Monday, March 19, 2018

I Know You

The only reason I’m here, in front of this tenth-story Chelsea apartment door on a winter’s afternoon, is because I’ve dared myself. In fact, every step that’s brought me here has been a dare.
Now, arrived at my destination, I have to dare myself one last time. Ring the bell, I think. Let him know you’re here. Do it. Get it over with. When I hesitate, the irresistible last self-push: C’mon. I dare you to.

My index and middle finger rise to the eye-level pushbutton. With the backs of my knuckles, I press and release, sounding a bell on the other side. Done, I tell myself. Happy now?

The door opens. The man I'm here to meet wears a pair of baggy workout pants. Athletic socks with loose elastic sliding down his furry legs. A tank-top that’s obviously been chosen for utility over style, though it shows off the curves of his muscles nicely. His face—that mug I recognize instantly—peeks around the door. His dark hair is long. Not as long as in his movies; it’s been cut roughly at the same level as his jaw. But those soulful eyes are the same. Both his locks and his trimmed-short beard are shot with more gray hairs than I remember.

The spark of familiarity, though, was instant. I know you, I thought. It wasn’t for the first time.

The man says my name in a deep voice, followed by, “Come on in.” He extends a meaty hand to grasp my own, and pulls me over the threshold.

Hey. I know you, I’d thought, the first time I’d seen his profile online, in my track list. You’ve been in porn, right? He’d used a selfie as his primary portrait, but a lack of studio lighting and a professional photographer couldn’t disguise that intense stare, the sharp jawline, the rough-hewn masculinity. At the time I’d merely taken a quick glance at his profile before moving on. To be honest, I’d assumed that some horny cretin was catfishing unsuspecting guys, using pictures of a well-known porn top as bait. But then again, who’d have the audacity to pass off photos of a major gay porn actor as his own? Not just some schmo who bottomed in a couple of dirty flicks, but a truly well-known star from a big studio?

Then the man behind the profile sent me a message on the site, admiring my profile. Dare you to play along, I taunted myself. So for shits and giggles I replied. I thanked him when he said he liked my photos. I answered his questions about my location and availability. Frankly, I was waiting for the inevitable, leering attempts at cyber chat that would tip me off I was dealing with a fraud.

But those never came. Over the course of our correspondence, he wrote sparingly about enjoying reading, and about how difficult it was to meet articulate men. He unlocked photos for me that didn’t seem like studio shots scrounged from Google. He told me that yes, he did escort and massage for a living; he hoped I wasn’t offended by that. The fact that he’d hit me up first meant he was looking for something off the books.

He didn’t get to bottom often, he said. I had a beautiful dick, and he really wanted to bottom for me.

This is where I had to dare myself again. Say yes, I told myself. Dare to think he’ll want you.

So I said, sure. Of course I’d be happy to take care of him, if that’s what he wanted.

Give him your phone number, I prodded myself. Dare ya.

I gave him my phone number.

We moved pretty rapidly from online chat to texting. He sent me a number of candid shots of himself that convinced me, pretty much beyond doubt, that I was speaking to the very same porn star to whose scenes I had jacked off multiple times over the years. There aren’t a lot of tops in porn that I watch, thinking, Damn, I wish he would stretch me the fuck open. There’s Dan Fisk, maybe. And most definitely there was this guy.

This man always excelled in his one-on-one scenes with others. His studio never dropped him in the middle of a gang bang. Oh no. They always paired him up with one exceptionally hot bottom, put them together in a dimly-lit room, then let the camera roll. In his scenes, this man knew how to control a situation. He would start slow, intimate. Romantic, even. The way he kissed the men he was about to fuck always made me twitch with need; I’d watch his bottom boys respond with real lust to his every touch.

On video, this man was a little bit older, a little more seasoned, a little quieter . . . a little bit more real than the rest of the studio stable. I always found those qualities attractive. He looked like he had sex on film because he enjoyed it—because he was damned good at it—rather than just to earn enough dough to pay off his dealer. When that inevitable moment came in every video when he’d finally turn over his boy, part those cheeks, and slide in his sizable member, I would be pouring the lube over my own dick, sighing, and wishing the boy were me.

Funny, how I’d idly fantasized about this guy for years before running across him online—but solely as a bottom fantasizes about a top. I’d never once considered fucking him. I could recall him even bottoming in any of his appearances.

I really want to submit to you, he texted. Just forget about myself while I’m your boy. May I do that?

Give him what he wants, I dared myself. Fuck him. Fuck this alpha of alphas. Make him your boy. My rock-hard dick spurred me on. Mark that ass as yours.

So I made a date.

Here’s the thing, though. All this time I was talking to the guy, I hadn’t actually come out and said, I know about your career in porn. I’d never casually brought up in conversation, So what’s it like, banging Dawson? I’d never dropped a hint like, You look familiar. Kind of like the top in that third scene of Splooge Up My Guts 2: Electric Boogaloo. Why the silence? Hell if I knew.

My own reservations about hooking up with my fans are abundant, and I’m one hundred percent certain that sex blog fans are neither as numerous nor as persistent as fans of porn stars. (And sex blog fans are pretty damned numerous and persistent.) Being labeled a stalkery fanboy was something I wanted to avoid. Another part of me simply didn’t think it was appropriate to speak of his history in porn. If he wanted to bring it up, sure. It'd be fair game. But if this man wanted to have a private sexual vacation—bottoming, no less—away from his public sexual persona . . . who was I to deny him?

Before the afternoon of our meeting, I confess, I messaged my friend Ryan Wolff with a couple of the photos. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t crazy. Do you recognize this guy? I asked.

Oh hell yeah, Ryan replied instantly, and named the man.

I was immediately relieved to be validated that I wasn’t exchanging steamy texts with, you know, a sandwich shop worker bearing a vague resemblance to a porn star. (The thought had crossed my mind, more than a few times.) He wants me, I explained. But I didn’t want to go all fanboy on him, so I didn’t tell him I recognized him. His real name is different from his porn name. I shared the name the man had given me.

That’s him all right. Ryan texted back, He’s retired from porn, but I understand he’s versatile. Knock up his ass real good.

And here I am. Ready to knock him up.

No. I’m ready to give him what he asked for. Today he’s not going to be a porn star. Today this man is going to be my boy . . . just as he desired.

I step inside the door, ready to apologize for my chilly hands, my frigid nose, my ice-cold cheeks. Once the door closes behind me, he ignores my frozen extremities and immediately cups my face in his hands, pulling down my head. His nails riff through the scruff of my beard. His eyes open wide, look straight into mine; he pulls our foreheads together. Our hips connect. Jersey to denim, seam to zipper, hardness to hardness. He smells of soap, and of a woodsy deodorant.

Still staring at each other, we grind together for a long moment until he breaks the silence. “You’re much better looking in person,” he says, then to my relief temporizes, “and I thought you were handsome in your pics.”

He looks just like he does in porn. Silly thing to think. Of course he does. Except he’s here—he’s real. He’s touching me, resting his hands on my chest, cupping my ass. He’s shorter than I imagined, to be honest. Everyone is, when I meet them.

Tell him, I dare myself. Just say, hey. I know you.

No. Ultimatums have propelled me out of my living room and down the New Haven line into the city. They’ve forced my grudging feet onto the Lexington Avenue train into Chelsea. Self-provocation has gotten me over the threshold. It’s time to leave dares behind. I'm here. Now. For him.

Once and for all, I decide to keep my mouth shut. This man can spend the afternoon free of the invisible albatross of the porn star—my gift this afternoon will be unburdening him of having to live up to anything. Of having to perform.

I speak his name. His real name. “Thank you,” I tell him, for the compliment. “You are one of the most ruggedly handsome men I’ve ever seen. Can I make you an offer today?”

“Yes. What?”

“Let me make love to you. Let me be in charge.” His forehead is still pressed to mine as I half-whisper the enticement. His fingers are clasped around the back of my neck; his thumbs rest on my collarbone. His response is a sigh, and a rumble deep in his chest. “You don’t get to bottom often, do you?”

Those soulful eyes are already boring into mine. He separates our craniums so that we can better see each other. Still we’re glued pelvis to pelvis, hands on each other’s hips, swaying back and forth in some slow, tuneless dance. “No,” he finally says in soft, low syllables. “I surely don’t.”

“You don't get to let loose.” Again he shakes his head. “Then let me be the one taking care of you today,” I tell him. “I intend to treat you right.”

“Yes. Please.” He leans forward, places a hand on my cheek. We kiss. His tongue slips between my teeth; his lips are soft, though his beard prickles through my own. “I need that very, very badly.”

In all the idle fantasies I’ve had about this guy over the last decade, if I’d scripted our conversation, I would’ve been in his role and he would’ve taken mine. But this feels good. This feels very natural, in fact. I enjoy taking care of my men. Why should a few dozen hours on video make this one any different? I jettison shed my jacket and backpack and shoes in his entry hall and allow him to guide me our of the hallway. His apartment is small, but tidy; he's curated his many books onto their shelves by subject. Sneakers snuggle in pairs beneath the bed. There’s a portable massage table folded against the wall. A bed occupies a spot between a radiator and the window.

It’s toward the mattress that I steer him now, maintaining the connection at our core. He stumbles back with awkward steps, his lips hungrily on mine. We kiss with increasing ferocity; it’s as if the feel of my mouth on his, my tongue deep inside, unleashes his need. I’ve seen his bottoms on film crave him in exactly this way, many times before. Now it’s his turn to give in.

He’s on his back, head on the pillow, hairy legs in the air. I’m on top of him, my groin still grinding against him, insistent, demanding, my chest against his, our lips fastened on each other. My dick feels like cement. It has to be bruising his most tender places. But no, I feel his own erection prodding back, just as hard, just as anxious.

We separate to rip off our clothes. No seduction. No more prolonging the moment. There’s just raw, naked need between us. He looks over my body while I stare at his. My eyes have the better half of that bargain. He’s still in great shape. Lean. Furry. His fat dick is dark and wreathed by even darker pubes, shot with silver. It points straight at me.

I have to taste it. I might not be taking it—not today—but I need that porn star dick in my mouth. He groans as I go down on him. Already his head is slightly musky and slick with his precum. It slides down my throat effortlessly. How many times does a guy get to worship a dick about which he’s fantasized? Out flicks my tongue, every time I reach the base, licking at his nuts. After a few moments, his sac is covered with my drool.

The entire time I’m down on his meat, he’s groaning. He’s seized my skull between his big hands; now he’s lifting me off, bringing my mouth to his, tasting his own precum from my tongue. My breath probably smells like his dick, but he’s sucking the air out of me, he’s breathing so heavily. He flips me onto my back, stares into my eyes with flinty intent, and then parts my legs so that can suck me.

He works on my nuts, first, licking them, sucking them into his mouth, teasing me with his wet lips. Then he travels up the shaft. I feel his hot breath on my skin—and then he’s down, swallowing my inches. I feel a crackle of sensations when his short beard abrades my sac, then the slick softness of his open throat.

“Suck it,” I whisper. He grunts and gargles on my hard meat. “Get it all good and slicked up for your ass, son.”

I don’t actually know how old this man is. I’m assuming he’s younger than I, though neither of us is exactly a spring chicken. I can see the effect that the word son has on this ultimate porn daddy, though. It’s as if every bone in his body melts away; his center of gravity drops deep into the mattress as every newton of tension and resistance drains from his muscles. Even his throat collapses around my cock, driving it more deeply down his gullet. He’s more relaxed than he’s ever made anyone on that massage table.

“You’re driving me crazy,” I murmur in his ear. He submits completely when I withdraw from his mouth and turn him face-down on the bed. I grab the extra pillow and easily shove it beneath his hips. “Let me see that hole, son.”

My growl elicits one in return, deep from his gut. He reaches back to pull apart his cheeks and expose the furry depths of his cleft. There’s so much hair I can’t even see the pucker at first. But there it is, deep inside, warm. Moist. Protected. When my mouth meets that private part of him, he lets loose with a noise that’s pure animal. It could be from pain; from what I’m doing, I know it’s of pleasure.

As my incisors gnaw at him, as my lips stretch his hole, as my tongue laps with broad, dog-like persistence at a place made sensitive by need and neglect, his howling intensifies. My thoughts are for his neighbors. He, however, seems to be operating in a place beyond all consideration for the adjoining apartments. He’s got no thoughts. Only needs.

He roars, pleating the sheets between his clenched fists. The noise doesn’t daunt me. I redouble my efforts and dive deeper. There’s a bit of struggle from his sphincter, at first. It tries to clamp down, to deny me what I most want. My tongue flattens, broadens, weakens its target. I’m relentless. I’ll get what I want, in the end. The beast quiets. Relaxes. The taste of his hole changes; there’s the faintest metallic tang as it releases for me.

“You like it,” I tell him.

There’s no need to explain what I mean. His face is contorted in a rictus of pleasure as he looks over his shoulder in my direction. He nods. The man likes all of it. The attention. The licking. The surrender.

With my index and middle finger, I probe at his pucker. He’s not as tight as I fear. The flesh gives way and parts as I twist my digits. He's not virgin-tight. On the other hand, he’s not sloppy-open by any means. I’m a good judge of how difficult it will prove to get into any given hole. I’m guessing that with this man, any barrier to me fucking him will be more mental than physical.

As if to prove my point, the moment he realizes he’s enjoying himself too much, the porn star clamps down like a vise on my fingers. There’s a dispenser of lube by the bed. I raise myself up and softly shush him as I press down to release some of the opaque lubricant into my fingers. It’s a bit cold, but warms instantly as my fingers deliver it onto, then into, his rectum. Kneeling now, I kiss a path up his spine, deviating at the shoulders, ending at the base of his neck. He’s still clutching his bedsheets, but his arms are over his head in a posture of complete surrender. I know you, I think, looking down at him. Then I reach for more slickness, to spread over my cock.

He watches me sleepily, his eyes half-lidded. Smiling, almost. My dick is engorged. Ready to go. But I hesitate.

I think it’s safe to say that I’m a man of abundant sexual confidence. I realize the measure of my power, once my pants hit the floor. I know the caliber of men I can attract, with a little luck and effort. At this decade of my life I should instinctively understand I can pull off most situations. But honestly? The reality of thus situation is catching up with me.

Who the fuck am I to top a porn star of this magnitude? Sheer chutzpah might’ve gotten me to this point, but what the hell do I think I’m doing? I’ve had several porn actors, including some major ones, as sexless close friends. I once made out with a kid who turned out to be a porn star in the restroom at Uncle Charlie’s, on his twenty-first birthday. I’ve slept with men who later revealed they’d been in a porn video or two in their past. But never, ever, have I fucked someone like this guy, knowing his past, knowing his level of fame. This is craziness.

At the mere altitude of five feet from the floor, I’m experiencing the giddy vertigo of someone who’s been hauled up the first steep incline of a fearsome rollercoaster, and who hangs in hideous suspense between the rise and the inevitable plunge to come.

I’ve gotten this far, I realize. Time to start the ride.

I slide in from behind. As he did with my fingers, almost immediately he starts to clamp down. With only about two inches inside, and his hole starting to fight me, I lower my chest to his back. “You are so damned beautiful,” I whisper into his ear. “Do you know how fucking hard you make my dick? Reach down. You feel that? You feel it?” He obeys. Nods. He feels it, all right. How long has it been since someone topped him last? “I am going to fuck you so deep,” I murmur. “Your dad is going to knock up that beautiful, amazing ass.”

That’s doing it. His hole flares. I slide in another inch.

“Such a good boy. Such a good, beautiful boy, giving up his pussy to dad.” I’m not only in his ass. I’m in his head. “Fuck, baby boy. You’ve got me. You’ve got almost all of me in there. You want all of your dad’s fuckstick up that hole, don’t you, baby?”

“Yes sir.” He stirs. Opens his eyes. Looks back at me with adoration.

I lean down and meet his mouth with mine. “When I’m done, this ass will belong to me. Right?”

“Yeah,” he growls. “It’s already yours.”

“Arch that back, son,” I tell him. “C’mon. You can do it.” He obeys instantly, and my last two inches slide inside and hit bottom.

I lower myself onto the man so that I’m weighing him down. Like most men, he finds the sensation comforting. His fingers wriggle to clasp my own as slowly I start grinding. I’m so deep inside I already can feel the nub of his prostate pressing against my cock head. “Feels amazing. Dad's really enjoying his boy’s hole. I know you're loving it.” He nods, trying to come to terms with the sensations flooding his body. “Do you love it? Tell me.”

“I love it,” he gasps.

“Say thank you, dad.”

“Thank you, dad.” Again we make eye contact. He says the words again, to make sure I understand his sincerity. “I mean it. Thank you, dad.”

“You’re welcome, son,” I reply—because that’s what good dads say to their boys. I thrust in with more vigor, making him gasp.

I raise myself with my palms flat on the mattress. Now I can pull out more, and thrust deeper. He lifts his head, enraptured by the sensation of my fuckmeat slopping in and out of his hole. “Don’t come yet,” he begs.

“Oh.” I let out a genuine chuckle. “I have absolutely zero intention of coming yet. I intend to enjoy this fuck. Our first fuck.”

“Thank you.” It’s more breath than voice.

He’s now as wide open as pussy, soft as velvet. For a while I fuck him in this position, urging him to enjoy himself, coaching him on how well he’s doing. I roll with him onto our sides, and hold his leg in the air while my dick splits him open, one arm encircling his chest. I whisper obscenities into his ears in the missionary position, the soles of his feet parallel to the ceiling. No position is better than the rest; he grinds and clutches at my cock with his hole through all of them.

“Let me ride you,” he says at last. Now is when he comes into his own.

This time, he puts me into place. He arranges a pillow for my head, and nestles me there on my back before he kneels above my hips. “Let me,” he whispers, when I reach down to help aim my dick. Fine by me. I tuck my hands under the pillow, palms up, and let him do his thing.

It’s odd. Until I’d walked into this apartment, my perception of this man these previous weeks has been of the porn star, the persona carefully crafted of muscle, stubble, dick, and gruff masculinity. Once I’d met him, once I’d taken control, the superstar receded until the actor became a man in simple need. Now, though, as he squats over me and grabs one ass cheek to pry it open as he guides my erection deep inside his guts—now I’m seeing the star power emerge once more. His forehead glistens with moisture as he whips back his head to clear the hair from his face. He cocks his jaw to one side as he lowers himself down, then grabs his knees when he hits bottom. “That load belongs to me,” he announces.

I agree. “Yeah. It does.”

“I've earned it.”

“You’ve definitely earned it, son.”

“Thank you, sir.” He’s not so much bobbing up and down on my meat as he is pivoting back and forth, but the effect is the same on my dick. My nuts are contracting; I can feel the skin bunching up. He raises his hands over his head. He’s showing off, now. If there had been a lens pointed at him, he’d secretly be searching for his best light.

Cocky fucker.

“Hey,” I say, suddenly grinning. “Let me look at you.”

Still churning my dick with his hole, he swivels from side to side, giving me views from all angles. Then suddenly self-conscious, he bursts into laughter. He rests his palms on either side of my head and lowers himself down to plant an affectionate kiss on my lips.

“You are beautiful,” I whisper, as our eyes bore into each other. “And it’s time to take my seed.” The announcement sets him into motion again. Grinding, squeezing, bucking back and forth on my dick. His hair fringes either side of his face, casting it into shadow. Drops of his sweat fall onto my mouth, but I don’t care. “You want it? You want my load?”

“I want it.” He looks deadly serious now. “I need it. I need your load in me.”

“Like you said, you’ve earned it.”

At least, that’s what I intended to say. He muffles the last half of the sentence with his mouth, though. His palms press down on my chest, squeezing the air out of me. He’s crushing me. But I like being crushed and smothered at his hands.

“Ride it,” I wheeze. “Get that load. Steal it.”

He’s already ahead of me. I can already sense the heat rising from my balls, feel the waves of sensation beginning to overtake me. He doesn’t let up. Maybe he’s more experienced as a bottom than I knew. Maybe he’s just been with so many expert holes that he’s picked up a few tricks. But he’s milking out this load, come hell or high water.

When I shoot, I barely make any noise. The pressure he’s exerting on my rib cage has left me gasping for air. I thrash, though, and dig my heels into the mattress as I thrust myself more deeply inside. He’s not touched his hard, fat dick the entire time he’s been on top of me—but now he grabs himself in his fist, pounds it twice, and starts hosing one of those porn star loads across my chest and onto my face. I’m shooting. He’s shooting. Two bulls, bucking at once, gulping for oxygen, rising and falling and rising and falling again.

For a moment, after we’ve sprayed everything we’ve got, we freeze in our little tableau. He’s looking at me, almost as if truly seeing me for the first time. There’s something in his expression . . . is it sadness? Longing?

I have to know. “You all right?” He nods. “What are you feeling?”

He lowers his haunches. Runs his hands through his hair. Considers his words. “Honestly? I was wishing more men treated me like you just did.” His mouth puckers up as he thinks some more. It's a wry and regretful expression. “I was wishing more men were like you.”

I blink. Then I murmur something. I thank him. He’s left me astonished . . . and a little sad.

Then he pulls himself off me and rises. Naked, he pads across the room in search of a towel. Before he disappears into the bathroom, he turns to grace me with a smile. His teeth are a little crooked. He’s a little shaky on his feet. But I know I’m seeing him at his most honest. He’s a man who in that moment, is shorn of pretense and stripped of all fantasy. What’s revealed is a man at his most essential.

I meet his grin with one of my own, and I think, Hey. Now I know you.

Monday, March 5, 2018

Grindr Roulette: A Drama in Three Acts

Trick 1: 4:50 pm

I’m sitting in S’mac in the East Village on a Monday night. There’s a small cast-iron skillet of macaroni and cheese before me. Chunks of ham stud the creamy pasta; steam still rises from the surface. It’s a cold day out, and I’m indulging in an early dinner. I’d rather be at home right now, feet up on my ottoman, heat cranked. But, grudgingly, I’ve hauled myself into Manhattan for a meeting this evening.

Are you sure we can meet? I’d texted the group’s leader earlier. I mean, is the building even open on a federal holiday?

Sure! he’d texted back. They’re always open.

I’m peppering the mac and cheese when my phone buzzes on the little cafe table beside me. It’s the group’s leader. No meeting tonight, he says. The building’s closed because of the federal holiday.

Well. Shit. Usually I like being proven right, you know? On a frigid winter day though, with the New York City wind blasting to the bone at every intersection, I was kind of kicking myself for not calling the Center myself from home, before my commute.

There are worse things than being at loose ends in the metropolis, though. So I close out my messages and fire up Grindr just long enough for it to register my location. Then I go back to my meal.

I’m three-quarters of the way through my skillet when I fire up Grindr again. Sure enough, I’ve gotten about eight responses. A couple are just taps from blank profiles—those I ignore. A couple more are from good-looking boys, but their one-word inquiry of Looking?? put me off. I might be looking, but I’d like a little more interaction than that.

There’s a message from a guy who’s a mere 250 feet away, though. In his forties. All I can see in his profile is a chest shot, but it’s a hot chest shot. The dude takes care of himself. Furry bod. Firm pecs. Trim waist. You look close and I need breeding, he says. Any other pics?

When I reply I’ve got some for swap, he immediately returns a photo of his face. It looks like the kind of head shots actors take in for their auditions . . . and if this fellow isn’t quite leading man material, he’s at least studly enough to be cast as the guy the female protagonist in a rom-com uses for rebound sex to make her ex jealous. You know the type. Handsome, in a bland way.

I send him back a couple of dick shots. Fuck, he writes. You’re hung! How soon can you be here?
Ten minutes? I say, looking at the remnants of my meal and guessing how long it would take to walk 250 feet. It’s 4:50

Sounds fucking hot. You got me so boned here. See you in 10, buddy. He gives me an address.

All right, then. I’m going to enjoy this one, I can tell. Hot guy, hot ass, needs breeding, is only a quick walk away. What could go wrong?

Ten minutes might’ve been an overestimation, I realize when I look up the guy’s address on my phone. He’s all of two blocks away, down Second Avenue and around the corner. I stall a little buy prolonging the last few forkfuls of the macaroni. Once I’ve popped a couple of mints in my mouth, I kill a little more time by bussing my table and taking a quick piss in the restroom.

I walk up to the address the guy gave me at exactly 5:00. I find his apartment number on the list next to the intercom and ring the bell. There’s a pause, and then the intercom speaker clicks. “Uh,” says a staticky voice. “This is kind of embarrassing. But . . . oh fuck. Just come on up.” The latch vibrates.

I let myself in and climb three flights to the guy’s apartment. This is the oddest reception I’ve ever gotten. Do I know the guy and not realize it? Does he recognize my secret superhero Breeder identity? What’s embarrassing, and why did he seem to be considering not letting me in at all? (Wasn’t that what he had implied over the intercom?) Had he catfished me? Was the photo he’d sent not his own?

The door opens the moment I knock. I hadn’t been catfished. The guy’s face was the same as in the photo he’d shared; he’s wearing only a pair of loose sweatpants, and standing there shirtless with an abashed expression on his face. But he makes no effort to gesture me inside. If anything, he plants himself against the half-open door and stands there as if to impede me from crossing the threshold.

“Like I said, this is kind of embarrassing,” he says without preface. “I really wanted a breeding, but your pics were so hot that I . . . kind of . . . finished myself while I was waiting for you.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. “It’s been only ten minutes,” I finally say, each word leaden. The spark of excitement in my groin extinguishes.

“Yeah, but you know how it is.”

No. I really don’t know how it is to make a date with a guy for a hot fuck and then to masturbate so furiously that I’m spent before he arrives mere minutes later. I blink at him with incomprehension.

“Anyway, sorry. Maybe next time?”

“Uh-huh,” is all I can say.

Trick 2: 5:35 pm

I’m in a coffee shop up Second Avenue, closer to 14th Street, nursing my wounds with a latte that tastes vaguely of gingerbread in one sip, coconut milk the next. And I’ve got Grindr fired up again.
I’m getting messages on a regular basis; the guys on the grid are closest to me in mere tens of feet rather than the hundreds I get at home. You look like the kind of top I need right now, writes one guy. I’m ass-up in my apartment, cleaned out, and ready for your load, if you’re interested.

My disappointed dick is definitely interested. This guy is in his early forties. He’s got a professorial appearance about him. Something about the unkempt curly salt-and-pepper hair in his profile photo, his wire-rimmed glasses, his half-closed eyes, speaks of years of working toward some lowly tenure position. The fact that he writes in complete sentences with proper punctuation, on Grindr, nails home the impression. I could be interested, I type back. If this interests you.

I send him a dick pic. I have one photo I privately call The Deal-Clincher. It’s a self-shot of me reclining on my bed, legs spread, dick in hand, my head drawn slightly back, my brow furrowed, my mouth drawn into a perfect O. In the shot I look close to shooting, and simultaneously insanely smug—a little bit like I’m going to say either Oh my fucking god, this fucker’s about to blow!, or else, Oh shit, is this not the biggest dick you’ve ever seen in your life? I tend more to the latter, because in this particular shot my weapon looks like a fucking baseball bat. It’s so engorged that it’s purple. It fills up my hands. It looks like horse cock. I’ve got a lot of attractive shots of my meat to send out, but when I bust out The Deal-Clincher, it’s because I mean business.

What kind of idiot would NOT be interested in that monster? is his reply.

With satisfaction, I think to myself, Right?

His address is a little further north and closer to Union Square. I swig down the rest of my brew and start the trudge up that way. I’m feeling good about this one; the first guy was just an anomaly, I tell myself.

The guy buzzes me into his building and I take the elevator up the ninth floor. He’s naked when he opens the door, though the darkness of the hallway beyond keeps me from seeing much of his body. In the studio apartment beyond I can see bookshelves around two of the walls, crammed with volumes. Yeah, this guy’s an academic, all right.

Not until my backpack has hit the floor and I’ve kicked off my shoes does he step into the light to reveal the dark coils of hair covering his lean body, the hipbones jutting out at angles below his waist, his unusually large feet. “Thanks for making this so easy,” he says to me, standing on tiptoe to press his mouth against mine.

I reciprocate by leaning down to meet him. He purses his lips and projects the tip of his tongue through the tight embouchure. With the rapidity of a sewing machine, he thrusts it in and out of my mouth.

Oh dear.

Not every guy is a good kisser, I realize. But who the hell is teaching guys to make out like this? That protruding tongue business is about as erotic as a lights-out party with your own maiden aunt. I abandon any attempts at passion and allow him to guide me to the bed. He hops up onto the mattress on all fours and assumes the position. “Fuck it,” he demands.

No foreplay, I guess. No sucking of my dick, no sexy undressing, no attempts to get me hard and ready. Nothing. I guess I’m just there to perform. So I unbuckle my belt, undo the button of my jeans, tug down my pants and shorts, and rub his hole while I masturbate myself to stiffness.

“Oh fuck yes, babe,” he hisses, when my fingers stretch his hole. He’s already wet; it feels more like silicone lube than some other guy’s seed, though. “Get me ready. Get that big penis out and stick it in. Give your baby your big penis. Me wants it. Me wants it.”

His sex chatter is unerotic, but I’ve worked miracles with much less. My dick’s not exactly the overstimulated proportions it reached in that Deal-Clincher photo, but it’s hard enough to fuck. I add a little lube to it from the dispenser by the bed and slide in.

“Fuck that pussy!” yells the guy. “Fuck it! Fuck it! Fuck that—aaaaaah!”

I have a vague idea of what’s going on from the sounds he’s making. Sure enough, when I pull out to look, the asshole has sprayed a load directly onto the bedspread. I don’t know whether he assumes that I’m done, too, because in order to see what’s going on, I’ve pulled out. Immediately he bounces up, though, and starts to pull on some around-the-apartment duds that are lying in a crumpled pile by the bed. “That was great!” he enthuses. “See ya round!”

I’d been in the dude for all of fifteen seconds. If that. Silently, I stuff my junk into my shorts, pull up my jeans, and fasten my belt. He’s standing by his front door, obviously itching for me to leave. Truth to tell, I’m no less anxious to get out, either.

It’s while I’m sitting down on a stool, next to where I removed my shoes, trying to unlace them and stuff my feet in and lace them back up again in that awkward silence, that I take a glance at his books. I see some titles that look familiar to me. “Hey,” I say, genuinely surprised. “You’re a Patrick Dennis fan.” I reach out and touch a spine. “First Lady? No one has First Lady. You’ve got Genius . . . 3D, Tony . . . Wow. You’re a real enthusiast, aren’t you?” I’m a little surprised; other than Auntie Mame, no one reads Patrick Dennis any more (and mostly they haven’t read him . . . they’ve seen the movie).

He was a major influence on my own writing style and outlook. What wouldn’t I give to have a really good conversation about one of my favorite authors with someone else who enjoys his novels? I’d even forgive bad sex for that.

I stand up, hoping for some response. But the guy just shrugs. “Sure. I guess.”

Okay then. I don my coat, grab my backpack, and head out once again.

Trick 3: 6:15 pm

Smart New Yorkers keep two databases in their heads. One is an ever-evolving list of clean and reliable public restrooms at places that aren’t named Starbucks. The other is a compendium of public spots, again not named Starbucks, where it’s possible to sit down and relax between appointments . . . or unsuccessful Grindr hookups.

The Barnes and Noble just north of Union Square sits on both lists. It’s right in the vicinity of the disappointing academic. The fourth floor has a section of seat for lectures and readings that’s fairly reliable . . . and there’s a clean restroom only a floor down. Propped in one of the end seats with my jacket on my lap and my backpack at my feet, I cross my legs and consider what to do.

I’ve had two disappointments so far. Realistically, I should just cut short my losses. Call it a night. Spend the next couple of hours shopping, or grabbing a drink at one of my favorite bars. It’d make sense to head over to Uniqlo and shop for some socks I need. What I shouldn’t do is fire up Grindr again. I’d just land another dud of an encounter. My dick probably smells like the academic’s ass. What if I did get a bite, and the guy went down on me, and came up gagging? What if, after two disappointments, I couldn’t even get it up? Nah. A third go at Grindr isn’t for me.

I’m on the app thirty seconds later, of course.

Hey. It’s a 20 year old. That’s all I know about him, because his profile photo is a starry sky.

Hey, I write back.

Looking to suck big cock. You got big cock for me?

Along with the message he sends a naked photo of his entire self. He’s a skinny little twink with a skinny little butt, smooth from neck to foot. He’s got sloppy brown hair and a fringe of scruff on his chin. In other words, he’s incredibly fuckable.

Yeah. I’ve got big cock. The kid’s given me a boner in the middle of B&N. In retaliation, I unleash the biggest weapon in my Grindr arsenal: The Deal-Clincher.

I want it in my throat. You want to come over?

I should say no. I know I should.

Give me an address, I say instead.

He send me a location a couple of blocks away, on Sixth and 17th. Be there in 10, I tell him.

I’ve got business in the restroom before I leave, though. I grab a handful of paper towels, run some lukewarm water over them, and in one of the stalls I clean up my dick as best I can. It doesn’t look dirty, but I feel a little bit better about shoving it in some kid’s mouth after it’s been in another man’s hole . . . albeit oh-so-briefly.

The walk’s not far, but it’s dark now, and the wind blows in my face like it’s determined to make a particularly icy point. I’m glad the lobby of the kid’s apartment building is stuffy and overheated, because I get a chance to thaw out a little on the elevator up.

The kid opens up the door on my first knock. He holds up a finger to his lips before I can say hello, then reaches out a hand and pulls me into the dark foyer. “Hi,” he whispers. There’s a pulled partition between the foyer and the living room beyond; I can hear the sound of a television sitcom on the other side. “In here.”

His fingers still wrapped around mine, the kid pulls me into a room to the right of the front door. It’s a tiny space. I realize almost immediately that it’s supposed to be a coat closet, or an umbrella room—some kind of pre-war outdated storage space that can barely fit a twin bed and a dorm-room mini-fridge. He’s put up shelving around the tops of the high ceilings to hold his clothing and books. A student, maybe, renting a tiny room in someone else’s apartment.

When he takes my other hand in his, and pulls himself close, I look at the boy for the first time. He’s got a pretty face. Big, open, liquid eyes. Soft pink lips. Pale, smooth skin. The fuzz on his jawbone is downy and trimmed to a point. There’s a corresponding line of thin fur that trails down his stomach to his pubes. He looks like a young James McAvoy as Tumnus the faun. “I really hoped you’d show,” he says in the softest possible voice.

I don’t get the impression that he’s not supposed to have guests. I do, however, understand that he’d rather keep our conversation quiet. “How could I resist a beautiful boy like you?” I whisper.

He is beautiful. Half of me is convinced something got to go wrong. He’s probably a bad kisser. He’ll get my pants off and decide I’m not the guy for him. Maybe he’s got a colostomy bag. Like the academic, he has to stand on tiptoe to press his lips to mine. I raise my hand. Cup his jaw. Pull him in.

No. He’s a great kisser.

He’d greeted me shirtless. All he’s wearing is a pair of soccer shorts. They slip to the ground in a puddle. His dick is hard already, curved, pointing toward my feet. I seize it with a fist and pull him closer. “Daddy,” he whispers.

“Be a good boy,” I tell him as I struggle out of my jacket. “Get my pants off and suck me.”

The kid obeys, but first kneels down to remove my shoes and socks. Then he unbuttons my shirt and slips it over my shoulders. Finally, he unbuckles my belt and unbuttons my jeans, and tugs them down with my shorts. He stares at my cock as he helps me step out of the last of my clothing, but not until he pushes me back onto the thin mattress does he finally open those soft lips and take my meat between him.

He’s no disappointment in the oral department, either. Fuck. Far from it. The sensation of his mouth on my dick is electric. He’s not gagging; I must’ve done all right in that bookstore washroom. He’s going down on my inches like he’s starving and it’s a nine-inch sub. Then he’s back up with his narrow waist between my thighs, taking my tongue in his mouth. Back down to the dick he goes, sucking and slurping on it hungrily. Then up to my mouth again, trembling with pleasure and desire as I run the flats of my hands down his smooth back and across his tiny little butt.

I’m not even aware I’m pulling apart his cheeks and fingering his butthole until he pauses, on one of his trips between my mouth and my dick. “I didn’t get ready to be fucked,” he whispers. “I just wanted to suck tonight.”

“That’s okay,” I say, meaning it. If anyone’s going to get me off orally, it’s going to be this kid.

Am I surprised then, minutes later, when he gets my dick especially wet with his spit, then reaches around and pulls my dick to his tiny little pucker as he makes out with me? I’m not, really. I say nothing, though. This can be his decision.

I feel him rubbing my sloppy-wet knob against his boyhole. There’s barely enough room for him to sit up on me without knocking his skull on the shelves overhead, but he rests his weight on his knees and leans back anyway. I tuck my fingers behind my head and watch him. He’s struggling, internally; he wants me inside him, I can tell, but he’s not sure if he should.

“It’s all right,” I whisper, startling him enough that he opens wide his half-closed eyes. “You don’t have to. You’re a good boy.”

I can see it written plain on his face. He doesn’t have to. But he wants to. He wants to be a better boy. The best boy.

He spits in his hand. Adds the moisture to his hole. Then slowly, almost painfully, he starts backing down on my cock. His own dick, fat and curved down, drips with precum. “Fuck me, daddy.” He mouths the words more than pronounces them. His eyes are closed again. He’s lost in a world of his own. “Fuck me.”

“Good boy,” I say again, and then again. “Good boy.” Over and over I use the words, as he engulfs more of me. Each time I invoke the phrase he sighs to himself. He’s happy to be a good boy. He wants to make dad proud, I can tell.

It’s not difficult to get all the way in the kid. He swallows the last few inches in a single, greedy gulp. He rests for a moment, then begins sliding up and down the pole. With his hands resting on my chest, he leans forward and looks down into my eyes. His lips part. For the longest time, I wonder what he’s going to say.

Finally it comes out. “I love it.” Plain and simple. What every dad wants to hear. “I love it. I love it,” he repeats.

“I . . . love . . . that . . . ass,” I whisper back, delivering each word with one of his thrusts. “Kiss me, son.”

When he shifts his weight forward, I pivot my hips upward and plant my heels on the mattress. I take over the hip action; he’s a curled ball over me, his mouth glued to mine. The bedsprings squeak as I begin pounding his hole from below. It’s not going to take long to shoot in the kid, I know.

“You want my load?” I ask. “You want dad’s load?”

He doesn’t have to assent. I can tell by the hunger of his kisses that he craves it. Then, “Please,” he says. “Please just fuckin’ load me.”

We’re still keeping it as quiet as possible. The TV’s laugh track from the other room is still louder than any noise the two of us are making. When I cum, it’s silently. My lungs seize. My cock lunges into the deepest part of the boy. He gasps, and presses his palms against the shelving overhead. While I quietly unload into his guts, he releases his right hand and furiously beats his downward-facing dick. It’s mere seconds until he releases a load onto my chest.

For long seconds we remain frozen in that tableau. Then slowly, like a rag doll, he crumples down onto the mattress beside me. My cock comes out with a sloppy squelch. I put my arms around the boy and become big spoon to his little, as his sperm glues my chest to his spine. He raises one leg for a moment, so that he can maneuver my cock between his thighs. Then he brings them back together again.

Jackpot, I think to myself, as the boy sighs with contentment. As he snuggles against me, the two of us cuddle and silently listen to studio audience applause in another room.

Monday, January 15, 2018

Good Enough

So here’s the thing about this kid: his butt is amazing.

It’s round. Round, hell. Those two globes offset from his hips at precisely the right angle, with exquisitely-calculated curvature. They’re the ultimate culmination of human geometry, the fruition of refined formulae, the pinnacle of every mathematician’s search for geometrical perfection since Archimedes. I could throw out a phrase like bubble butt to describe the thing, but the words aren’t evocative enough to suit the acme of this kid’s ass. Bubble implies impermanence. Bubble hints at something that can vanish before it’s been admired, much less memorized or immortalized.

No, this kid’s butt is solid. Meaty. Weighty. It’s the kind of butt that can take a slap and a pounding both, only to bounce back for more. It’s solid. Athletic. You look at it, and all you can do is wonder how many squats it took to bring about this consummation of meat and muscle. I’ve had many mighty fine asses, mind you, but this boy’s rear end is one of those that only comes around once in a lifetime. It’s the kind of butt that, had this boy casually ambled by during the sculpting of Michaelangelo’s David, would have made the mighty artist throw down his chisel in disgust, saying, “Fuck this amateur shit. Back to baking pizza.”

But let me backtrack a little.

I was cruising one of the sex sites when a twenty-year-old kid hit me up. Sup, he said.

The photos he’d chosen were blurry but intriguing. He seemed barely literate . . . or at least was determined to establish his masculinity through brusqueness. How was he doing today? Good. U. What was he looking for? Good raw dick. How bout u. Where was he?

When he named the neighborhood in which I live, I was a little taken aback. That’s funny, I told him. Me too. What street?

He named the street I live on.

Huh, I told him. Me too. It’s a long street, though, stretching over a mile down to the shore, so I told him my cross street.

He didn’t seem to recognize it. #43 here, he replied. I checked my phone’s map just to be sure, but my suspicion was correct: the address he’d given me was only a block away.

Now, forgive me if I sound unnecessarily dubious here, but my first instinct was that the kid was bullshitting me. I’ve run into obvious fantasists and scammers on these sites before, from the guys who throw up a couple of jailbait photos from Reddit and send me messages that read, Hi today’s my 18th birthday and my high school is out today and live only 1 mile from you and my hot uncle says I should let you bareback me, what does bareback mean??, to the dudes who post genuine pics of themselves but try to pass off 65 as 43 . . . and everything in between. My little uptight neighborhood is not exactly replete with boys looking to be bred. Remember, this kid hadn’t even known the name of the second cross street south of him.

On the other hand, I thought to myself, do I know the name of the second cross street north of me? No. I did not. I still don’t. So I left a little wiggle room for doubt, and told the kid to hit me up some evening that week. I’d take care of him. Then I signed off, assuming I’d never see him again.

Three days later. It’s a Wednesday night. I’ve got the place to myself. Sup, he messages me from out of the blue.

Ready to come over? I ask. It’s a challenge, really. I’m waiting for him to bullshit out of it with an excuse.

I’m a little surprised when he says, I need 20 to clean up. 7:30? Address?

I give it to him, and tell him I’ll be waiting out front on the sidewalk at 7:30.

It’s one of those nights that’s fucking freezing out. I’ve got on a down jacket and a cap, but I’ve stuffed my bare feet into my sneakers, so there’s frigid air drifting under the cuffs of my jeans and reaching up far enough to make my balls recoil. My mittened hands are wrapped around my torso, hugging the heat in, while I stand outside on my dark street, waiting for the guy.

Thankfully, it’s not too long before I see a figure ambling down the sidewalk. He’s on the wrong side of the street, though. Well, is it him? It’s too dark to see any features, but the person seems to be craning his neck to look at the street numbers. Dude, I’m thinking. Your address is an odd number. My address is an odd number. Why the fuck are you on the opposite side of the street?

“Hey,” I call out, when he should be in earshot. “Hey!” I don’t know the boy’s name. (Still don’t.) He’s got some thick wool hat covering his ears, so he can’t hear me over the slight car traffic on the two-lane road. He’s now walking past, going too far. “Hey, kid!”

He wheels around, finally. I beckon him over. He jogs across the street. “Hey. Thought you were number 88,” he says in an unexpectedly deep voice.

88 is not remotely my street number. Neither digit is even vaguely close. “Come on in,” I tell him, shivering, and already wondering whether I’m regretting extending the invitation.

For the first time, as he follows up the stairs onto my front porch, I can see that he’s as tall as I. Maybe taller. Six-four? I can’t see his face. Under his thick winter clothing, he’s bulky and shapeless. He could be two hundred and seventy-five pounds of seventy-year-old shambling flesh under there, for all I can tell out here in the dark. I honestly don’t know what the fuck I’m getting.

But what the hell. I had needs. I wasn’t having to to travel far to get this guy, and he was pretty much free for the taking. Might as well give him a go. Yes, basically I use the same rationale to decide whether or not to let the guy in, as I do when weighing whether or not to eat cheese that’s been sitting out on the break room counter at work for a suspiciously long time. I’m not too proud to admit it.

Once we’re inside my living room, his hat comes off first. “Sup,” he mutters, nodding at me as I remove my down jacket. He’s clearly twenty—he didn’t lie about that. Mediterranean looks. Lot of product in his short hair, cut in a fade on the sides and floppy on top. Handsome kid. I don’t expect him to be quite as good looking as he is, from the blurry photos he’d posted.

That’s it for the small talk, though. “I’ll put this here,” he says, and starts to remove the outermost layer of his clothing. It’s some kind of shiny shell that covers up an oversized baseball jacket underneath. He throws it on my rocking chair. Then he applies the toe of one sneaker to the heel of the other. It pops off with a clunk—a size twelve or thirteen high-top roughly the size of a small appliance. The other hits the floor to its side. He hooks his fingers under the elastic of his pants. Shucks them. They’re the same windproof fabric as his first jacket. Underneath those, he’s got a pair of baggy ripped jeans.

With the outer layers shorn, I’m beginning to see he’s more athletic than I would’ve guessed. “Let’s go upstairs,” I suggest.

He nods.

The kid is tall. I’m unused to men looming over me, but this looks down into my eyes in the dim light of the bedroom. Off comes his Yankees jacket, hitting the rug at the foot of my bed. He’s wearing a gray wife-beater underneath; I’m stuck motionless at the sight of his arms. They’re muscular. Sculpted. The boy is swole. His deltoids look like fucking tree trunks. A half-sleeve extends down his left arm from the shoulder to his elbow, the outline inked in but not colored. The thin fabric of his tank top clings to and outlines his pecs. There’s a gap between navel and jeans in which I can spy a perfect V across his narrow waist.

I’m speechless. My jaw doesn’t work. I say nothing. But that’s all right. This twenty-year-old kid, this muscled-up pup, this boy who looks like he should be headlining the next Magic Mike movie, takes a step forward so that his face is close to mine. For a split-second I’m anticipating a kiss. But then he drops to his knees, wraps his thick arms around my middle, and rests his cheek against the bulge in my jeans.

When he starts to kiss the fabric, eyes closed, his lips searching for the outline of my meat, I feel myself growing harder and harder. My rigidity excites him. His massive hands reach for my belt. I help him loosen it, then allow him to unbutton me. He pulls down my zipper. Once again, when he encounters my black trunks, he presses his face against the fabric. I can feel the warmth of his breath, and the chilliness of the tip of his nose against my skin.

I adjust my stance so that my jeans fall to the floor. He tugs at the waistband of my shorts, to let loose my cock. His mouth is already open to catch it. Even though the skin of his face is still cold, his mouth is wet. Tropical. Once I’m down his throat, he opens his eyes again and regards me with heavy lids.

I know that look. It’s the expression of a boy who’s fallen in love with my dick.

“Suck it,” I order. He doubles down on my inches, letting them slide slickly in and out of his eager gullet. “Good boy.”

The praise makes him grunt. Deep as his voice is, the guttural noise rumbles from his chest with a vibration that only amplifies my pleasure.

I’m picky about my blow jobs, you know. The vast majority of guys give bad head. The stimulation might be enough to keep me hard, but maintenance is not the same as arousal. This kid, though. He knows how to work his tongue. He knows how to vary his strokes. And he doesn’t rely on beating me off in lieu of real oral service. This kid sucks unexpectedly well, like he’s had years of practice. Maybe he has. So I let him suck me for a good long time, down on his knees, in the dusk of the bedroom, before I pull out.

“Take off the jeans,” I order, as I step out of my own.

Without protest, he stands up once more. He tugs off his top to expose that perfectly-worked chest. His pants drop. He pulls his feet, clad in white ankle socks, out of the pile of denim. His hands protectively clutch his crotch, where his hard dick stretches out a white, elastic fabric. He now wears only a much-worn, dime-store jock.

“I want you now,” he says, looking me in the eye.

Well. Okay. If some swole kid wants me now, I guess he’s going to get me now. I’m obliging, that way.

I pull one of my pillows to the middle of the bed. Pat it. Without needing instruction, he hops up onto the mattress, grabs the other pillow to bury his face in, and uses the cushion I’ve prepared to prop up his hips.

That’s when I see the ass.

That ass. That indescribable, sculpted, sent from heaven with a seraphim chorus of trumpets accompanied by a cherubim choir ass.

That’s when my jaw drops.

I stare at that butt for a long minute, motionless. “Jesus Christ,” I finally blurt. Appropriate, since I feel like I’m having a religious experience.

He turns his head on the pillow so that he can regard me with one eye. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing—fuck, nothing is wrong.” I stammer out.

“Am I good enough?”

Is there anything more endearing than a kid like this asking if he’s good enough? In the second it takes him to ask, in these brief few words, I feel like I’ve had more insight into what drives this boy that probably his friends and family do.

All it takes is this ephemeral, fleeting glimpse of vulnerability and fear deep down, to turn him in my eyes from a Junior Tom of Finland improbability, to someone desperate for real, human contact.
I crawl onto the bed between his legs. “I’ll show you how good enough you are,” I promise.

This kid nearly cries during the long minutes I eat him out. He hisses and clutches the bedclothes when I part his cheeks and bury my face between the symmetrical globes. When I chew at the soft flesh deep within, he whines. The sensation is so intense for him that when he starts grabbing at his own ass cheeks I can’t tell whether he’s try to stop me, or to pull them apart to go deeper. Without confirmation, I naturally assume the latter. The whines turn to squeals, the grunts to half-vocalized swearing. Has he ever been eaten out in his life? I can’t tell.

One of my thumbs slips into his slick hole. He raises his head from the pillow. Is the wince on his face pain? Pleasure? Again, I assume the latter, and replace my thumb with my index and middle finger. My spit has made his ass slippery and ready for dick; a little more spit greases my rigid meat. My fingers still stretching his pucker, I pull myself to my knees.

“You want it?”

He nods.


The kid mumbles something. Only the pillow hears it.

Ask,” I order.

In a very low, barely audible voice, he enunciates the words. “Fuck me.” He doesn’t say please. He doesn’t say sir. He doesn’t need to. There’s an honesty in the way he mans up and finally demands what he wants. There’s a need that’s as naked and plain as what I saw earlier, when he asked me if he was good enough.

So yeah. I fuck him.

He’s a howler, this one. He bays as I slide into him. I can tell from the way he instantly accommodates me, though, that he’s in no pain. He’s moist all the way in. Either I prepared him well with my rimming, or he’s naturally self-lubricating. He’s as wet and soft as pussy, actually. “Fuck,” I exclaim, when I reach the bottom.

He replies in whimpers.

I wonder a lot about this kid. I wonder where he’s been, the last few years I’ve been living in this sexless cul-de-sac. I wonder how long he’s been taking cock, how long he’s been raw-dogging it. I wonder at which gym he’s a personal trainer. Because with this body, what else can he be but a trainer, right?

The one thing I don’t have to wonder about is whether he’s enjoying himself. Every stroke, every probe, every long pulling-out and sliding-in makes him gulp and yelp and moan. When I drive in deep and grind my hips, using that amazing ass as my cushion, he sobs and sniffs. He’s hugging the pillow like a teddy bear; he’s lifting his ass to help me plumb its depths.

I’m not holding back, either. I know the effect this butt, this perfect butt, is going to have on my dick this first night we’re together. He’s getting three loads, minimum. So I have absolutely zero problem with letting loose the first one in a prompt and expedient manner.

Like I said, I’m obliging, that way.

I can feel the tide rising, that red-tinged wave of pleasure buoying me forward. “You want my seed, son?” I ask.

He mumbles again. Unacceptable.

“Say what?”

This time, he’s more audible, and just as definite. “Breed my hole. Please.”

I give him what he wants. Beneath a red wave I sink. My sight grows blurry. All sound recedes. Nothing exists for me at that moment save for his ass contracting around my pulsing, engorged flesh, and the sensation of my seed jetting into his guts. For who knows how long, I kneel there between his legs, my hands cupped around those beautiful cheeks, as my senses slowly restore and I can feel my kettledrum heart thudding in my ribcage.

My dick snakes out. Plops between his thighs. He makes a move, as if to roll over. “No.” My hands keep him still.

Prone I go, chest against the mattress, to keep his legs spread. I pry apart his sloppy wet ass with my fingers. Dive in with my tongue. The scent of my sperm is powerful, down here. When I make contact with my tongue, his reaction is to draw himself up on his elbows. “Oh FUCK!” he shouts.

His surprise doesn’t stop me. Savagely I yank apart his cheeks and suck on the hole, tasting my essence as it oozes out. One of his fists hits the mattress; I can feel the vibration as it strikes. Again he beats against it, over and over.

I stop chewing at his hole. “No one’s ever done this for you after they fucked you. Have they?”

“Noooooo,” he whines, raising his head and shaking it. He’s near tears.

“But you love it, don’t you.”

He knows it’s not a question. He nods, his eyes closed, and I go back to work. At first, he continues to beat the mattress with his clenched fist, as if pounding at a door that will never open. Yet the longer I lap at him, the more of him I clean up, the deeper my tongue probes at that wide-open pussy that’s been fucked and bred, the less he resists. Weakly, he stops striking the bed. He gives in.

That’s when I know he’s ready for round two. And this time around, I intend to savor this ass.

This beautiful ass.

This fucking amazing ass.

This ass that’s now mine.

Monday, January 8, 2018

Monday Morning Questions: Send Me Your Noods Edition

Remember when I used to answer reader questions on a regular basis? Yeah, me too. Good times.

Of course, sometimes it seemed like the majority of the questions were How do you keep your sexual acts secret from your wife? or How do you keep from bringing diseases home? or Why are you not dead yet?

If you have a question that’s not one of those, feel free to email me at the address on the sidebar, or send me a message on Twitter—I’ll consider using it in future editions of this feature.

One of the things I’ve admired about you since I’ve been reading you for a couple of years now is that you seem to have great success in finding good sex. I’m like you in that I’m kind of confident about myself, but when I go to meet guys, I’m always striking out. Either they’re no-shows or they flake out, or the connection isn’t there, or sometimes the sex just isn’t all that, if you know what I mean. To what do you attribute your success?—M

M, quite honestly, I usually only write about my better times. The shitty hookups don’t make the cut.

When I meet a guy who says he wants to give me an expert blowjob, but all he really wants to do is grab my dick in a vise-like grip and choke it purple while he moves his lips in the vague vicinity of my genitals and occasionally lets his tongue flick out, until my dick is chafed and sore and I finally have to force him to lay off . . . it’s probably not going to make the pages of my blog. When I make an app connection with a guy who tells me to come right over, and I do, and then I have to sit in my car for 45 minutes because he’s ‘not ready yet,’ and when I finally get into his dingy, dirty little apartment and the sex is mediocre at best and generally makes me feel as if I’ve wasted an afternoon I could’ve been—I don’t know, emptying the cat pans at home—I don’t write about it. I have plenty of sex that would my readers recoil with a muttered Oy!

And hoo boy, do I ever get stood up in spectacular fashion. Last week, in fact, I was flaked on spectacularly. At one of those sex parties I don’t go to anymore, about a year and a half ago, I met a guy. Let’s call him Michael. (Because that’s his name.) We fucked toward the end of the evening, after the more aggressive bottoms at the party had clawed at each other to get their hole on my dick. Most of the men had gone home, and I still had a little life in me; Michael and I found ourselves in our host’s bed, alone, while the few remaining guests chatted quietly in the next room.

We made love. It wasn’t mere sex party sport fucking. It was sweet, and tender, and intimate. He told me that he didn’t think he was going to have the privilege of getting my cock inside him that night, much less a load; as a more shy type, he’d hung back and watched rather than made his desires for me known. He was kind, and honest, and made a good impression. I actually spent more time with him than any other single person at the party that night.

We’d kept in touch since then, but he lived in Jersey. Finding a time to play just proved difficult. Michael liked to tell me that the sex we’d had at the party that evening had been transformative for him; I gave him confidence that carried over to later parties. I fucked him like nobody before ever had. (Well, naturally.) He would tell me he wanted my touch, my kisses, my dick, and he wanted them badly.

Then last week he told me he’d be staying the week a little closer to me—still a good hour’s drive, but closer. Did I want to meet? The ball’s in your court, he texted.

The ball’s in your court. I hate that phrase. When guys use it, it’s to signify that they want nothing more to do with the logistics of hooking up. It’s up to the other guy to make everything happen. To me it’s a passive-aggressive turnoff. The ball is never solely in anyone’s court. Hooking up, making a date—it’s a dialogue. It needs two people to happen. The ball’s in your court is a guy saying, Hey, you get to go to all the trouble to come up with a date and place and plan for our meeting, while I’ll do jack shit to help you out. But oh, wait, I get to hold absolute veto power over any details you come up with that I might not like.

Fuck that shit.

But my memory of the good evening I’d had with Michael outweighed the amount that phrase repulsed me, so I texted him back. Are you free tomorrow, Thursday? I asked.

For you, yes, he replied. Anytime Thursday except around 2 when my cleaning lady is here.

All right then. How about in the early evening?

That would be great! he answered.

What time, exactly? I wanted to know.

His messages had been coming fast and furious up until this point. I had to wait a couple of minutes for his last reply. I’ll have to let you know, he finally said.

M, I’m telling you right now, when I got that message, I knew, I knew, that I would not be hearing back from him. Every instinct honed by forty years of sex with men told me that I was never going to get that reply telling me what time I could come over.

The realization enraged me, right then and there. Here I was, accepting his passive-aggressive ball’s in your court bullshit challenge. I was telling him I was willing to carve a considerable chunk of time out of my day to drive an hour to his place so we could engage in good sex for a few hours, and then drive an hour home. Here I was, trying to make a date in good confidence. And I knew, I just knew, that I was going to get nothing but bullshit from him.

I tried to calm myself down. I let the memory of a single good night attempt to soothe me. Maybe he’d come through.

Still, I knew he wouldn’t.

I woke up Thursday to no messages on my phone. Every hour that passed, I dug in with the grim satisfaction of knowing my instincts had been correct. I didn’t cave and text Michael. Ball’s in your court now, motherfucker. I went to lunch, took in a movie afterward. Finally, around four, I sent Michael a text. You never got back to me, and my window of making this evening happen has closed. I guess it won’t be happening.

Immediately he texted back. He’d totally forgotten to get back to me! He was supposed to have dinner with a friend! Maybe we could do it another time!

Into my phone I tapped, I’m so sorry I misunderstood when you said ‘That would be great!’ that it meant you already had plans. I thought about sending it. But in the end I just deleted the snap-back, letter by letter. Michael had already heard the last from me.

I spent the rest of the day feeling as miserable about being stood up as I’d been miserable earlier about the certainty of it. But in the end, I came to a certain realization: my time is valuable. My attention is a gift. When a guy proves himself unworthy of a valuable gift—that’s it. No more chances.

M, if guys are standing you up or treating you badly, don’t fret too much. They’re doing the same to me, and to all the other men reading this blog. Tell yourself the same thing I did this week, though: don’t give them a second chance unless they really go out of their way to earn it. Your time is valuable. Your attention and presence is a gift. Give them to the men, and only to the men, who deserve them. Be patient, and be persistent. They’re out there.

What’s your personal policy on the photos you show on apps like Scruff or Grindr or on websites? I don’t think mine are doing the job they should be doing even though I’m not a troll or anything, any suggestions?

When you’re attempting to construct a profile, I suggest you play to your strengths.

I try to be as transparent as possible on cruising apps and sex sites. I have a face pic, front and center. I’ve got good teeth thanks to several thousand of my parents’ dollars in orthodontic work, so I pick photos with big smiles. They make me look friendly and approachable. I’m comfortable with the way I look, and face photos work for me, so on Grindr or Scruff, you’ll find me looking relaxed and happy and, you know . . . foxy as all get out.

I see a lot of scowling guys on these apps, though. There are some men for whom the glowering, broody look can work—but honestly, most of those guys are wearing chaps, a vest, and the same cap as the biker in the Village People. If looking like you’re about to punch someone is what gets you attention from guys (and not the FBI), though, go for it. I’m not really a fan of headless torso photos, but if you think your body is slammin' and you’re proud of it, then by all means, post that headless torso photo. Whatever you do, pick the photos that show off your best assets.

When it comes to cruising sites, where the photo restrictions are less conservative, I have a personal tendency to put everything on the line. I’ll show face, cock, face and cock, fuck shots if they’re allowed . . . and I keep them all unlocked. I’m not fond of messages from strangers consisting solely of the word UNLOCK???, so I keep them all public. No shame here.

I wouldn’t fault you, though, if you don’t feel the same. If you’re comfortable showing your dick and ass in a shot anyone can see, but you want your mug locked away . . . great. If you don’t mind guys seeing your face, but want to keep the goods hidden as a surprise for that special fellow . . . fine with me. I do advise you have at least one face shot to share, though. Many men, myself included, won’t meet without seeing someone’s face.

If you think you’ve done a good job with your photos, and the profile is still not working for you, make sure your profile and your photos are working together in a harmonious fashion. If you’re advertising yourself as a big ol’ toppy top man—I see this one all the time and it baffles me—make sure your profile isn’t a succession of extreme closeups of your pucker accompanied by shots of you bending over ready for any dick, any species. (Guys, why do so many of you do this?) If you’re saying you’re a bottom whore and you’re posting pics of your big dick that seem to invite someone to have a seat, you’re just going to confuse your potential audience . . . and probably get a lot of emails from other bottoms asking you to flip. If you claim you’re nine inches and your photo is either of a stubby dick or is at such a bad angle that your penis looks stunted, guys are going to roll their eyes and think you’re a big liar.

In other words, think of your profile on an app or website as a story about yourself and what you want. Is the story you’re telling one that will attract the men you want? Is the story showing you to your best advantage and displaying what’s most attractive about you? Do your photos illustrate that story appropriately?

Ask a friend, if you’re worried your pics aren’t doing the job. Heck, ask me. I’m willing to rifle through your X-rated noods to see which one is best.

You’ve said in the past that when a man gives you a compliment during an encounter, you should accept it gracefully. I try, I really do, but I don’t think I’m worthy of the compliments guys sometimes give me. What should I do?

You know what’s more painful and annoying, when I tell a man he’s handsome, or that he’s sexy as all get out, or that he has a beautiful body, and the man deflects the compliment or flat out says No I’m not or otherwise naysays the good vibes I’m trying to send his way? Well, an unmedicated root canal. But that’s about the only thing.

Listen. If a guy is chatting you up on Grindr and says how attractive you are, and you’re convinced that he’s only saying it to get in your pants, and he’s just seen that one shot of you that your bestie took when you were relaxed, and that shot looks better than you usually do in your everyday life, and you’re certain that if the guy saw you sitting there at home wearing sweats and yesterday’s underwear he’d probably run for his life . . . fine. Feel that way. Think what you like, privately. But still say thank you! and swallow your doubts and don’t share them with the poor fellow. He was probably being sincere, and any display of doubt on your part is ungrateful and, frankly, annoying.

But if the guy already has you naked, and in his bed, and he’s making love to you, and he’s saying sweet things? Why the fuck are you doubting him? At that point he doesn’t have to charm you. He doesn’t have to connive to make your head spin. He doesn’t have to say a damned thing he doesn’t want. He’s already got you where he wants you. In the heat of the moment, he’s speaking the truths a man speaks when his guard is down, when he’s at his most essential and primal.

To sum up: when a man compliments you, especially during an encounter, the only response you’re obligated to make is to say thank you, and maybe smile. If you can, believe him. At the very least, accept graciously. Suck it up and don’t contradict him.

Taking a compliment is easy to do. Start practicing today, and you’ll find yourself worthy of more.

Monday, December 18, 2017

In the Navy: Part 2

(Part 1 can be found here.)

When I look back on the sexual adventures I had in my preteens and teens, usually I end up thinking I must have had a particularly harried guardian angel looking over me then. I had unpleasant sexual encounters, sure, and I ran into guys who could be rude or aggressive. But not once was I beaten up, or assaulted, or—since I’m still here to write these essay—murdered.

I could have been, so easily. My hundreds and hundreds of trysts with adult men left with me, however, crazily confident when it came to sex; I was certain I could suck, smile, or bullshit my way through just about any situation. So being plopped down in a foreign country with an imperfect grasp of the language, and being steered away from the only people there I knew through a strange neighborhood by a big, built Mexican bull who could’ve snapped me in half? No problem. No matter how wrong it might go, I knew I’d get through the situation safely. I always did.

I actually think it was this confidence (warranted or not) that made me stand out as the most mature kid of just about any group. At sixteen I was only a year older than the freshmen on our class trip—but the difference in our ability to take charge was vast. Señorita Wiggins would never have thought to send any of her freshmen kids out onto the street to look for restaurants or to scope the lay of the neighborhood. But throughout all my years of school I handled myself with such assurance that if I told the teachers I could do something, they damn well believed it.

It took me years for my self-perception of my confidence to catch up with the actual amount of juvenile assurance I possessed, mind you. But thinking back on my walk down that unknown Mexican boulevard with Toro’s hand on my back, guiding me steadily toward his apartment, my thoughts now are less Oh no! What the fuck were you doing, kid?! and more You go and get it, gurl!

Everyone seemed to know Toro. The gaggles of gay boys in their tight cheap jeans and cheaper tank tops and disco shirts stared at him with longing and respect when we passed; businessmen in front of their stores and restaurants and laundromats nodded or called out his name. Toro seemed to know everyone, as well. Toothless old women cracked a wrinkled grin as he greeted them, and he used his free hand to high-five his friends or clap them on the shoulder as we passed. No one seemed to care about, or be surprised by, the fact that he had his arm around the narrow waist of a skinny white boy from who-knows-where. They probably assumed he had his reasons. And they probably knew what those reasons were, just as surely as I.

Toro didn’t live too far from the alleyway where our hotel sat. Three or four blocks, really, though the trek seemed like the longest parade in the world. But at last he steered me through the arch of a lemon-colored building, down the dark interior hallway, and to a door at the end. He unlocked the iron grating that covered the door, then the door itself. Finally, he took my slender white hand into his hairy, dark-skinned paw, and pulled me inside.

We were alone. My heart had been pounding since the moment Toro clapped his hand on my shoulder, down the street. Now, as I leaned against the pastel-blue wall of his tiny studio apartment, an elaborate crucifix nailed to the wall over my left shoulder, my heart’s timpani beat must have been audible to the man opposite, staring into my eyes. “You are scared?” he asked, in a low, sexual voice.
I shook my head.

“You are a beautiful boy.” He released my hand and traced my jaw with his fingers. “Maybe you are thinking your friend Toro, he is not such an ugly old man, eh?”

There were enough twists in that sentence that in my lust-fogged state I couldn’t figure out whether a yes or a no was the proper answer. Instead, I took a step forward, and lifted my face to his. He pressed his mouth against mine with such ferocity that his enormous, thick mustache felt like a test tube brush up my nostrils. As we still kissed, he lifted me up so that my groin pressed against his belly and my legs wrapped around his waist. He was a beast of a man, a horny homo in the body of a comic book brute. I never weighed more than a hundred and five pounds all the way through college, so I wouldn’t have put up much of a physical challenge to him. We continued making out for a few moments. Then he walked with me clamped around him past the galley kitchen into the one room of his apartment, and deposited me onto the edge of his unmade bed.

He sat on one of the dining room chairs. Our eyes locked, he pulled off his cowboy boots. He stood again. His big hands loosened his belt buckle and undid the button of his jeans, followed by the two or three buttons of his shirt that actually had been fastened. I’d already known his chest would be hairy: the man had hair everywhere. His arms were a forest of fur; his face betrayed a heavy growth of stubble, though he’d probably shaved that morning. Even the tops of his fingers were dense with coarse hair between the knuckles. I wasn’t, however, expecting such definition on his body. He was a man who was naturally muscular; as the silky drapes of his shirt hung to the sides, the sight of him took my breath away. His pecs were heavy, their nipples dark and rigid. Though he had a stocky physique, his stomach was flat. In the golden age of Mexico’s silver screen, with a guitar strapped to his back and a bejeweled sombrero, Toro could’ve been a movie star.

He stepped closer, hulking over me. His crotch loomed in my face. I could feel the heat radiating from behind the worn and unwashed denim. I caught my breath as the flesh within shifted, thickened, hardened. Toro waited for me to make the next move. Maybe he enjoyed the position of power he obviously held over me. Maybe he wanted to make sure I knew what I wanted, that I knew what I was getting myself into.

I wasn’t shy. I reached out and undid the other buttons of his fly. Immediately I realized he wasn’t wearing shorts. He shifted his hips slightly to help the jeans fall around his thighs. As they dropped, his fat uncut dick sprang into my face. It smelled of soap, and the morning’s sweat. Without me even touching it, it grew harder, pointing like a curved digit toward my face. It wasn’t the longest I’d seen, but it certainly was one of the thickest—easily approaching the circumference of a beer can. His foreskin had retracted slightly, leaving the tip to wink at me, mere inches away.

I dropped my jaw, and took him between my lips.

From the satisfied grunt and sigh he let loose, I knew I’d done the right thing. The first move had been mine to make, but from here on out, Toro called the shots. He gave me no time at all to adjust to his girth; he started shoving in and out as he gripped my long blond hair between the clenched left fingers. His right hand grabbed the back waistband of my jeans and hauled me up onto all fours on the mattress so that he could skullfuck me at a comfortable level. My eyes were watering and I struggled to keep breathing, but Toro was relentless in his assault of my mouth.

Somehow my clothes came off. He withdrew to yank my tee over my head; he managed to unbuckle and undo my jeans while he continued sodomizing my lips. My pants fell around my knees and tangled there; he shoved his index and middle fingers into his mouth to wet them, then drove them into my ass.

I howled at the sudden invasion. He pulled his dick out of my throat. “Is this what American boys do for men like me? Or do you know men like me in America?” he asked, shoving his fingers in further and twisting them. I winced, only because he’d not used very much spit to lube me. But my much-fucked hole writhed around his digits and assimilated them. I wanted more. I nodded at his question.

“You like this?” he asked.

To try to impress him, I replied, “Me gusta.”

He withdrew his fingers, spat on them once more, and rammed them back inside me. I moaned happily once again. “I think you do know men like me. You are not a virgin,” he observed.
I’d claimed virginity for years to turn men on. I didn’t bother with Toro. He already seemed to know my truth. I shook my head.

The admission made him drive his fingers in even more deeply. Muttering in Spanish to himself, he stepped all the way out of his pants. His eyes glittered as he observed me on my back, legs up, hole begging to be filled. He commanded something in his own tongue. When he started to turn me over, I realized he wanted me on my knees. I still wore my shoes, and my pants were tangled around my ankles at this point, but he didn’t bother to remove them. Once I was in position, he stepped behind me, spat on his hog, and then he started pushing it in.

Accommodating a cock that thick was a challenge for me. I moaned loudly into the pillow and clutched the iron bedstead for support as he stretched me wider, wider, and then seemingly wider still. He pushed my face into the mattress to keep me quiet, but it was for show. I could tell he enjoyed my distress.

Once he was in, he paused for a moment. And then he began to fuck.

Toro was not a gentle top; if I’d asked him to go easy on me, he would’ve ignored the request. But I asked for nothing, not verbally, at least—not in English, not en Español. My body desired him, though. My ass began to overcome the sheer pain of his entry. It began to crave his fat dick stretching me. I needed to feel that head hitting my deepest core. Toro grabbed me around the hips and began pounding. Within a minute or two he had lifted the lower half of my body from the bed so that only my head and forearms and the top of my chest rested on the mattress; the bottom half of me dangled in mid-air, held in place by his strong hands as he plowed my boyhole. The fuck wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t romantic. He fucked like a selfish top fucks, caring only for his own pleasure, using my skinny body as he saw fit.

And I fucking loved it.

I didn’t really care about my own dick. I didn’t care that I’d probably be limping for the remainder of my time in Mexico City. I just knew that few men in my life were ever going to bang me the way Toro was banging me, and I’d do anything, anything, to make him and his dick happy.

Toro wasn’t a long-laster. Five minutes he held my ass up in the air and assaulted it like I owed him money, while he growled obscenities in Spanish through his teeth. Then he let out a massive grunt, wrenched my ass apart to drive in as deeply as possible, and emptied his nuts into my hole. I was so stretched and sore that the sudden flood of seed stung; I grunted and choked down my own cursing and let him finish. Toro slid out with a wet, slick plop, lowered me so that my shaking feet met the ground. With a mighty groan, he fell back onto the mattress.

I had a moment of doubt. I had cum running out of my ass. My legs had pins and needles; I could barely walk. Toro lay on the bed with his eyes closed. Was I supposed to slink into my clothes and back to the hotel?

Right as I started to look around for my t-shirt, Toro opened his eyes. “Hey, hey, hey,” he murmured, and then patted the mattress next to him. With puppy-like eagerness I bounded over. He moved a pillow to place under my head, and tucked me under his arm. My pants still were hobbling my legs; I
kicked them off and sprawled next to the strange man who’d just bred me.

“Ricky,” he said at last. When I didn’t answer, he added, “Me llamo Ricky. Toro . . . is what they call
me. It means bull. Because. . . .” He grunted, flexed his biceps, and grinned through his mustache.

I reminded him of my name, feeling suddenly shy. I was used to being fucked by men. I wasn’t, however, used to them paying me much attention once I’d served my purpose. But Ricky started asking me question after question. Where in America did I live? What did my parents do? Why was I in Mexico City? Why was I in . . . this part of the city, when there were much more suitable places? I was so comfortable and flattered by his interest that I chattered on and on. I told him about how my class had been promised a week of cultural experiences, and my doubts about the American couple living in the city who’d taken our money and put us in that run-down motel and who so far had taken us to Xochimilco for the morning, abandoned us in a gift shop for two hours, and then vanished to leave us on our own for the remainder of the day. By the time I got to his part of my narrative, when I’d been out getting the lay of the land and trying to find places for us to eat, Ricky was sitting up in bed with his forearms on his knees, the picture of outrage.

“But this is no good!” he said at last. His Freddie Mercury mustache seemed to be bristling. He leapt off the mattress and started pulling clothing off the top of a tiny chest of drawers. He made a gesture at me, indicating I should put on my clothes. While I dressed, he made several loud and successive phone calls as he pulled on his jeans and shirt and cowboy boots. I didn’t understand a one of them—I just knew he was heated about something or other. From his tone of voice, it sounded as if he was ordering people around.

When he finished his last phone call, he put down the receiver and turned to me. “And now, we go,” he announced. Before I could ask where, he was striding out the door. I had no choice but to lope after him.

Our trek back was very much like the walk we’d taken to his apartment. With his hand between my shoulder blades, Toro escorted me back down the boulevard in the direction we’d come. Cigarette between his fingers, he waved at shopkeepers and friends and old women parked in front of laundromats. When we turned onto the cul-de-sac leading to my hotel, though, I started to prickle with doubt.

I was a kid who, so far, had very much managed to keep his everyday life and his many sexual adventures strictly compartmentalized. Except under cover of night, never the twain ever met. My parents and teachers, my scout leaders and my church youth ministers—they all thought of me as the ultimate good boy, the reliable one, the kid who never caused trouble, much less stumbled into it.

There were plenty of grown men who knew my sexual side, but they were the cruisers who fucked me where I lay on splintery wooden picnic tables in the parks at night, open to all, or who held my head down on their cocks in their cars or under the stalls in the tearooms. I never saw those men in my good-boy life; I took extraordinary pains to keep my two worlds from colliding.

Yet here I was, being returned to a Mexican hotel, to one of the teachers I liked best, by a perfect stranger who had just sodomized me in his studio flat. His sperm was still dripping from my ass into my shorts. How in the world, how in the fucking world, was I going to be able to explain this?

Señorita Wiggins was sitting in the dreary hotel lobby along with two or three of the freshmen when Toro burst through the front doors. I’d been gone for perhaps a little over an hour, or ninety minutes at most. At the sight of me, she said my name—or at least the closest Spanish version of my name that she’d assigned me when I’d first been in her class, which was nothing like my real name. The sight of the big, muscular man with his arm around my shoulder obviously confused her for a moment. But Toro raised his arms in the air. “Ah! Señorita Wiggins!” he cried.

With a giant smile, he approached and took the Spanish teacher’s hand in his own, and gave it a very European kiss. Then, smiling as if she were a dear friend whose company he had missed for far too long, and gesticulating expressively, Toro launched into story. He had been helping his poor dear mama with her groceries, he said, when this brave young man had approached and, in the most beautiful and impeccable Español, had asked him for aid in finding food for his starving classmates and his brilliant, wonderful teacher—though surely Señorita Wiggins was too young and beautiful to be a teacher? Perhaps she was a model, too? At any rate, how could any true son of Mexico remain untouched at such need, especially when couched in such impeccable Spanish and with such a pure Castilian accent? He, Toro, born in this very neighborhood and on the very street where this young scholar had met him, would be honored to share what he could of his country, with all happiness. Beginning with dinner that very night, which his family would be overjoyed to provide.

Toro’s story was such a line of absolute bullshit that I was breathless at the audacity of it. Yet the tall tale was so beautifully delivered, and so seemingly sincere, that even I was beginning to believe every word. Only when Toro once more placed his hand on my shoulder in what must have appeared to everyone else a friendly, fatherly gesture, did I remember that less than a half-hour before, this very man had been pounding my hole into his personal cunt.

So voluble was he, so persuasive, that Señorita Wiggins couldn’t turn him down. Within the hour, Toro had persuaded everyone to don their party clothes (which for the Señorita was an actual cute dress, and for the rest of us was our cleanest jeans and tops) and accompany him out into the late afternoon air. I don’t know who Toro had spoken to on the telephone, when we’d been at his place, or what favors he’d called in, but a handful of people had dropped everything and turned themselves out to transform a church hall courtyard into a private party palace for a group of gringos from the States. There were streamers hanging from the ceiling, a piñata (that we didn’t break—I’m thinking they maybe thought we were younger than we were), chickens roasting on a spit, plates of local delicacies, a pair of guitar players, sealed bottles of clean water . . . and a half-dozen friendly gay guys doing all the work. Toro passed them off as his brothers, but I knew better. Still, they were happy to feed us and to put up with our limited language skills, and to laugh and tease us in innocent ways as if they considered us family, too.

Señorita Wiggins was thrilled. The food was delicious, the music authentic. Toro’s friends were so affable, and Toro so attentive and flirty, that within minutes she relaxed and began enjoying herself. The freshmen lost the miserable pallor they’d worn since our flight in. And there I sat next to Toro at the head of the table, shyly enjoying when he would lean over with a laugh and give me an affectionate and fatherly hug around the shoulders while he would whisper something in my ear like, “Maybe later you will get enjoy of my fucking, yes?”

I did enjoy more of his fucking that night, hours later, after the party had finally died down and Toro had walked all of us back to the hotel. “If you do not mind, Señorita,” Toro said at his most charming, “Please allow me to show your finest young scholar the view of this part of the city from the church tower. I know the sacristán of the church; it is a breathtaking view. I will return him to the hotel myself after.”

Señorita Wiggins didn’t mind at all. Back to Toro’s apartment we went, where this time all my clothes hit the floor before my legs went into the air. I was back at the hotel by eleven, flushed and sore and half in love with the man who had successfully romanced everyone on my class trip.

If that had been the extent of my encounter with Toro, it would have been a happy memory. But there was more.

At nine the next morning, when the Señorita and all of us students straggled into the hotel lobby, sore from our the thin mattresses and dreading our scheduled outing with the tour guides from hell, there was Toro with a basket of doughnuts, bringing sunshine into the hotel lobby sheerly from the brilliance of his smile and the reflectiveness of his super-shiny, super-tight shirt. He rained greetings down upon us, and gave an astonished me a special sideways hug, and then proceeded to explain to Señorita Wiggins that he had enjoyed such a wonderful evening with his new American friends that, as selfish as he knew it was, he could not resist spending more time with us. And oh, here were the good people who had arranged our visit to his grateful country! Could he have a word with them? Did we mind? No? All right then. Why didn’t they speak outside, in private?

Toro’s talk with the scam artists who’d taken our tour money was less a pleasant conversation and more of a tirade that we could plainly hear through the hotel’s slightly-ajar front doors. “How could you put these nice Americans into this place! Why, not even prostitutes would use this hotel!” was, if I recall correctly, the highlight of his harangue. (From the Señorita’s expression, I could tell she didn’t disagree.)

Eventually the voices quieted. The doors opened. Toro came back in with the tour guide couple, his hands around their necks as if they were a pair of puppets. They wore hangdog expressions. “I am your tour guide for today!” Toro announced with a brilliant smile. “I will show you my city—as I see it!” Summoning us to follow, Toro walked our class out into the brilliant morning light, promising adventure.

Toro, who must have threatened the tour guides into submission, if not into handing over to him outright all the money we’d given them, was our tour guide for the entire time we were in Mexico City. My memories glow of our week with him. We never knew what we’d be doing for the day, but it would always start with Toro bringing us pastries or fried turnovers for breakfast. We’d follow him out into the warm spring sunshine to the local station on the subway line, which we’d use to travel everywhere. The subway was cheap (a nickel, if I recall), and we could use it to get just about anywhere we wanted. We might see a cathedral in the morning, followed by walk through a historic district in the afternoon led by one of Toro’s ‘friends.’ Food would appear out of nowhere, at no cost to us, at appropriate intervals. We’d enjoy street tacos at picnic tables surrounded by crowds, or fried fish on picnic blankets by the river, or dinners in little outdoor restaurants owned by other willowy men of Toro’s acquaintance.

We visited museums, and a factory where artisans shaped and polished onyx into tabletop sculptures. We sat in the box at the matinee of a play that was entirely in Spanish, with Toro quietly translating the action at appropriate intervals. We attended a bullfight, and immediately wished we had not. One afternoon we spent entirely at one of the largest flea markets I’ve ever seen, where Toro disappeared for a few minutes and returned bearing presents for all—black-handled switchblades for the two boys, pink-handled switchblades for the girls, and a gaudy necklace of semi-precious stones for Señorita Wiggins.

Toro was so charming, so attentive, to Señorita Wiggins that the freshmen on the trip believed he was wooing her. She might have been flattered at his praise and his regards, but I doubt she ever seriously considered him a suitor. What I do know is that she was utterly, blissfully unaware of what Toro was doing to me, every evening at the end of our very long days. Would the Señorita be willing to let the young scholar accompany Toro to see the people of the neighborhood decorating the street for the upcoming festival? Could the young scholar come view the birds on the radio tower? I don’t remember half the excuses he had for getting us alone at the end of each long and full day, and I didn’t care. All I knew is that by day, I shared Toro with my classmates and teacher. By night, for a couple of hours, I belonged to him. He used me like he owned me—like I owed him. And I loved it.

On our final night in the city, Toro announced he’d arranged something special for us. We were all to attend the cine with him and his ‘brothers.’ Most of the various men we’d met throughout the week—the ones who’d made us dinner or given us narrated tours or had been docents at the museums—were outside the little movie house to greet us. Toro bought us popcorn and candy and Coca-Colas and arranged us in the middle of the theater for the show. The movie was Vaselina—that classic with John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John and Stockard Channing—which was just playing on the Mexican screens for the first time. Save for the songs, the whole thing was dubbed into Spanish. I don’t think any of us had actually seen it yet. Once again, Toro was more than happy to translate. He and his friends divided up the parts and told us what they were saying, much to everyone’s amusement

The entire audience, it seemed, was laughing and singing along with the movie, but no group was more convivial than ours. Though the freshmen would wink and nudge each other knowingly whenever Toro would murmur to Señorita Wiggins, I was the one lucky enough to sit through the entire movie with his arm around my shoulder. No one cared. And no one, save Toro’s friends, perhaps, was any the wiser.

We returned to school full of stories about our time in Mexico City. The first thing Señorita Wiggins had us do on our return was to write thank-you notes, en Español, to the man who’d rescued our disaster of a week and made it a wild and unpredictable experience. I sat there, staring at a blank piece of paper, trying to compose a note that betrayed nothing about what I’d really experienced as a Mexican man’s fucktoy. I’d already thanked Toro, or Ricky, during our last encounter at his apartment, after the showing of Grease. He knew I was touched that he’d gone out of his way to brighten the week of a half-dozen kids from some place he’d never visited. He knew how much I loved giving up my hole to his insistent assaults. In my broken Spanish, I think I had made clear how fondly I would think of him, when I reached home. Even if I could say those things in a letter that my Spanish teacher surely was going to look over, I wouldn’t say them again.

Growing up gay in the place and time I did, in an era in which everything gay was ignored and silenced and repressed, imbued me with a keen sense of the ironic; I always recognized the disparity between the dirty reality of things versus the sham of what people wanted on the surface. As innocent as my friendship might have seemed to my teacher and my fellow students on that trip, I got a pretty good kick out of knowing that the letters they were writing to an altruistic Mexican were really going to a voracious homosexual with a taste for white ass, who extracted his price every night when everyone thought I was looking at the moon or the town decorations. I loved knowing that the brothers who had provided them food and entertainment were my gay brothers, not biological kin of Toro’s. Most of all, I was tickled with the secret I’ve never shared until these essay: that my gay teen ass and my slutty ways had saved the trip abroad for those people. For once I’d allowed my bad boy and good boy worlds to collide. I’d honored my sense of sexual adventure, and took chances—and my world was enriched in ways I could never have imagined.

I never heard from Toro again. But I hope he got those letters. It was my honor to be the bull’s boy for a week.