RobDave: It happend to me and my friend. Truely love on first sight. Me entering the bar and he ready to leave. He was just gonna ask for the bill, called the waiter, said "Can I have... (saw me)... another beer please". A minute later we talked, 15 minutes later we were at my place and now were 8 years together and married for 2,5. It was and stil is great!
But I must admit in the beginning this head over heals made me more uncertain and nervous than normal. Because we we were very much in love but didn't know eachother very well I didn't know what 'was going on in his head'. So the fear of "do i look allright?" "Am I funny enough?" "Isn't he bored with me?" "Do we have the same/enough shared interests?" and all that stuff was there all the time. It was nice but could be quite nerve wrecking as well and to be honest, I'm glad that the first period of our love is over.
Anyway, I normally don't participate in the discussions on this board cause it's obviously not set up for me. But since this topic is about love and therefore has nothing to do with dick size I thought i'd put in my 2 cents...
But I must admit in the beginning this head over heals made me more uncertain and nervous than normal. Because we we were very much in love but didn't know eachother very well I didn't know what 'was going on in his head'. So the fear of "do i look allright?" "Am I funny enough?" "Isn't he bored with me?" "Do we have the same/enough shared interests?" and all that stuff was there all the time. It was nice but could be quite nerve wrecking as well and to be honest, I'm glad that the first period of our love is over.
Anyway, I normally don't participate in the discussions on this board cause it's obviously not set up for me. But since this topic is about love and therefore has nothing to do with dick size I thought i'd put in my 2 cents...
well I am bi and i've liked this guy since the 7th grade. I dont know why but everytime I see him I freeze up and don't know what to do. So far i've liked him for about 5 years now. I see him around at school but I can never get the courage to talk to him.
headbang8
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I wanted to reply to this thread for a while now, but have been in transit with no opportunity. I feel passionately about this, so forgive the long post.
I've fallen in love at first sight, twice. Once with the woman who became my first long-term partner, and again with my man.
Both times, it was mutual, and WE DIDN'T ACT ON IT UNTIL LATER! How fucked up is that?
The first time was understandable. She was married.
We connected after they split, and she says I was partly responsible. I chose to take that as a compliment. It was one of the high points of my prolonged flirtation with heterosexuality, to be the man in her bed as the process server arrived with divorce papers. Am I shallow to have felt a certain evil, homewrecking smugness?
We remain best of friends to this day--or so we say. But neither of us can bear too much contact--our love still touches a nerve with each other. The same as the day when (forgive me) our eyes met across a crowded room. No, really, they did.
But when one door closes, another opens.
I had just been posted to Tokyo from Melbourne, and had no particular burning desire to start a new relationship in a city in which I felt awkward and out-of-place. Besides, I'm not what is known in the parlance as a rice queen--a man attracted to Asian men. My taste runs more to farm-boy white-trash rugged--imagine a trim ZZ Top. Nonetheless, a gay boy sometimes needs the fellowship of his tribe, whatever they look like.
Gays keep a low profile in Japan, not because there's any particular taboo against the act, but rather because non-conformists are sometimes scorned as anti-social. (Being anti-social is perhaps the ultimate crime in such a group-dominated culture). But goddamit, I thought, this is the largest city in the whole fucking developed world...it must have a Castro, a Darlinghurst, an Old Compton Street, a whatever.
Some detective work with an Amazon-sourced Spartacus Guide uncovered the 2-chome (pronounced ni-CHO-may) neighbourhood of Shinjuku, a quiet corner near the Kabuki-cho red-light district. Of course, I was later to discover that every hip Tokyoite is in on the secret.
And it is an official secret. Most bars are tiny and stacked on top of each other in five- or six-story buildings with low ceilings (that is, old and not very earthquake resistant).
They're labelled in Japanese; no reason to label them in English since they're too small to cater for anyone but regulars or those introduced by them. (in fact, there's a word for first-time visitors to a restaurant, ichigen, often translated as "stranger", which has the vague hint of hostility and disapproval about it.
Many turned me away. Several had handwritten signs, in broken English, to the effect of no foreigners allowed. We would just upset the wa. (harmony and good vibes)
Of those bars signposted in English, I had enough experience with Japanese usage to know that the words were just cool shapes that meant nothing. An establishment called, say, The Ponderosa might as likely contain middle aged ladies busy with tea and cucumber sandwiches as moustachioed boot-scooters.
In desperation, I stumbled on one labelled in English: The Bulldog Bar: Where Manly Men Meet. Bingo.
It was full. The place was about the size of a suburban bedroom, but contained a functional kitchen, restrooms and about thirty-five beefy, leather clad Japanese men, sweating in the July heat, looking like sumo in civvies, in shock to see a foreign face. The door-spunk took pity on me. "You should go to GB" he said.
"GB?" I asked.
"That's where Japanese men who like white guys hang out. It's gaijin central."
I replied that I wasn't interested in scoring, but just wanted to take in some Tokyo gay culture. He pursed his lips. "You really should go there. You'll feel much more comfortable."
Following his directions, I walked down the street and descended into a basement room the size of a double garage, with a large island bar in the middle. The front door was in one corner, and gradually I made my way around the room.
Little did I know that a certain gaisen regular had already fallen in love at first sight. My boy visited this bar so often he got invited to their staff Christmas parties. He had his own seat in the corner, from which he spotted a certain worse for wear, balding, bestpectacled, middle-aged gent trying to make conversation as he worked his way around three walls. Why is this foreigner stopping to TALK TO SO MANY PEOPLE? (He still thinks I talk to strangers indiscriminately. He's such a snob, but I've grown to love that about him)
I got to his spot, and met the most devastatingly handsome man I had ever seen in my life. Hair in a classic part, boardshorts revealing hairy legs (not quite ZZ Top, but they'll do), a full five o'clock shadow--rare on a Japanese man--casually dressed but impeccably elegant, a perfect smile, and...my god, he was flirting with me!
I was smitten. He was waiting for an old friend from Osaka, and when the time came for them to go off, I offered my business card. He took it, but had forgotten his own--almost uhheard-of in Japan--and agreed to call me.
I thought about him. And thought and thought. I imagined him next to me. I wondered if he was as hairy all over as on his legs. (He isn't)
No call. Oh, well.
Summer turned to fall, and I was snowed under with a serious project at work. No time to worry about this chimera of a handsome man, destined to stay another masturbation fantasy. Not that I had much time to spare for a tug, in any case. I hadn't been so horny and frustrated since my teens.
One November Saturday, the dam had to burst. I found Treffpunkt, a gay sauna close to home (thank you, Spartacus) and began to undress in the locker room. Little did I know that a certain pair of eyes were watching. I didn't even have time to get my clothes off.
"Why didn't you call?" I gasped as we embraced. He explained that Japanese people never make or take personal calls at work. Well, how fucking stupid is that, I thought. Rather, he'd returned to GB, almost every night, hoping he'd see me again. In horny frustration, he had to get his rocks off, and...well, here we are.
That was four and a half years ago. And in spite of the fact that we now do our loving long distance, it gets better every day.
We recently hosted a friend from London who wanted a tour of 2-chome. My boy couldn't make it, but sent us to another of his favourite foreigner-friendly bars. As our guest flirted with the go-go boys, the barman and I got to chatting. In the course of the conversation, I revealed where I lived and what I did for a living, to which the barman exclaimed, "So YOU'RE headbang8!" My partner had been a regular here, too, until our cosy home-life diminished his rather profitable custom. The barman went on to add: "You know, I'm not surprised, now that I meet you. You're exactly his type..."
So, yeah, I believe in love at first sight. In fact I kinda think that--for me, anyway--if it ain't love at first sight, it ain't gonna happen.
hb8
I've fallen in love at first sight, twice. Once with the woman who became my first long-term partner, and again with my man.
Both times, it was mutual, and WE DIDN'T ACT ON IT UNTIL LATER! How fucked up is that?
The first time was understandable. She was married.
We connected after they split, and she says I was partly responsible. I chose to take that as a compliment. It was one of the high points of my prolonged flirtation with heterosexuality, to be the man in her bed as the process server arrived with divorce papers. Am I shallow to have felt a certain evil, homewrecking smugness?
We remain best of friends to this day--or so we say. But neither of us can bear too much contact--our love still touches a nerve with each other. The same as the day when (forgive me) our eyes met across a crowded room. No, really, they did.
But when one door closes, another opens.
I had just been posted to Tokyo from Melbourne, and had no particular burning desire to start a new relationship in a city in which I felt awkward and out-of-place. Besides, I'm not what is known in the parlance as a rice queen--a man attracted to Asian men. My taste runs more to farm-boy white-trash rugged--imagine a trim ZZ Top. Nonetheless, a gay boy sometimes needs the fellowship of his tribe, whatever they look like.
Gays keep a low profile in Japan, not because there's any particular taboo against the act, but rather because non-conformists are sometimes scorned as anti-social. (Being anti-social is perhaps the ultimate crime in such a group-dominated culture). But goddamit, I thought, this is the largest city in the whole fucking developed world...it must have a Castro, a Darlinghurst, an Old Compton Street, a whatever.
Some detective work with an Amazon-sourced Spartacus Guide uncovered the 2-chome (pronounced ni-CHO-may) neighbourhood of Shinjuku, a quiet corner near the Kabuki-cho red-light district. Of course, I was later to discover that every hip Tokyoite is in on the secret.
And it is an official secret. Most bars are tiny and stacked on top of each other in five- or six-story buildings with low ceilings (that is, old and not very earthquake resistant).
They're labelled in Japanese; no reason to label them in English since they're too small to cater for anyone but regulars or those introduced by them. (in fact, there's a word for first-time visitors to a restaurant, ichigen, often translated as "stranger", which has the vague hint of hostility and disapproval about it.
Many turned me away. Several had handwritten signs, in broken English, to the effect of no foreigners allowed. We would just upset the wa. (harmony and good vibes)
Of those bars signposted in English, I had enough experience with Japanese usage to know that the words were just cool shapes that meant nothing. An establishment called, say, The Ponderosa might as likely contain middle aged ladies busy with tea and cucumber sandwiches as moustachioed boot-scooters.
In desperation, I stumbled on one labelled in English: The Bulldog Bar: Where Manly Men Meet. Bingo.
It was full. The place was about the size of a suburban bedroom, but contained a functional kitchen, restrooms and about thirty-five beefy, leather clad Japanese men, sweating in the July heat, looking like sumo in civvies, in shock to see a foreign face. The door-spunk took pity on me. "You should go to GB" he said.
"GB?" I asked.
"That's where Japanese men who like white guys hang out. It's gaijin central."
I replied that I wasn't interested in scoring, but just wanted to take in some Tokyo gay culture. He pursed his lips. "You really should go there. You'll feel much more comfortable."
Following his directions, I walked down the street and descended into a basement room the size of a double garage, with a large island bar in the middle. The front door was in one corner, and gradually I made my way around the room.
Little did I know that a certain gaisen regular had already fallen in love at first sight. My boy visited this bar so often he got invited to their staff Christmas parties. He had his own seat in the corner, from which he spotted a certain worse for wear, balding, bestpectacled, middle-aged gent trying to make conversation as he worked his way around three walls. Why is this foreigner stopping to TALK TO SO MANY PEOPLE? (He still thinks I talk to strangers indiscriminately. He's such a snob, but I've grown to love that about him)
I got to his spot, and met the most devastatingly handsome man I had ever seen in my life. Hair in a classic part, boardshorts revealing hairy legs (not quite ZZ Top, but they'll do), a full five o'clock shadow--rare on a Japanese man--casually dressed but impeccably elegant, a perfect smile, and...my god, he was flirting with me!
I was smitten. He was waiting for an old friend from Osaka, and when the time came for them to go off, I offered my business card. He took it, but had forgotten his own--almost uhheard-of in Japan--and agreed to call me.
I thought about him. And thought and thought. I imagined him next to me. I wondered if he was as hairy all over as on his legs. (He isn't)
No call. Oh, well.
Summer turned to fall, and I was snowed under with a serious project at work. No time to worry about this chimera of a handsome man, destined to stay another masturbation fantasy. Not that I had much time to spare for a tug, in any case. I hadn't been so horny and frustrated since my teens.
One November Saturday, the dam had to burst. I found Treffpunkt, a gay sauna close to home (thank you, Spartacus) and began to undress in the locker room. Little did I know that a certain pair of eyes were watching. I didn't even have time to get my clothes off.
"Why didn't you call?" I gasped as we embraced. He explained that Japanese people never make or take personal calls at work. Well, how fucking stupid is that, I thought. Rather, he'd returned to GB, almost every night, hoping he'd see me again. In horny frustration, he had to get his rocks off, and...well, here we are.
That was four and a half years ago. And in spite of the fact that we now do our loving long distance, it gets better every day.
We recently hosted a friend from London who wanted a tour of 2-chome. My boy couldn't make it, but sent us to another of his favourite foreigner-friendly bars. As our guest flirted with the go-go boys, the barman and I got to chatting. In the course of the conversation, I revealed where I lived and what I did for a living, to which the barman exclaimed, "So YOU'RE headbang8!" My partner had been a regular here, too, until our cosy home-life diminished his rather profitable custom. The barman went on to add: "You know, I'm not surprised, now that I meet you. You're exactly his type..."
So, yeah, I believe in love at first sight. In fact I kinda think that--for me, anyway--if it ain't love at first sight, it ain't gonna happen.
hb8
Love at first site is usually an infatuation, she would be very beautiful, but there'd be something else like the way she walks or talks that would complete it. The snobby, pompous knockout babes I can tell a mile off and hardly love.
Anyways I told my gf I love her just the other night, would have told her last time we were together but I was too shy. When she asked me how much I love her I said 'With all my heart and soul...and my ickle toesies'
I scare myself sometimes...
But yeah, now we just wanna see each other more often
That would be after three dates (days together), that I said those three words, the one major one.
Anyways I told my gf I love her just the other night, would have told her last time we were together but I was too shy. When she asked me how much I love her I said 'With all my heart and soul...and my ickle toesies'
I scare myself sometimes...
But yeah, now we just wanna see each other more often
That would be after three dates (days together), that I said those three words, the one major one.
RunnerSF: I was instantly attracted to my partner of 10 years. Romantic love set in pretty much after our first date...but now love is different. It is much deeper than just a dating kinda love. I guess what I'm saying is there are different forms of love...from crushes to a deeply committed kind of love. Also, every relationship is different. I've known people who have fallen head over heels in love from day one and were married in 3 weeks. It can happen and is probably "normal." Good luck in your relationship.
RunnerSF: wow, this was such a cool post. thank you for sharing your story. congratulations too.
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