Another year of amatory bewilderment, of glistening invitations, stubborn pokings, and graceless abutments of flesh. Faced with too many confusing possibilities in the flowchart of homosexual ardor my habit is to choose randomly and proceed without subtlety and hope that terror will resemble passion in the blur of events. I keep stuffing these years in the back of the bottom drawer when by this time I should be folding them and putting them away respectfully, like flags pulled from stately coffins by white-gloved soldiers. Where is my sexual dignity, my hard-won aura of refinement and elegance? I am an adolescent cringe stretched grotesquely into adulthood. To this day my erotic procedure, if it can be called one, suggests someone frantically rooting between the sofa cushions for lost car keys when he's already late for an appointment downtown. It's not so much a procedure as a flurry or commotion, a smudge of vaguely suggestive occurrences that coalesce into an alien choreography of violent ritualistic gestures. When I am moving in for a kiss I must surely resemble a disconcertingly eager endodontist. I think my best bet is to try to make hyperventilation seem sexy.