after snubs from sexual interludes. You all know what I’m talking about. Everyone I know has at least one story like this. And—from what I have gathered—BP are everywhere! Like me, do you see bed people? Has one of these heavenly bodies inhabited your bedroom then made you invisible the next time the two of you cross paths? The guy who sees you coming and crosses the street, or looks the other way so he won’t have to meet your gaze?

It seems that sometimes, this postcoital problem can start off rather innocuously with a knowing wave. But eventually that degenerates into what my friend Jim likes to refer to as sexual amnesia—like the whole interlude never happened! In another instance, a friend recalls sleeping with someone nearly four years ago, and now, after so much time has gone by since the estimated time of bed death, it seems he’s been reincarnated. His blinded bedfellow has apparently recovered from his bout with sexual amnesia and now considers my friend a fresh new prospect, diligently re-cruising him at every given opportunity. And then there are those double bed people—the married ones. The ones—refusing the postcoital hello, wave, or nod—who you later discover had a boyfriend at the time of your interlude. These DBP have the worst cases of sexual amnesia. They suffer from a nasty case of both pre- and post-party amnesia, forgetting their boyfriend before bedding you, then forgetting about you afterward. And, from what I’ve gathered, there is a serious outbreak of DBP syndrome. But, my favorite example: I was once walking with a friend who spotted a past bed buddy. When the bed buddy noticed the two of us approaching, he abruptly acquired a focused interest in the nearest window display—in order to avoid an awkward conversation with my friend. Unfortunately for him, it was a Victoria’s Secret window he’d chosen to utilize for shelter. Oops.

Everyday, in some way or another we “get into bed” with a myriad of people—whether it’s business or pleasure—to further develop ourselves with these new alliances. Like anything in life, when exploring a new collaboration, there is always a certain amount of risk. So why then is it that some gay men feel the need to pretend as if those they sleep with were a just bad dream, and go running for their covers?

As for my friend, the “cable guy,” I’ve tried over and over to recall how and why simple considerations like an acknowledging hello were put to bed after we’d been to bed. I never called, he never called, and thus no information was shared. The years have elapsed, and I suppose the reasons are buried or forgotten. But, as we puffed and pulled, I just couldn’t seem to get past our intimate past. Unlike those friendships or business partners with which we align ourselves, with BP there is something more—intimacy.

I once read an article where the word intimacy was broken down as in-to-me-see. Perhaps that is the problem. Our naked truth is revealed. We are completely naked and totally exposed—pulling back our “covers”—thus opening ourselves up by revealing every physical and emotional flaw, need, fear and desire. Is it the fear of rejection that causes the sexual amnesia my “cable guy” has acquired? Perhaps if he pretends not to see me, then our sexual interlude will pose no emotional risk.

Now, I am far from perfect and even writing about such an unacknowledged—albeit epidemic—subject subjects me to further ridicule by admitting that, for whatever reason, I too have been a drop dead bedfellow. But isn’t it better to get up on the right side of the bed?

For shaving graces, e-mail me at shavingsfrommyhead@yahoo.com.