Sunday, September 27, 2015

Sunday Evening Questions: Department of Odd Stank Edition

I was at a bar in the Village a couple of weeks ago when the drag queen who was acting as hostess there, that afternoon, started to play a little game with the audience. The game in question was the traditional Never Have I Ever drinking competition. Typically it consists of people going around the room starting a sentence with the words “Never have I ever. . . .” and then finishing it up with something personal and maybe humorously scandalous they’ve not done, but they hope other people in the group have. Anyone who’s actually done the act has to take a drink. Hilarity ensues.

Well, in this particular iteration of the game, the drag queen was making all the statements, then forcing the somewhat rowdy crowd to hold up their glasses and take a slug if they’d committed the act in question. And all the questions, as you might expect in a gay bar in the Village where a drag queen was holding court, were all sexual. “Never have I ever . . . slept with a drag queen!” she’d bark out. Then while about three of us chugged our liquor, she took good note of who had.

“Never have I ever . . . had a threesome!” she said. I and quite a few others downed our drinks.
A few minutes later, it was, “Never have I ever . . . gone to a bathhouse!” A very few us admitted to that one, but I drank proudly.

“Never have I ever . . . taken two cocks in both ends at the same time!” Yeah. I drank to that one, too.
As you might guess, I ended up drinking to every single damned never have I ever that she called out. I’d never been drunk before. But I sure as hell was that night. I passed out in the cab, that’s how drunk I was.

“Honey,” said the drag queen afterward, when I was stumbling my way to the men’s room to take my fifth leak of the evening. “I was watching you up there during my little drinking game. And no harm meant? But you are a fucking slut.

Point taken.

I haven’t done a Sunday questions in a long while, and I was noticing in my backlog I have several questions that begin not with never have I ever, but at least with the enticing words Have you ever . . . ? So in honor of my first total drunken episode, a couple of weekends back, let’s assay three of those.

(And a question to my readers: why didn’t any of you come take advantage of me in my vulnerable state? I’m so disappointed.)

Have you ever gotten revenge on a former fuck who pissed you off? I am in a situation now where a guy I used to see really upset me, and I know ways to fuck with his life. You seem like you’d have a level-headed way to keep me from doing it, though.

At this stage of my life, I honestly feel the best policy, when teased by thoughts of revenge, is simply to hold up your hands and walk away from the temptation. If you can possibly do so with your former fuck, I totally recommend you do.

That said. . . .

A very long time ago when I was thirty-six, I made friends with a local couple. Just friends. We met online somehow, and then at a bar for a social gathering. They were an oddball couple, ten years younger than I. One of them was a round, short, rotund little ball of lard-colored dough with squinty eyes. His boyfriend was a thin, lanky Canadian with a head of copper-colored hair that came straight out of a bottle. He wasn’t attractive in any traditional sense, but he was a live wire of sexual electricity. When I say the red-head was Canadian, I don’t mean he was originally from Quebec or anything. He was an illegal immigrant, in the U.S. without permission for years and unable to get any job except for those that paid under the table in cash. As I said, they were a little odd. But we used to go out to dinner together, or to the movies; sometimes we’d go shopping for CDs together or out to the mall for an afternoon. I enjoyed their company.

The red-headed boyfriend was slutting around behind the roly-poly one’s back, though. He was always taking me aside and telling me who’d barebacked him that week. After he saw a couple of my dick shots, he started begging me to fuck him. We wouldn’t have to tell his boyfriend. It would be our secret.

I resisted for quite a long time. Months, actually. I have my limits, though, and finally after months of being hounded and flattered, I reached them. I told the red-head that if he came over to my place and kept it from his boyfriend, I’d fuck and breed him.

The night came. The red-head got to my place. He’d barely been there for three minutes, though—I mean, the most I got him to do was kick off his shoes—when he got a phone call from his boyfriend back home. The boyfriend had seen a couple of the emails he’d sent me that afternoon arranging what time he was coming over, rightly assumed the worst, and called him up in hysterics to confront him.

Well, the red-head locked himself into my bedroom and proceeded to fight with his boyfriend for a solid ninety minutes. They yelled, they cried, they whispered, they yelled some more. I sat outside feeling awkward and a little bit miserable. Finally the red-head came out, shoved his hands in his pockets, said, “I guess I better go,” and shuffled out the front door.

I thought that was the bad part. But no.

The next day I got a phone call from the red-head while I was at work. He told me that my attempt at wrecking the relationship that he had with his boyfriend had failed, and that they were staying together after all. Then he said that he’d only offered to sleep with me because I was old and probably wouldn’t get any better offers, and because he felt sorry for me. “Are you telling me I’m a pity fuck?” I asked, horrified. He said that yes, that’s exactly what I was, then wished me a nice life.

Within a couple of weeks I found out that he and his boyfriend were telling people around town that I’d tried to break them up. I got cut dead by mutual acquaintances who informed me they didn’t want to talk to men who attempted to come between such a lovely, perfect couple. It was quite honestly one of the all-time lows of my thirties; I don’t know quite why I bought into the notion that I could only be someone’s pity fuck, but the insult cut deeply enough that I couldn’t shake it. And when I was being shunned for being a homewrecker, too—well. It put me into a rage.

Nowadays I think it’s all ridiculous. The red-head and his roly-poly boyfriend constructed some kind of fictional narrative between them that I was the bad guy who’d tried to become the wedge in their rock-solid relationship; the red-head convinced him that it was only his pity and his drive to be a sexual Good Samaritan, I suppose, that prompted him to give in to my disgusting propositions. I mean, look. I saw the red-head at the bathhouse, slutting around bareback without permission, basically every time I went, for years after. (I ignored him.) But at the time, I just ground my teeth helplessly.

Then after a few weeks of seething I gave in and left an anonymous tip about him on the Immigration Department’s hotline.

Pity fuck, my ass, motherfucker! (*mic drop*)

So yeah. I’ve done it.

Have you ever dropped a guy because of some little stupid thing that could be fixed, but it was easier to drop him than bring it up? I broke up with a guy over his cell phone case (I hated it, if you can’t guess). I guess I’m wondering if I’m shallow, LOL.

Oh sure, I’ve done it. Again, I’m not proud of it, but I’ve done it.

When I was in graduate school I started seeing a guy I met online. In 1989 or 1990, going online meant connecting your black and white computer with a phone wire into a ginormous 400 baud modem and signing onto a service like Prodigy, where you’d post cryptic notes about being straight-acting on public bulletin boards. Then you’d exchange two-line private messages with a guy until you’d agreed to hook up. So yeah, except for the fact that it would’ve taken hours to transmit even the grainiest of tiny photos over a 400-baud modem, not so very different than Scruff.

The guy I was seeing was married. Big dicked. Kind of a hot body. He liked to come to my graduate student apartment and take over the place. He’d strut in, whip off his belt, drop his pants, fall onto my sofa with his legs spread wide, then order me to suck his dick. If I was a good boy, he’d flip me over and fuck me hard on the floor. Then he’d pull up his slacks, button up, nod, and walk out the door. A few times a week, he might drop by. I dug his direct approach.

But there was one little thing that bugged the hell out of me. Whenever I would kneel to suck the guy, I would get a whiff of something. He was fine when we were standing; he smelled like the cheap cologne his wife liked him to wear. Down there on my knees, though, fuck. The smell would be so rank that I’d gag. It’s tough to describe the scent. It was a little bit like a swamp. A lot like an infected wound. Much like a corpse. It was just wrong.

It wasn’t his dick. His cock was very clean; the skin beneath his head was free of smegma. I was reasonably sure it wasn’t his balls. He didn’t have a funky ass smell. The odor that was making my eyes water was the kind of stank you might expect if a morbidly obese person got a small piece of raw beef trapped in one of the folds of his belly, only to have it emerge completely rotten at the end of a few weeks. But the dude wasn’t obese. He didn’t have folds. It was a complete mystery.

The one thing that turns me from sex hound to sex-averse on the turn of a dime is a nasty smell. I’ll lose an erection permanently if I get a whiff of something bad, mid-sex. I suppose I could’ve said “Hey, you stink. Can you fix that in the shower so I can get back to sucking you?” At the time, though, it just seemed a lot easier to drop him. So I did.

Years later I had a bad case of the flu during which I didn’t shower as much as I normally do. Toward the end of my time as an invalid, I casually stuck my finger in my navel and, as one does, sniffed it. (Oh, shut up. You know you do.) Immediately I reeled. The scent was so familiar from my days in front of that guy’s cock that I had flashbacks. It took a while, but I finally figured out that the dude simply never washed his belly button. Ever.

So if we’re every showing together and you see me lathering my navel for what seems an unusually long time, now you’ll know why. I scrub that fucker daily.

Have you ever had anyone shit in your mouth during sex? Intentionally or non.

Oh god, yes. It was totally non. Just to be clear.

A note to the weak of stomach: you might want to skip the rest of this reply.

I’m pretty sure I’ve discussed this guy before in these pages, but I had sex with a local guy a couple of years ago who was very aggressive about having me eat out his ass. We were having a good time about it. He was sitting on my face, grinding his hole on my beard and moaning while he called out, “Eat me out, fucker! Eat me out good!”

I was mumbling out an enthusiastic reply to the best of my ability with a hundred and thirty pounds of New Yorker on my face, when suddenly the guy bent over and—I think—attempted to push out his hole so I could get better access to it. Unfortunately, he pushed a little hard. The guy had attempted to clean himself out before coming over, and though he’d douched, he’d neglected to evacuate all the water still in his colon. So when he pushed, I got a partial mouthful and a definite face full of a brownish liquid that had a consistency not unlike thin diarrhea.

The guy was offended when I leapt up howling. And he never understood why I refused ever to see him again.

Another more recent occurrence was over the summer, when I was seeing someone who really turned me on for a few weeks. He liked to brag about his anal hygiene. “I’m always squeaky clean,” he’d say. “You can fuck me anyplace, anytime, and I’ll always be squeaky clean.”

Squeaky clean. Hah. I was seeing him for the sixth or seventh time over the summer and I had hoped to spend some quality time down at his hole, munching away. About five minutes into my intensive butt-eating, though, I sensed something was amiss. My face smelled, to put it bluntly, like a baby’s diaper.

As I said, bad smells have a tendency to make me lose my erection. I like to think I’m a little more adept at handling these things now, though. “Hey,” I told him. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I think you’re not as squeaky clean as usual.”

“I’m always squeaky clean!” he protested.

I wiped my face off on the towel he kept handy and showed it to him. He had to admit that not everything was squeaky clean.

So he took me into his shower. Once the water was warm, he washed off my face and soaped up his ass. He had one of those wand extensions installed, so he shoved it up his hole and douched out again. Then he had me kneel, while the water was still running (it was quite a large shower, custom built), pulled apart his ass cheeks, and had me inspect his hole once more. “Now I’m squeaky clean,” he said, pushing a little bit to turn his hole out.

Once again, it was a case of pushing just a little too hard. A hard little turdlet, about the size of a piece of dog kibble, shot out of his ass and hit me in the middle of my forehead with a ping! My patience tried, I told him what happened. He retrieved the still-hard kibble from where it had bounced, tossed it in the toilet, then turned around and started pissing on my face.

I think he still wonders why I’ve refused to see him again, too.

Sunday, September 13, 2015


I’m writing a little today about words.

For about a year now I’ve had a mild crush on a minor celebrity. Wait. My puppy love has pushed the definition of ‘celebrity’ about a mile past the much-contested boundary where it already lies muddied by the present-day culture of Snapchat fame. This guy who’s been the object of my infatuation is the brother of a female minor celebrity who, despite being an actress in small roles on a couple of shows that watchers of cable programming might have seen at one time or another, isn’t exactly a household name.

(Of course, I could just skip all the mystery and name names. But I won’t, and I’ll ask my readers not to either, simply because I don’t want people typing in the guy’s name into Google along and having a sex blog appear at the top of the search list. I’m a gentleman, after all. Once in a while, anyway.)

The only reason at all I know of the actress’ brother is because he appears on YouTube with his sister once a week in a regular feature in which the pair of them play vintage video games. These short segments usually consist of the siblings shouting obscenities at each other at the tops of their pretty considerable lungs. Hey, as someone who has shouted plenty of obscenities at video games in his lifetime (I’m probably doing it right now, as you read), I find their antics pretty amusing.

What I’m leading up to, in my shaggy dog story of an introduction here, is that this last week in their celebration of retro gaming, the pair were playing some outdated cartridge-based game from the mid-nineties. The brother was trouncing his more famous sister pretty soundly. Furious, she started yelling at him that he was cheating by using the power-ups the game was liberally providing. The brother, scissoring his legs furiously, fibbed and denied it all. “I’m barebackin’ it here!” he shouted back. “I’m raw-doggin’ this mother, dude! I’m barebackin’ it!”

Well, lawks-a-mercy. Gracious me! Must fan myself at the memory.

Anyway, once the blood came back into my brain after that explicit little exchange, it got me wondering: how’s this dude know what barebacking is? And does he want to do it with me?
And more interestingly to my wandering mind, how often do straight guys use the word barebacking to refer to unprotected sex, anyway? I honestly don’t know, but I’d be interested in finding out.

The word bareback and its origins intrigue me because I feel a bit as if I were there at the start of its use. Long before sites like BBRT, long before bareback movies were their own profit margin, before bareback was reduced to part of an inane goddamned hashtag, guys fucked other guys without protection as a matter of course. Men were accustomed to sticking their dicks in each other’s holes for countless generations without wrapping them in latex. Condoms were never a consideration for gay men; not having to use them, ever, was considered one of the few perks to being gay in a less enlightened age. Only in the face of the devastating effects of the AIDS epidemic did we start changing our behavior . . . or choose not to.

I was in college when the news about the gay plague started to spread. I had a standing subscription to the Village Voice that was my lifeline to a world larger than lacrosse, Lacoste, and the Greek pledge system that were the obsessions of the small Southern college I attended. I devoured its pages, memorized names and places as if there’d be a pop quiz at any moment, and drank in the New York sophistication. It was sometime during my sophomore year that I started reading about ‘gay cancer’ spreading through the community. Within months, they’d renamed the syndrome GRID. It was one of those moments in history when for a very long time the language we were destined to use for decades following was still in flux. We didn’t have the concept of HIV in the scientific realm yet; we didn’t even know the word AIDS. That vocabulary would be nailed down soon enough. For a while—a scary while—we didn’t even have the language beyond concepts like death and sickness and fear to discuss what was happening.

I think what most people fail to remember, or simply don’t realize, was how much confusion we experienced in those early days of the plague. Without a definite cause yet established, and with so many people throwing out theories of what could be causing the chaos, it seemed as if the rules of how we were supposed to protect ourselves changed daily. One week we’d be assured it was definitely something coming from overseas. We’d be okay if we didn’t fuck around with foreigners. Then suddenly a scientist would say something in the papers about how perhaps poppers were involved. It was something in the poppers, we’d rush around telling ourselves. A bad batch, maybe. Something that happened with poppers abuse. One week we’d be told there’d be a cure within months; the next we’d be gravely informed to dig in for the long haul.

The combination of half-informed scientific assertions and real fear led us to some real Chicken Little behavior, making us run around squawking that the sky was falling while indulging in superstitious nonsense in the hopes that we might be spared.

I felt remote enough from the epidemic’s center not to feel immediately threatened. That false sense of security didn’t keep me from reading the news, week by week in the Voice, to see what they were saying about it. It wasn’t too long before the epidemic was making national headlines, of course. When finally HIV had been identified, we were told by serious government officials that we were all to wear condoms and never exchange fluids, ever again. To a lot of lock-step millennials accustomed to obeying and never questioning the orders of a higher authority, the prescription seems reasonable. But we were a generation of men who were already flouting the law every time we dropped our pants with another man. The sex we were having was illegal in many if not all states. The ways we had to seek it was illegal. If we’d been listening to the state and federal governments in which we’d grown up, we wouldn’t have been congregating, much less copulating.

Enforced condom use—each and every time—was a sexual regimen that a lot of gay men couldn’t take seriously. Condoms had long been the things straight guys wore when they didn’t want to make babies. Condoms were for breeders. They weren’t something that any gay man had ever bought in his lifetime, much less use. Sure, it said on the box that they could prevent disease, but even youngsters like me knew those warnings was some real World War II shit. Straight men hadn’t used condoms to avoid syphilis since the Army handed them out to privates after the Liberation of Paris. Bosses bought rubbers to prevent their secretaries from having babies. That’s what condoms were for.

I first stumbled across the term bareback in the dawn of the internet age. Although I was using the computer to hook up as early as 1989 with the Prodigy system (gawd help me), it was a couple of years later when I started dialing into other networks that I discovered IRC—internet relay chat. IRC was a primitive network by any standards, though like roaches after a holocaust, it’s proved pretty much indestructible over the years. One joined channels like #gay or #gaysex to chat with and meet like-minded men. Although the channels usually never held more than thirty or forty people at a time, I had a pretty good success rate in scoring fucks. There may have been more local gay channels to join. My memory is foggy on that point.

I’m not sure how I found the channel. I think a trick of mine landed in it, or I was invited by someone I knew. But I landed in the IRC #bareback channel sometime in 1991. It was long before hashtags, long before bareback films, long before bareback web sites, and long before straight boys were shouting it at the tops of their lungs during video games. Bareback. It was a new word that only a few dozen people were using to describe something that generations of us had done when we’d shoved our raw cocks into another man’s ass. Bareback. It sounded masculine—the kind of thing that cowboys did. With stallions. Cowboys and stallions were more appealing, sexually, than anything that clinicians were coming up with.

The term authorities used for the act, unprotected sex, sounded cold, sterile unappealing, just like it was supposed to. No one was going to call up a guy and growl, “Come over and let me perpetrate unprotected sex on you.” If you got a phone call from someone demanding, “Let me bareback that ass,” though. Yeah. You’d hop in the shower and drive halfway across town for that, right?

As a new word for something very old, bareback had the advantage of sounding both wicked and transgressive. It got the point across. For a while, if anyone actually brought up the word, you could be pretty sure they were into it. Its abbreviation, bb, was a code that worked just as well. You like bb?, you could ask someone online. If they knew what it meant, they were into it. If they had no clue, it was easy to cover your ass and say you mistyped, or maybe were abbreviating the endearment baby. Something. Anything. They wouldn't know.

For a long time, it really felt as if the new slang word were ours—that is, it seemed to belong to those of us who were actually engaging in the act. And it stayed like that for years, until the mid-nineties, when web browsing overtook the world of homegrown dial-up bulletin boards and AOL and IRC. The web changed everything. We had sites like Bareback City, and the beginnings of Bareback Jack. Guys who’d previously only employed the word in secret corners and private bulletin boards were putting their bareback preference into profiles that many, many more people were seeing—and the safe-sex adherents were noticing. Visibility got the word attention.

Suddenly just as many people were using barebacker as a pejorative, a demonization of those who choosing raw fucking and its risks as the sex they preferred to have. The mainstream press started to write articles about the legions of dangerous, evil, gay barebackers who lurked online and perverted the innocent, conveniently choosing to ignore the fact that in real life, people of all orientations had sex without condoms. Straight people in particular were still barebacking each other in record numbers on a daily basis. A word we’d chosen—a word that had seemed so liberating and exciting in its early days—started to be used against us.

It still is, of course, by those who see it as a derogatory. And for those who see it as a badge of pride, it gets used in all kinds of ways. It’s just a word. A word we take for granted. I think it’s valuable to remember there was a time before this when it was new, and unknown, and not at all guaranteed to become the slang we use daily.

But by and large, though, except when it’s employed by the mainstream press for its shock value, I’d assumed that the gay population had largely reserved the right to the use of the word bareback. Hearing it shouted between brother and sister on a mainstream video channel, over the electronic, bleeping soundtrack of a video game from twenty years ago, got me thinking about how long the word has been not only been around, but a part of my day-to-day life.

Tuesday, August 4, 2015

Dick Dock 2015: Transition

The week I vacation in Provincetown is one of transition. When I arrive, the boys flocking to the daily Tea Dance are the twinks, the party boys, the thin little things with curly locks and tight clothes and disdain for anything much beyond the tips of their pretty little turned-up noses and their designer drinks. The Saturday I leave, however, is the official start of Bear Week. Thursday is really when the town’s population starts to get heavier. Furrier. The tight Capri pants give way to bulky cargo shorts, the dainty flip-flops to athletic socks and combat boots. By week’s end there are fewer smooth pecs and a lot of hairy expanses of chest. More nipple rings. More tattoos. More testosterone.

Under the dock on my last night, I can already tell the difference by who’s cruising. The silhouettes against the lit beach are broad-shouldered, taller, stockier. I’m seeing fewer chins and a lot more beards.

But there are a few hold-ons among the twinks. One of them starts following immediately when I reach the bottom of the steps down to the sand and turn the sharp corner to duck under the dock above. It’s almost as if he’s waiting for me. Our eyes meet. I take in his slightly scruffy chin, the blond hair, his open dress shirt, the moonlike luminescence of his pale chest. He nods, ever so slightly, then simply falls into step with me. We pass a half-dozen men lurking the shadows, slouched against the pillars supporting the wood planks above. The sand sides through my sandals and cools my toes as we shuffle through it to a quiet place past the clusters of men huddled together. I lean back against a girder, and turn to him.

He stares me in the eyes. I feel his palm cup my shorts. They’re soccer shorts, made of a synthetic material. I’ve worn them around town all day with no underwear beneath. Nothing but a cock ring, to show off the bounce of my package and the outline of my head beneath the sleazy fabric. He seems surprised at the warmth of me. I feel his fingers travel the length of my hardening meat, then the release of elastic as he pulls the shorts away from my hips and down to my knees.

“Yes,” I sigh into the night. The kid grasps my cock firmly in one hand. The other he curls around the back of my neck, pulling me into a kiss. He’s a good kisser, this one. Young, eager, and hungry for attention. Our lips wrestle for dominance; he seems determined to prove to me how good a kisser he is, however, so I let him take control as he sucks my tongue deep into the recesses of his mouth.

Finally he pulls away. Our eyes lock once more. The kid must be something spectacular in the light. Pity I’ll never see him again. One by one, he takes my nipples into his mouth, suckling at them until they’re tingling with blood and desire. Then he drops to his knees.

I hear him unzip his own slacks. I can see a flash of white briefs before he yanks them beneath his balls. The white dress shirt he’s wearing falls from his shoulders and dangles halfway down his back, suspended where the sleeves are folded at his elbows. Is he a waiter just off work, I wonder? He needed cock so badly that he couldn’t wait to change out of the clean formal shirt and dark slacks and good shoes? It’s a moot question. He pushes me firmly back against the wood and steel and wraps those soft lips of his around my cock.

He’s eager to prove himself here, too. I can tell by the way he looks up at me that he’s begging for my encouragement and praise. I run my hands through his sandy blond hair and let it ruffle between my fingers, and nod. He closes his eyes in gratitude and deep-throats the rod before him for long moments before looking up at me again to measure my enjoyment. He doesn’t need to look. He should be able to tell by the sounds I’m making, the guttural Christs! and the growled Good boys!

My grunts are attracting a crowd, yet again. They’re keeping their distance for now, which I appreciate. I want this boy to myself for a while. I can see his fist furiously beating up and down at his waist. A second later, I hear him breathing heavily and choking, as if my dick’s too much for him.

Then he’s up on his feet, scrambling to wipe the sand from his knees and shins.

“Suck me,” I urge.

“I just came. Sorry,” he says, zipping up. He does a half-assed job of trying to yank his dress shirt up and over his shoulders again. “You’ve got a great cock, though.”

“You’re through?” I ask, a little astonished. The kid hadn’t been sucking for more than a couple of minutes.

“I’m done,” he says, loudly enough for the crowd around him to hear. “Sorry, dude.”

There’s been a large bear standing in the little group around me. The second he hears the kid make his apology, he elbows him out of the way. No—he basically tackles the kid to the ground to take his place.

It’s almost cartoon-like in execution. A few years ago, I took one of my cats out into the back garden of my old house. She saw a squirrel that had climbed to the top of the wooden fence that surrounded the yard. The cat took off running, launched herself five feet into the air, and body-slammed the squirrel so thoroughly with one shoulder that both animals fell down to the ground. The fence shuddered from the impact. The squirrel was unharmed, but stunned; the cat had knocked the wind out of herself and seemed a little surprised to have connected with her target. Eventually the animals slunk their separate ways with an unspoken agreement not to mention the incident again.

That backyard encounter is what this reminds me of; the kid goes sprawling into the beach with an audible Oof! while the bear’s knees hit the dirt and send up a spray of sand I can feel on the underside of my balls. The bear’s huge. He’s so tall he couldn’t stand up straight underneath the dock, and broad as a linebacker.

“This cock is mine,” he announces in a deep bass.

Nobody contradicts the guy, least of all me. Even if I hadn’t been turned on, I would’ve been afraid to. The kid who’d been sucking me picked himself up and dusted himself off as he vanished toward the light and the street. Meanwhile, I can feel the new mouth kissing my balls and the shaft of my dick.

“Fucking beautiful,” the bear announces. He’s not shy, this one. “Mine.” He sounds proud of himself, like a five-year-old bully who’s claimed the prize toy on the playground.

“So get to work,” I tell him.

Instead of obeying immediately, there’s a long pause. I’m not sure what he’s doing at first, but then I hear wetness, followed by what sounds like his teeth clacking together. Combined, the auditory input leads me to only one inevitable conclusion. Oh Christ, I think to myself. He’s taking his dentures out.
For years now I’ve had guys offer me gum jobs, as they call them. They’ve always promised me they’re the ultimate in pleasure, but somehow I’ve never been enticed enough to give them a try. I’m kind of a captive audience now, though, and what the hell. It’s my last night in town. Why the fuck not?

I’m almost dreading what it’s going to feel like when I feel his mouth clamp down around me. But you know what? It’s not that bad. After a minute or so of him slowly sucking up and down my shaft, I can’t really even tell the difference between the gum job and a regular blow job. Which makes sense, really; most guys don’t use their teeth on my cock, anyway. (The ones who do get sent home immediately.) The best wrap their lips around their incisors. The sensation between a pair of gums and a pair of lip-wrapped teeth isn’t all that dissimilar. So after a very short period I forget it’s a gum job at all, and relax into it.

The bear is a better cocksucker than the boy had been. No contest. The boy might’ve been hungry and eager, but the bear just knows what the fuck to do. He’s stroking the sides of my nuts, tickling my hole with his knuckle, going deep and then dragging his lips up the shaft to make his mouth into a warm and sloppy pussy for my cock. “I want that load,” he announces loudly, the words made indistinct by the wet inches and the lack of his dentures. “You’re gonna give me that load.”

“Yeah,” I moan, pushing down at my hips so he can suck as much of me as possible. “I’m gonna give you my load.”

It doesn’t take long. It’s one of those lengthy, gradual orgasms that seems to begin as a humming, crescendos into a chorus, and ends with my body shrieking its own wild aria. I bang my head against the steel girder behind it, but I don’t care. With so much pleasure, I’m not going to feel the hurt.

The bear swallows every drop of it, then nurses my dick to get the remnants. “Now that’s how you suck cock,” I announce.

He’s fishing into his pocket again, under cover of the night. It’s a moment before he can say, “Fucking A, dude.”

I pull up my shorts. They barely restrain my still-hard cock, but it’ll be a minute or two before I’m back on the street at the public sees me. It’ll subside.

Twink week to bear week. I feel like I’ve had it all in the course of a single blow job. At least I’m ending the vacation on a good note . . . with my first gum job, to boot.

Tuesday, July 28, 2015

Bate and Switch

The old bait and switch—when the guy opens his door to reveal a self completely different from the photos he’s sent. Maybe the photos are ten, fifteen years out of date. Maybe he’s gained a hundred pounds. Maybe years of partying has added sags and wrinkles or an unhealthy pallor to a once-handsome face.

The last time it happened to me was about three years ago, when a guy on Adam4Adam lured me to his remote cottage using some photos of a young, worked-out, furry body only to show up at the door in a woman’s lacy robe with all the physical fitness of a late-day Ron Jeremy. I balked on the front stoop, and it showed; the guy had to physically grab my wrists and yank me over the threshold to get me into his home. Even then, after I asserted that I was very disappointed he felt the need to lie so blatantly about his build and age, he couldn’t believe I was leaving without fucking. “But you wouldn’t have come if you’d know I looked like this!” was his yelled backwards logic, as I returned down the driveway to my car.

The shirtless fellow who answers the door of the Provincetown hotel room, late this Tuesday night, though—he looks like his photos. Exactly like, in fact. Short, lean, muscular, with a furry chest and a treasure trail that leads down into his cargo shorts, between a pair of obliques that obscenely slant to the goods below. A beard of light brown fur covers his face; his eyes are big, brown, and sparkling. The dude is hot enough to be some kind of porn star, frankly. I’m itching to get inside him.

“Glad you could come,” he says in a deep and masculine voice.

“My pleasure,” I say, trying to match his bass.

“Glenn,” he says, holding out his hand. I tell him my name, and let him give me a strong and manly shake.

Well, I’m thinking to myself. I’ve lucked out with this furry little fucker. He is going to feel mighty good slicked up and wrapped around my dick. I’m practically licking my chops at the sight of his buns bouncing in those oversized shorts as I follow him down the short passage from door to bed. And then, once I step from the shadows into the bedroom’s light, I stop short. There’s another man on the bed I hadn’t known about. Naked, sitting on the sheets with the duvet pooled around the foot of the mattress.

“Oh, this is my boyfriend, Mark,” says Glenn. Casual-like. As if the presence of a nude third is nothing to write home about.

“I didn’t know you had a boyfriend with you,” I say, keeping my voice level.

“No? You sure?” says Glenn, sounding all the world like he was one hundred percent certain he’d mentioned it. He hadn’t.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m sure.”


“I don’t mind three-ways.” The guy on the bed is maybe in his late twenties. He’s got a pair of barbell piercings in his nipples and a smooth boyish chest. A shock of blond hair spills over his forehead and into his eyes, which dart back and forth as he follows the conversation. There’s something about the way he wrinkles his forehead and the amount of concentration he’s exerting that makes me think maybe English isn’t his first language . . . but I might just be spitballing that idea in my head. “I’ll fuck you both.”

“Oh,” says Glenn, looking kind of blank. He gestures at the blond. “It’s him I want you to fuck.”

“You said,” and in my mind I’m thinking and I quote, “’I need your big thick cock up my ass, buddy.’”

Glenn seems absolutely flabbergasted that I could’ve interpreted such a message to mean that he needed my big thick cock up his ass, buddy. “He’s the one who needs a fucking.” He points to the blond kid, then crosses his arms. And waits.

I interpret the stance to mean a challenge. Put up, or shut up and get out. Inwardly I’m kicking myself, though. Fucking bait and switch. And I walked right into it, too. I could just walk the fuck out—and I should, just to show them.

On the other hand, the kid is pretty sexy. I would definitely have fucked him if he’d approached on his own. And I enjoy having an audience. So without saying a word more, I kick off my sandals, unbutton my jeans. Glenn nods with approval and moves over to my side to help me off with my t-shirt.

The kid, in the meantime, digs into the mattress with his heels and scooches himself over to the mattress’ edge. His feet clutch the edge of the bed like a monkey’s as he bends his neck and dives for my cock. I feel his fingers scrabbling in the edge of my shorts to yank them down, and then the sensation of wet warmth around my dick. He brings me to hardness quickly. Any resentments I might have about the situation evaporate when I see his blue eyes looking up at me, craving praise for his performance. “Yeah,” I say, as I stroke that blond hair out of his eyes. “Good boy.”

“He’s good, huh?” asks Glenn. He’s shucked the cargo pants. There’s nothing beneath them save for a chrome cock ring. His fat little dick has a slight curve; it fits nicely in the palm of his hand. He takes a couple of steps and lands at the top of the bed with his back against the wall, where he starts masturbating as he watches. “Trained him myself.”

“Nice job,” I say, sparing him a quick glance. The sight of Glenn stroking his dick while he watches me is hot, but I’m enjoying watching Mark more. The kid knows how to suck. What’s more, he’s got a hunger for it. “He is a very good boy.” The praise has a narcotic effect on the kid. His muscles relax; his eyes close halfway. He loves hearing it. “He’s real pretty, too.”

“Fuck, don’t I know it,” said Glenn. He’s fisting his rod now; his hand is wrapped around that thing so tightly the head’s a dark beet red.

“How’s he fuck?” I ask, after a few more slurps.

“Spin the little cocksucker around and find out,” Glenn suggests.

I let my dick linger in the moist recesses of Mark’s mouth for a moment. Then I pull out and motion that he should change positions. The kid has been playing with his hole with one hand and using the other to position my cock, the entire time. Now he’s assuming the position like a champ—butt up, back nicely arched, legs spread at the perfect width. I spit on my fingers and spread it around his already-wet hole. It only takes a couple of fingers to judge that this hole is already well-stretched and much-fucked. My suspicions are confirmed when I shove in my cockhead and meet with zero resistance.

I slide in to the hilt. At the bottom I rest. He starts squeezing and milking me almost immediately. “Fuck,” I say. It’s not voluntary—just sheer reaction.

“Told ya,” says Glenn.

He seems content just to sit there, bating away as he watches. From time to time as I fuck he’ll reach up and squeeze one of his nipples. Once he reaches over to the bedstand and from the litter of bottles retrieves a container of poppers that he holds to his nose and inhales from, deeply. He holds it out to me with raised eyebrows. I shake my head.

“Sniff,” Glenn says to his boyfriend. The kid’s neck cranes out to reach the bottle. He takes a whiff, but Glenn grabs the top of his head like a basketball and forces it down against the brown glass neck for a sustained period of time. He gives Mark a moment to recuperate, then repeats the ritual once more with the other nostril. When Mark inhales the vapors, his ass blossoms around me; his hole becomes softer. Wetter. Slicker. More fuckable. I haven’t inhaled a fucking thing and already the aphrodisiac is working for me.

I’ve got one foot up on the mattress and the other planted on the carpet as I plow in and out of this boy’s open hole. Even though we’ve only used spit for lube, the pubes around the base of my cock are matted and wet, like they’ve been soaked. The kid’s producing his own lube. Some guys are better about that than others, that’s for sure. I can see my dick’s nearly as red and flushed as Glenn’s, as he beats away at the top of the bed.

“I’m gonna breed him,” I say at last.

It’s not a question. I’m not asking for permission. Glenn knows. He nods. “That’s what he’s for, buddy,” he says. Then, to his boyfriend he adds, “Wanna get bred by the nice man? Want your hole seeded by this total stranger?”

“Yes,” says Mark in a strangled sob. It’s the first word he’s said. Like I suspected, there’s a Germanic tinge to his accent. “I want to be bred.”

“Do it, then.” Glenn’s voice has an edge now. He’s close, I can tell. “Breed the little fucker.”
He gets himself off with his own words. Cum shoots out of his dick an onto his fur. There’s a string of them up and down his chest, all the way up to his neck, each one the color of pearl. “Fuck,” he exclaims, still shuddering. “Fuck!”

I’m too lost in the flow of my own orgasm to reply. It washes over me in waves, each stronger than the previous. I’m drowning in the sensation of it, unable for a few moments even to see. Then the waves ebb and I’m left panting with my dick half-out of the kid’s asshole. It flops out completely when he crawls forward to lick the semen from his boyfriend’s chest. Then he lays prone, limbs sprawled, with his head between Glenn’s inner thighs.

It’s a pretty tableau. I watch Glenn stroke his boyfriend’s hair for a moment. Then I reach for my tee, ready to head out.

“Hey hey hey,” says Glenn. His eyes meet mine, but they drop down to the pendulous weapon between my legs. It’s softened somewhat, but not completely. “I don’t think you’re done.”

I raise my eyebrows. “It’s kinda late. . . .”

There’s an awkward moment while Glenn attempts to untangle himself from Mark’s limbs. But finally he detaches himself from the limp shell of his boyfriend and stands. He struts over, stands directly in front of me, and uses his hand to pull my face to his. Our lips wrestle in a rough kiss. “You don’t have to go.”

“I’ve gotta. . . .”

“You don’t have to go,” he repeats. “Not yet.” He stares me in the eye, then turns around. His knees connect with the edge of the mattress. He spreads them wide, lowers his chest, and arches his back. His round ass parts to reveal a hole surrounded by fur. “Get the lube,” he orders his boyfriend.

My cock comes back to life, rising to meet the challenge. He’s right. I don’t have to go. Not yet.

Bait and switch. Fuck yes.

Monday, July 13, 2015

Dick Dock 2015: Camp

Usually beneath Provincetown’s dick dock I’m paying attention to only two things: either the man bent over or kneeling in front of me, or else the periphery where hostile intruders might suddenly appear. I’m not worried so much about the cops, really. I understand they’ve descended upon the secluded cruising spot from time to time. There are other outside forces to worry about. Unsuspecting hetero couples mistakenly wandering down this particular stretch of sand, for example. Maybe some straight guys looking to make trouble. It’s best never to get too complacent in public sex situations, no matter how safe they seem.

It’s a weird night, though, and for the last several minutes I’ve not really been doing much of anything. I’ve got my shoulder resting on a girder deep in the shadows, my right hand’s in my pocket, my left hooked by the thumb in a belt loop with the fingers draped decorously over the half-hard cock pointing to my hip bone. Guys are shuffling in the sand back and forth in front of me, but for the moment I’m not liking what’s on parade.

Then I see a streak of something out of the corner of my eye. My focus shifts to the beach. Although beneath the deck it’s pitch dark, the beach beyond the dock is light brightly by the resort’s floodlights above our heads. Down the beach, trotting on little feet, is what for split seconds I think is a dog. Then I notice the large triangular ears, the reddish-brown coat, the bushy tail, and I realize that I’m watching a fox scampering down the beach toward the center of town.

That’s unexpected.

A man stops in front of me. I haven’t been paying attention to the crowd, so rapt I’ve been in puzzling what a fox might be pursuing down the beach on a Saturday night. I take stock of the guy as best as I can in the small measure of light reflected off the water. He’s of average height. Athletic. He’s wearing a spandex top that hugs his muscles, and the way he’s thrust his hands into his pockets shows off his brawny forearms. His hair is cropped short. He rocks from side to side, his hips pointed in my direction as he studies me back. He must like what he sees; he steps forward.

I unhook my thumb from my belt loop and hold out my upheld hand. It’s the universal sign of invitation, in this dark climate. He steps forward and rests his crotch in the cup of my palm. He unzips, pulls apart his jeans, thrusts forward about six and a half inches of hard cock, and waits. Just waits.

Fuck. Like I said, it’s been a weird evening—all cock feeders and no cocksuckers. At that moment I’ve already swallowed down five loads from guys like this, guys who just unzip and wait for service. I’d like a little service myself, you know. But these cocks aren’t going to suck themselves, and I happen to be good at it. Considering the five loads in my belly, good and efficient.

My knees are buried in cool sand; I’ll be washing the black flecks of the New England seashore from the crevices for days. The stranger likes what I’m doing to his cock; he’s grabbing what short hair I have and pulling my mouth down on the shaft to make me swallow every last inch and then some. “Yeah,” he growls in a light tenor. “There’s a good cocksucker. Make it feel good. Make it feel real good.”

I’m liking the way his cock tastes—clean, still soapy from a recent shower. His pubes smell fresh as he grinds them against my nose and cheeks. “Lick my balls,” he commands, pushing me down by the back of the head.

I obey. I pop one, then both of his shaved nuts into my mouth. He spits out obscenities in a low voice as I swirl my tongue over their surface. His inches thrust into the air, still slick and shining with my spit, waiting for my mouth to engulf it once more.

My mouth. Any mouth. A cock like that doesn’t usually dry off beneath the dock. Before I can return my attention to that dick, another cocksucker falls to his knees to my left and consumes it. He’s so hungry for the meat that he forces me off the guy’s nuts.

That’s okay. The guy getting sucked helps me to my feet and reaches for my cock. I’ve been squeezing but not beating it during the blow jobs I’ve been giving, though I’ve been tempted to beat off during this last. I’ve seen this cocksucker before. I remember him from last year, actually; he was a German guy who took my cock in his holes and attempted to make me walk back with him a long distance to the trailer park in the town’s west end. He’s a good looking guy, though—and more to the point, good with his mouth. “Good boy,” says the guy next to me. He runs a hand through the German’s curly hair.

I run my hand over the man’s Spandex-clad chest. He helps me out by lift it up over his head and wearing it, yoke-like, over his shoulders, leaving his muscular chest bare. It’s sparsely hairy, and firm beneath my hands. He reaches out and plays with my nipples. “Your turn,” he tells me, pulling out his cock from the German’s mouth with an audible plop.

The German opens wide and takes all of my meat without effort. He’s deep-throating me effortlessly, taking my cock in seconds from dry everywhere except around the tip to sopping wet from head to base. I groan a little. “Yeah, he’s a beautiful little cocksucker, isn’t he?” asks the shirtless guy. I’m betting it’s a rhetorical question.

After a moment I withdraw, and guide the German’s head to my buddy’s cock. “Suck daddy,” he commands. The German grunts loudly and opens wide. “Oh-ho!” chuckles the guy. “Did you see that? He loves his daddy’s dick. Suck it, boy.”

Even in the dark it’s obvious how much the German is digging the dad/son talk. He’s moaning around the guy’s dick, sputtering saliva and precum so far that it spatters against my own skin. The guy ups the ante. “My own son, suckin’ on his daddy’s big dick. Yeah, just like I taught him. You love the dick that made you, huh, boy? Now, suck your uncle again.”

We’re attracting a bit of a crowd, now. The two or three guys who had been crowding in to watch turns into four or five, and then seven or eight. More guys are standing on the sidelines to watch the action between the three of us. “Yeah, my son’s sucking on his uncle’s big dick. Big dicks run in this family, huh?” announces the self-styled dad of our group. “Takin’ my boy on his first camping trip. Teachin’ him what being a man is all about. You like your camping trip, son? You learning lots?”

Honestly, I’m rolling my eyes a little bit at this point. To me, dirty talk or roleplay is like salt or pepper at a meal. Used sparingly, it’s great. A little bit even enhances the flavor. Too much just insults the cook. And this guy is just ladling it on, at this point. “Dad and his big brother are loving his little boy’s mouth on this camping trip, I tell you! Little boy’s going to go home a man!”, the guy’s saying loudly, so that everyone in the immediate vicinity can hear.

Corny as I find the chatter, though, I’m not leaving. I’m getting good head every now and again. And shocking as my readers will find the confession, I like an audience.

But then it just gets weird. “Maybe I should dress him up in his little sister’s panties, make him bitch out his cunt to daddy and his uncle, too! Get him back in that trailer and show him how daddy fucks little sissy boys!” The German, though. He’s so excited by everything that’s going on—the dirty chat, the cocks going down his gullet, the crowd—that he’s pushed over the edge. He makes a high-pitched whine as his throat engulfs my dick; I feel moisture spew from his nostrils into my pubes. Then, as he convulses on the sand, jerking back and forth, I feel another moisture all over my toes. His load spatters onto my feet and sandals. It’s a violent orgasm. He nearly chokes on my dick as he comes.

Then, abruptly, it’s over. “Come on, son, suck daddy’s dick like he taught you,” says the guy. But the German’s having none of it. It’s over. Gulping for air, he struggles to his feet. A few men from the crowd grab at him, trying to cajole him into giving them attention, but he’s done. He shoves them off and stumbles away toward the east end of the dock, where stairs lead back to the street.

The crowd realizes there’s no more show. They evaporate like a popped soap bubble. All that’s left is the other guy and myself. He laughs slightly as he pulls the Spandex back over his head, and I try to stuff my still-hard cock back into my pants. “You can’t be arrested for what’s only in your head, right?” he says, slapping me on the chest. “Know what I mean?”

Somehow it seems to me that if you’ve told a crowd of strangers and a couple of sex partners a pretty involved fantasy, it’s not merely in one’s head any longer. But whatever. “Fair enough,” I tell him, before he walks off in the opposite direction.

In my periphery, I see another streak of reddish fur. Another fox, running down the beach in the same direction as the first. Or is the same fox, circled back to make the route once more? I watch it chase its invisible prey until it disappears from where the pools of light from the floods end and the shadows begin.

Wednesday, July 8, 2015

Dick Dock 2015: Get It Done

So I’ve had one of those days. No major disasters, knock wood, but enough encounters with idiots that I’m not suffering fools gladly. I’m not snappish. Not short-tempered. But all through the evening with friends, sitting in a tourist-filled restaurant at battered picnic tables eating fish tacos and clam chowder, I’m less jovial than usual. At the bars we hit afterward I’m not as amused by the little battalions of single straight girls woo-hooing it up with their Fireball shots or their tuneless rendition of Meredith Brooks’ “Bitch,” getting good and drunk before they have to take the ferry back to Boston in the morning.

It’s just a little much on my nerves.

I’ve had a great vacation so far. But after a hot and irritating day, feeling that itch down below after midnight, my instinct is just to get it done.




So, the dick dock, then. I pad my way down Commercial Street, nodding at the couples wandering my way. Men walk hand in hand, rapt in their own conversations, chests held proud, sunglasses on despite the late hour. There’s a crowd around the pizza place, but more men are cruising and people watching on the benches outside than eating slices. Finally I reach the Boatslip. The hotel’s quiet; I can see a few men sitting beyond the plate glass window in the lounge, but most of the windows are dark. The pool area is empty. I turn down the sandy driveway that’s public access to the beat, take the steps down to the and, and make the tight U-turn that leads me to the dark area underneath the hotel’s deck.

There are already dozens of men wandering among the rafters here. I duck my head and hunch over as I make my way forward. My sandals scoop up sand between my toes and empty it out at the heel. There are already groups of men between some of the girders. I hear the sounds of slopping sucking as I pass one set, but I keep moving. I’ll know what I want when I see it.

Like I said, I’m in kind of a weird mood. Aggressive. No-nonsense. Ready just to get it done. As I get closer to the dock’s mid-section I’m spotting guys I find attractive. There’s a tall, broad-shouldered older gentleman in expensive leisure clothes. It’s dark beneath the dock, but there’s enough light that when my glance rests on him and my head turns, he notices. He starts to follow.

There’s a short muscle dude in a sleeveless T proclaiming allegiance to the Cincinnati Reds. I stare into his eyes—or where I presume his eyes are, on that shadowed face. He follows too.

A few steps later I encounter face-to-face a bearded hipster type. Shaved head. Beard that reaches his nipples. Square nerd glasses. He’s shirtless, furry, lean. He’s like a super-fit and young version of comedian Brian Posehn. I stare in his eyes. He follows me.

I feel like one of those over-privileged, entitled white Greenwich matrons back home, hitting the highway underpass to pick her immigrant workers for a few hours of day labor. Boom, boom, boom. Let’s go. Get it done.

I play Pied Piper to the trio and lead them to a niche between girders only a few feet away. They all obediently follow. The bearded nerd immediately drops to his knees, starts to unbutton my shorts. The older guy stands behind me. His hands start to roam around my waist, under my shirt, up my sides. The muscled dude reaches for my neck. His lips search for mine. His mouth tastes of beer. Sweet. Yeasty.

I haven’t said a word, but all three of them are working in unison. The bearded guy has sucked me hard. He goes right for the root, choking himself in the process. As he coughs and gulps and sputters, I feel the spray of his saliva on my pubes, across my thighs. The Cincinnati Reds guy pulls away from making out long enough with me to say, “I love the sound of a cocksucker choking on a big dick.” He dives to chew on one of my nipples. The older guy behind me has pulled down my pants and my shorts. He’s got my shirt unbuttoned. His muscular arms surround me; I lean back against his chest. One of his hands reaches down and parts my crack. I feel his fingertips probe against my hole.

They’re getting it done. The muscular guys drops to his knees and joins the beardo in the sand. They start taking turns sucking. I can tell them apart by their style. Cincinnati’s mouth feels firmer, more insistent. He might be using a hand in there. The bearded nerd is soft, sloppy. Extra wet. My older buddy takes a moment to raise his fingers to his mouth. He wets them, then spreads the spit over my hole. At some point he’s managed to release his own dick from his tan slacks. I feel it pressing against my ass. When I reach back, I feel that it’s uncut. Thick. At least seven inches.

As his head teases my ass, he rubs his jaw against my cheek. Whispers in my ear. “Come to the corner. I’ll fuck you over there.”

“Fuck me right here,” I grunt back.

Cincinnati’s mouth is on my balls. The beardo has his fist around my meat; he’s squeezing it hard to make it swell. The lenses of his glasses glint as he looks up at me. “I’m gonna get your cum,” he announces. It’s not a question. He’s not asking. He’s telling me.

I just nod. I expect him to get it done.

Back to work he goes gobbling my inches, while Cincinnati licks and slobbers over my nuts and the bottom two inches. The older guy, in the meantime, is proving himself no gentleman. He shoves me roughly forward. My lower back arches for him. He stabs at my ass with his cock. The first two tries, he attempts to impale the bottom of my spine. Third time’s the charm. My hole stings as it parts for his rough entry. I yell out as he slides up and into me.

Two men on my cock. One man barebacking my hole. There’s a crowd gathering around us, watching the show. Someone reaches for my nipples. Someone else is reaching down and attempting to grope my cock despite the warring mouths around it. I think someone tries to kiss me. I don’t know. It’s tough to tell. I’m all sensation in the moment; all my resentments and anger at the day, all my quirks and dickishness erased by sharp pulses of pain around my hole, blooms of pleasure where his cock head hits my prostate, and the urgent need to spray my seed. I can’t keep track of what else is happening. All I feel is the pain of the cock and the pleasure of the tongues, and the scratchiness of the sand in my sandals, the occasional cool of the ocean breeze, the sound of surf and sex and sighs.

The older guy shoots first. I hear him grunt, then quickly reach for his cock. He pulls out; I feel a warmth coat my hole and my ass cheeks, and then the ticklish descent of his semen as it starts to drip downward. He shoves his cock back inside me. It’s that sensation that pushes me over the edge. The bearded dude grunts as he tastes a big glob of my precum; then I start to gush my load down his throat. Cincinnati struggles back to his feet, rising through the crowd of strange bodies to pull my face down to his once more. I continue to cum as Cincinnati and I make out.

The older guy’s cock slithers from my hole just as the last of my orgasm subsides. I feel him rest his head on my shoulder as his arms surround me; he gives me a tight squeeze, then releases and vanishes. Cincinnati lets go. He pulls up his shorts. Conceals his boner. Gives me a pat on the chest, walks off. The bearded nerd is the last to go. I help him up to his feet. He’s been wearing his t-shirt as a yoke, and now he lifts up his arms and rearranges it so that it falls back into place. We exchange one deep kiss. “I love your load,” he tells me. “You are fucking hot.”

I nod as I button myself back up. The crowd around me dissipates. The action’s over—nothing more to see. They’re moving along. I hunch over once again and maneuver my tall frame beneath the rafters holding up the deck overhead. My shoes are filled with sand by the time I squeeze between the deck’s edge and the staircase leading up from the beach. I take a moment to empty them, and look at my phone for the time.

Twenty minutes. That’s how long I was under there, from start to finish. Two cocksuckers, one top. Twenty minutes, some multitasking, and some supernaturally efficient cruising is all it took to get it done.

Thursday, July 2, 2015

No Man's Land

The first cruisy restroom I discovered in my youth lurked in a forgotten basement corner of the downtown public library of the town in which I grew up. Even calling it a ‘downtown’ is a little bit of an overstatement. Nominally the library was only two blocks from one of the town’s busier intersections, where the buildings were at their highest—but compared to the places I’ve lived since, I’ve realized that what I thought of in the nineteen-seventies as our bustling Southern metropolis was fairly podunk. The highest architecture there scraped the sky from four stories off the ground. Our biggest attraction was a Planter’s Peanuts shop, where a mechanical Mr. Peanut sign limned in neon lowered and raised his top hat a slow, metronomic style and the fragrant smell of hot nuts enticed hungry visitors.

But to someone searching for excitement, downtown was the place I wanted to be. I grew up in an age diametrically opposite to the current era of helicopter parenting. My folks pushed me out the door at every opportunity. They were thrilled to let me board a bus that would take me from our sleepy neighborhood with its one-room branch library to the downtown area, where the new library building offered opportunity after opportunity for illicit sex.

The main library had been built around and on top of an older building. Although the bulk of the circulating books were in the brightly-lit newer section, where patrons bustled around to find their reading material for the week, and students congregated at the big birch tables to study. There were restrooms in the new section, but they were antiseptic, busy, and devoid of action.

No, the real action took place in the building’s neglected no-man’s-land, where shadows and echoes alike gathered. I’d detour from the bright lights and low ceilings and take my business to the existing older section of the building, where the hallways were made of dark stone. The only people who ventured into this area were those visiting the music archives, where patrons shut themselves into glass booths to listen to scratchy classical LPs or pore over old operatic scores among the musty stacks. The men’s room was at the bottom of the basement staircase. There was a children’s library at the basement’s other end, but it had its own facilities and entrance. There weren’t any stacks or offices or amenities here. Anyone who ventured into this particular section was either lost, or there specifically to visit this bathroom.

I’d first discovered this particular restroom in the heady days of exploration after I’d read in the notoriously homophobic sex manual Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask)—which happened to be the only sex manual my parents owned, and which they’d casually given me to read when I was ten—that homosexuals gathered in bowling alley restrooms in order to meet and have sex with each other. Since my part of town lacked a bowling alley, I figured that our local homosexuals were probably having to improvise in other venues . . . and thus there was a period of a couple of years in which I would Nancy Drew every public restroom I came across.

The two-stall basement men’s room turned out to be the first place where I found traces of cruisers’ graffiti. I need somebody to suck my sock, read a scrawl on the tiles followed by a recent date, the first time I went there. Sock-sucking sounded exotic (and erotic) in my imagination for several days. Not until a week of rubbing myself at the thought of it had passed did it occur to me that some other wag had added an extra curlicue to the original cruiser’s C, neatly turning it into an S. I frotted all the more furiously at that realization.

It was in that basement I encountered my first gloryhole of sorts. Peep hole, really. The library had taken out the original toilet paper holder on the wall between the stalls and left the smallest of holes to peek through. Usually men sat on the toilet and immediately stuffed small twists of tissue into the hole to prevent voyeurism, but there were men who, upon seeing my iris reflecting back at them through the tiny fissure, would immediately stand up and show me their wares. Most of the first glimpses of a partial erect cock I ever saw were through that tiny hole. The gloryhole at my parents’ college was larger and had more activity, but there was something inescapably erotic about seeing a man’s meat through that narrow hole, one inch at a time.

When I finally screwed up the courage to have sex in the restrooms a couple of years later, the library basement was one of the first places I returned. I’d lost my oral and anal virginity the week before and was raring for more. I remember how hard my heart beat during my descent down that twisting staircase from in front of the music listening rooms to the basement. By the time I reached the basement, the pounding sounded like timpani.

The restroom was empty when I sat down, but I didn’t have long to wait. I’d only just shut my stall door and pulled down my pants when I heard footsteps echoing along the hallway outside. The door creaked open a moment later, and I heard footsteps cross the floor. The man went straight to the other stall beside mine, closed the door, and played with the buckle of his pants. I heard them drop to the floor.

I looked through the little peephole, and saw motion. The man was leaning down to look underneath the stall; I could see the top of his back bob into view as he attempted to see who was sitting next to him. I knew what to do by that point. I raised and lowered the front half of my foot, keeping the heel firmly on the floor. A casual tap of the foot. Nothing forbidden about that.

His own shiny black shoe tapped. My turn. I moved my foot a little closer to the partition. Let it rest for a brief moment. Then lifted and lowered the toes once more. He responded in kind. Our feet were only a good dozen inches apart. I moved mine to close ten of those inches, and tapped once again.
Then his foot touched mine, seemingly sending electricity through my spine. I dropped my hand and held it right underneath the stall, my fingers cupped to give a resting place for his cock. He withdrew his foot almost immediately. I heard him pull off a length of toilet paper. Then, a moment later, he thrust a scroll of it beneath the stall, wrapped around a ballpoint pen. How old are you? he’d written.

I was twelve. I had a baby face. I probably looked all of ten. I didn’t even have pubes. I didn’t want the guy thinking I was an unsophisticated virgin. 14, I wrote on the paper. I thought the number might make me sound like a jaded habituĂ© of this dank haunt.

There was a long, long pause. The poor fellow was probably wondering what to do. It never really occurred to me during my jailbait days that I was putting anybody at risk with my age. Gay sex itself was outlawed; man-on-man contact between adults was already taboo and forbidden. Accosted homosexuals got written up in the newspapers and were drummed out of town. The situation was already grim in theory. Realistically, sex with a minor in those days probably really wouldn’t have made it any worse. At last the tip of the pen reappeared beneath the stall. I unfurled the toilet paper wrapped around it. If you stick your dick under the stall I’ll suck it, it read. If you come around to my stall and suck me off, I’ll give you $20.

I stuffed the note in my pocket. I still have it, somewhere. I pulled up, but didn’t fasten, my pants. A moment later, I stepped out of my stall and knocked at the door of his. He opened the door and welcomed me in.

The man had thick auburn hair and an impressively bushy red mustache and matching sideburns. He wore a plaid suit that must have looked fashionable in the pages of the previous year’s Montgomery Ward catalog. His pants were puddled around his ankles, though; in his hand he held a very thick six inches. We didn’t need formalities. He stood up, eased me around to the toilet, pulled down my pants, and took my cock in his mouth. I wasn’t a big boy then. My meat was long for my age, but very thin.

He had no problem taking the entire length into his mouth. He must have sensed how quickly he was getting me to orgasm, because he backed off when my thighs began to quiver, then sat me down. He stood up and pointed his dick at my mouth. “You know what to do?” he asked.

They were the only words he spoke that day. I knew what to do.

I opened wide and let him sink his cock into my mouth as deeply as he could plunge it. I was still a novice cocksucker, but I’d been given a few tips the week before. So I wrapped my lips around my teeth, kept them as moist as possible, and moved my head back and forth along the shaft. His thick head nearly choked me several times as it pounded the back of my throat. I kept going, though, trying not to sputter or choke and remember to gulp air whenever I could. After a minute I lifted my hand up to grab onto his big, very hairy balls.

It was the last action that pushed him over the edge. He took my skull in both of his big hands and held it stationary. In and out he started pistoning his dick, not really caring how well I was coping with my first face fucking. After a couple of minutes of that rough treatment, he pulled his dick all the way out, held it a moment . . . then plunged it back in to hold it there. I felt his cock contract and expand. The back of my mouth started to flood with his seed. The load was much more bitter—and bigger—than the first load I’d taken the week before. I wasn’t prepared for that much quantity. I kept swallowing and gulping, though, until he’d unloaded it all in me. When he pulled out, finally giving me a chance to breathe, his dick squirted out a little bit more. It dribbled onto my chin and onto my shirt.

The blow job left me half in love with the guy. I remember gazing up at him with puppy dog eyes, still hard and my own cock unsatisfied. He maneuvered himself in the little stall so that he could pull up those plaid pants and buckle that enormous belt of his. Then he reached into his back pocket, withdrew his wallet, and pulled out a bill on it. I’d never seen Andrew Jackson on currency of my own before. That single bill represent about two months of my regular allowance. He pushed the money into my hand and wrapped my fingers around it to make sure I had a grip. Then he nodded and, without making eye contact, he let himself out of the stall. I heard the restroom door creak and his footsteps vanish up the stairs.

I haven’t been back to that restroom since I was about seventeen years old. Partly it’s because I’m not sure it’s even there any longer—that library’s undergone a few renovations since. I’d hate to go hunting for it and discover it had been demolished to make way for a cell phone charging station or corporate-sponsored virtual reality demonstration on Our City’s River Heritage. Mostly, though, I’m afraid to erase the nostalgic and even romantic view of it I still retain. In my youth it was a Pandora’s box of mystery and eroticism, where every echo spoke of possibility. I’m afraid to see it as it really probably was—dilapidated, small, poorly-lit, and smelly—when it still exists in my memory as a wonderland.