Noom, my bar boy friend and current love of my life, has a computer. He doesn’t have a printer, nor does he have internet access. So I have to assume he uses his computer to play games. Or to watch movies. Or to hold the door open to his room to allow a fresh breeze to blow through. I’m not sure his computer ever even gets turned on. But having one matters. And he is proud that he owns one.

I once offered to pay to have him hooked up to the internet He wasn’t interested. I extolled the wonders of surfing the web (while mulling over my enjoyment of cam chatting with him). Still no bite. And though I hadn’t mentioned the chatting thingy, he brought it up. “Chat,” he scoffed. “No chat. I have friend.”

While the vision of getting him to perform on cam quickly diminished, I had to laugh. He’d pretty well just summed up the problem with entire social networking world: why resort to on-line relationships when you have real people in your life?

Noom does have an email account. But has to use an internet cafe for logging on. When I’m in town he uses my computer to check his email. Religiously. Like daily. When I’m not around, not so much. Then he usually goes weeks without checking to see if he has mail. His lack of routine internet use means he doesn’t get much email, and watching him check my computer every morning when I am in town is a lot like watching a kid head downstairs on Xmas morning. Except in his case, Santa is usually a no show. So I sent him an email one morning while he was in the shower. Stupid. Corny. And his smile lit up my entire life.

A early morning email from me is now a routine part of the start of our day when we are together.

Sitting next to me he’ll open his mail each day and carefully read whatever short note I sent him. Then he beams at me, pleased. And emails me back. I considered using that as a basis for revisiting getting him connected at home, but then decided there was no good reason to push it. Well, other than my lust. But Noom is content with not being hooked up to the web. And maybe that’s a good thing.

He uses my computer to surf the ‘net a bit when I’m in town too. Usually looking for body building competition videos. I always enjoy the sight of my straight boy drooling over videos of muscle studs. At least for the first 15 minutes or so. Then I get bored, grab a book, and let him play for another hour or two before he finally comes to bed. Then I get my chance to surf a muscle stud’s body.

On my last trip – the first since I started this blog – I brought my blog up on the screen to show him. Noom wasn’t quite sure what it was or why I wanted him to see it until he noticed his name. That got his attention. He carefully scrolled down the page, and then in case I’d missed it, pointed out his name to me.

“Noom.”

“Yeah. I know. This is my blog.”

“What blog?”

“Um, it’s a personal website, kinda like a diary. You post stories and stuff about whatever your blog is about.”

“What story.” No, he knows that word; he was asking about the type of stories I posted. So I pulled up a post to show him. One about him.

“See,” I said. “This one is about you. And me.” And then I slowly sounded out the title: I Fell In Love With A Bar Boy.

Noom gave me a big kiss on top of my head. Then pushed me out of the way so he could sit in front of the computer and read his tale. Nodding his head as he made his way through the post, when he hit the second picture he voiced his concern.

“Not me.”

“Well, no,” I tried to explain. “Those are pictures of hot guys that kinda go with the story. They are not of you but kinda represent you. They’re the essence of you; the idea of you.”

He checked out the other two pictures on that post, considered my explanation, and still wasn’t quite sold.

“I more sexy.”

I laughed.

And agreed.

His point made, he went back to reading about himself, smiling in recognition of the event I’d described in the post. Still, the picture thingy bothered him.

“You have my photo?”

I shoulda known. I showed him the section of posts about him and told him there were a few there. He started clicking away, surfing through the posts fairly quickly, disregarding the words and honing in on the pictures; probably not unlike many visitors to my blog. His first few choices evidently only had pictures of guys who failed to measure up to Noom’s hotness, and he checked them off mumbling, “Idea, idea, idea . . .”

Then he hit a photo of Chris and let out a delighted, “Pretty Boy!”

With more familiar pictures showing, he slowed down his surfing and began silently reading the post until he hit the word ‘awesome.’ Which required verbalizing. And garnered a laugh. The story also got a quick nod of appreciation, and he checked to make sure I was following along.

I enjoyed watching Noom enjoy himself as he clicked through the posts, but by the time I’ve published a tale I’ve seen it enough times already. (Well, maybe one more perusal to check for typos would be wise, but basically I’m a lazy person.) Even with his participation, surfing my blog was a bit boring. So I laid back on the bed and listened instead.

“Idea;”
“Santa!”
Click, click, click.
“Helena. Gree dee.” (Guess I’d selected that photo well; Noom immediately remembered the day.)
“Idea, idea, idea . . .”
Click, click, click.
“Yi Peng.”
“OH!” Noom reached around and swatted my leg. Oops. He’d hit the photo of him naked primping in front of a mirror. If I remember correctly, I got swatted for taking that shot too.
“Phuket . . . Phi Phi . . .”
Click, click, click.

“Dat all?”

I showed him one more shot of him that was hidden away, buck ass naked. And waited for an objection. But he was too mesmerized by the sight, carefully tracing his body’s contours on the screen with a finger. I was tempted to grope him to see if the sight of his naked body had the same effect on him as it does on me.

Silly. Of course it does.

Noom spent a few more minutes clicking on random posts but since none that he chose were of Thailand, or more importantly of him, he gave up the chase.

“So, you like? I asked.

I got a noncommittal nod in reply.

“It’s okay to post your photo on the internet?

“No,” he stated emphatically using the six syllable version of the word. But that wasn’t enough of an answer. Noom got busy clicking back through the blog posts hunting for a specific shot. Finding the picture he was after, he showed it to me.

“Dis good pick shure,” he said, not complementing me on my photographic skills but rather on the subject matter: him. Or at least his back. “Dis okay.”

He started clicking away again and knowing where he was headed I saved him the trouble.

“Not Chiang Mai?” I asked referring to the nude primping shot.

A picture may be worth a thousand words, the look I got about that picture spoke a few million. Got it. Message received. But Noom had enjoyed checking himself out on-line and that much enjoyment means you have to pay the piper. “But that’s just your back too,” I tried, as a small effort to establish a valid excuse by using logic.

“No,” he said, this time only using the four syllable version. “Not just back.”

“But you’re famous!” I teased him. “Everyone wants to see your sexy body!”

“Not internet star,” he said dismissing the idea of fans; knowing he’d already won the battle and that I was just giving him a hard time.

Huh. And just who said anything about being a star?

“So I can post photo of your back?”

“Just back.”

Uh, yeah. We’d covered that. But two points for clarity. “How about your face?”

That got a negative nod. But a tentative one. So we’ll see.

“Um, your chest?”

A quick nod in the affirmative. Noom is proud of his chest.

“How about all your muscles in underwear?”

Ahhhh. Temptation! But short lived, at least without qualification.

“Okay. But not face.”

“I think I’ll post pictures of you naked in bed.”

“Not!”

“Yeah, with a big title: Noom’s sexy body.”

“Just you.”

I’d not expected any thing differently, and at least he blessed my personal collection of Noom porn.

Noom doesn’t usually pay much attention to what I’m up to on the computer. Until the possibility that it may be about him arose. After seeing my blog, he’d make several passes by anytime I booted up. And though he was pretty sure, he’d check. Just in case. “Me?”

“No, email friend.”

“Me?”

“No, spread sheet.”

“Me?”

“No, story about shopping.”

“I internet star,” he finally reminded me, tired of having me not write more about him. And sweetened the pot. “Okay, little bit naked.”

Celebrity doesn’t come without a price. Noom figured that if Britney can shoot some beaver to revive her career, the least he could do was to allow a bit of skin. I settled on yet another almost face shot and wrote a post about visiting a muy Thai fight instead.

He read it three times.

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