Wednesday, August 25, 2010


(Since I'm out of town visiting my future home state, I'm posting an older entry from my journal so that you guys won't miss me. This entry is from 2004. I can't imagine typing the words "I hate my body" today.)

The invitation that arrived by email was so long and complicated, so heavy with qualifications and codicils, that my first reaction was that it couldn’t be real. My second reaction was that it had to be written by a lawyer.

It was an request to attend a hotel blackout party—essentially it was a hotel sex party with a lot of cloak and dagger pretensions. I eyed the invitation’s FAQ. Yes, there was a FAQ.

What kind of men would be present? All races, body types, and ages, with no restrictions.

What goes on at these parties? Sex.

How do I know who will be attending? You won’t.

Is this legal? This particular question went into a lot of detail—nearly a page’s worth—about the legality of hotel sex parties, essentially boiling down to the reassurance that as long as they remained drug-free and that all the members in attendance were of legal age, there would be no repercussions.

Then, down at the very bottom of the three-page email was a personal note from the party’s organizer: Hi, I hope you don’t mind the invitation. A friend of yours said you’d be perfect for this. Marcus.

A hundred questions came to mind. What friend? Perfect how? Do I really want to go to an orgy where the organizer has taken out a certificate of insurance?

A couple of days later, my friend Chris caught me online. “Did you get an invitation to this blackout party?” he asked me. Almost immediately I thought that maybe he’d been the ‘friend’ to tell the party’s organizer about me; Chris and I have known each other for years. He’s another top who, because of a slight limp, has always been self-conscious about meeting other men for sex; he’s worried that one of them will make fun of his slight lameness, I think. To him I’m the sex equivalent of Life Cereal’s Mikey; since I’ll try almost anything, he’ll send guys my way and then ask for a full report afterward. If they’re assholes, he’ll avoid them. If they seem like nice guys, he’ll usually follow up by meeting them himself, or inviting us both for a three-way.

“Yeah,” I told him. “Did you tell this Marcus guy I’d be perfect for it?”

“No, why?” he asked.

Well, I had to strike that theory. “Did you get an invitation?” I asked. “Are you going?”

“I will if you will,” he said. “No one will notice my limp if all the lights are turned off, right?”

“You worry too much about your limp,” I told him for the four hundredth time. “But I’ll go if you go.”

The night of the party, we ended up out in Ann Arbor, sitting in Chris’s car in the designated hotel parking lot. At the appropriate time stated in our follow-up email, we called Mike’s number on Chris’ cell phone and spoke the appropriate words: We’re here for the party. We both had to provide our email addresses so that they could be checked against the master list of party attendees. We were then rewarded with the hotel room number—for a hotel that happened to be across the street.

By the time we finally straggled up to the remote room, I was in a mood. I’d driven too far and had spent too much time shaving to be subjected to this nonsense. My mood wasn’t much elevated when the door opened a crack in response to my knock, obviously on the chain. All we could see was an eye. “What?” asked a deep voice.

“We’re here for the. . . .”

Before Chris could finish his sentence, the door slammed shut. We heard the sound of the chain bouncing against it, and then it opened again. “Get in.”

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. We stood in the outer room of a hotel suite, where around the wall’s edges were a desk, a couple of sofas, and a television set. In the blue-white glow, I could finally see our host—a handsome black man of middle height and a muscular build, looking us up and down so that the product on his longish hair shone from the TV’s light. “I’m Marcus,” he addressed me, his voice low. “And I’m going to need to see your ID.”

I balked. “Why?”

“You don’t look old enough to be here,” he said.

“I’m forty!”

I had my wallet halfway pulled out when, without warning, he stepped close to me, and took the back of my head in one of his hands, pulling me down. “You are in no way forty,” he told me. “With that baby face?” He released me, and I staggered back a little. “You might be two twenties, but you’re not forty.” I didn’t know whether to resent the manhandling, or relish the compliment. A broad smile broke out on my lips as I went with the latter. “You’re cute, Two-Twenties. Okay. Meet the other guys.”

There were other guys in the room, amazingly enough. Not many. Two of them were friends of Chris whom I’d not met, but of whom I knew a little about. There was a large bald guy spread across one of the sofas refusing to look at anything but the television. And there was a chatty older gentleman whose every exhale sounded like the heart-heavy sigh of an ground adolescent girl. “I thought there were about thirty guys who signed up for this,” Chris said.

Mike explained that yes, there had been close to forty people who’d said they were definitely coming, but that we were the only ones who had actually showed. It was like that at every party, he said; literally dozens of people would promise to come, but only one out of five would actually make the effort. Those who never showed were never invited back. “So we’ll wait a few minutes,” he said, “and then we’ll get started. If you guys want to. Hey, Two-Twenties,” he said to me. “C’mon. I’ll show you around the place.”

He put his hand on my ass and led me from the outer room of the suite through a door. “There’s a closet in here,” he said, pointing immediately to the left. “And a bathroom, in case anyone needs to clean up.” Behind me, I could hear the sounds of tentative conversation, but Marcus and I were the only ones in the sanctity of the bedroom. “The bed is nice and comfortable. Try it out.” His hand still rested on my left buttock. “Go on,” he repeated. “Try it out.”

I wasn’t exactly sure whether or not he was coming on to me or not, at this point. Sure, he was paying me attention, but at the same time, I felt slightly patronized, as if I was once again mistakenly being treated as a pretty boy. So I sat down on the bed and bounced a little. “Nice,” I decreed. He stood in front of me. I waited a moment to see if he’d do anything. When he didn’t, I took to my feet again. “Very nice,” I said.

“Maybe if you took your clothes off, the party might get started,” he suggested. Again, there was a pause in which we both waited. All I could think was, me? I hate my body. Why did I have to be the one who was naked while everyone else was clothed and watching television? When I didn’t reply immediately, Mike extended his hand and laid it on my other butt cheek. “Come on, Two-Twenties,” he said. “Let’s see if anyone else shows up.”

No one else did. For a very long half hour, the other men lounged in the chairs in the living room while I leaned against the wall, Marcus standing next to me. He told us about other parties he’d thrown where as many as fifteen people showed, and others where it was only him and one other guy. Every five minutes, one of Chris’s friends would clear his throat and say something about he wished the party would start already. “Tell Two-Twenties here,” Marcus would say, nodding at me.

I’d just nod and roll my eyes.

Eventually, though, I did start to get antsy. We’d been there for nearly forty minutes, after an hour drive and several minutes in the parking lot, and I was beginning to question the worth of all the time invested so far. So I slipped away and pretended I was going into the bathroom. So what if I have body issues? I’d been planning to get naked anyway, hadn’t I, although not necessarily first? What did I have to lose? I removed my clothes and stowed them away in a neat stack at the top of the closet shelving and, wearing nothing but a cock ring, lay in the dark atop the bed. Surprisingly, no one noticed my absence for three or four minutes, until finally, Marcus called back in his deep voice, “What’re you doing back there, Two-Twenties?”

“What do you think?” I called back.

A thin sickle from the streetlamp outside was the only light in the room, but it was enough to see shadowy forms. He stepped into the room to find me with my hands wrapped around my erect cock, my feet flat on the bed, legs bent. A hiss escaped from between his teeth. “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he whispered.

I heard the popping of buttons escaping through holes, and the tinkle of his belt buckle being unfastened. Then he was on top of me. His skin was so dark that I couldn’t really see him as clearly as he saw me, but I could feel that the lawyer was all muscle, from the curves of his shoulders to the almost porn movie roundness of his butt. He smelled of aftershave and sweat as he pinned me down against the pillows. His fingers clenched my wrist, moving my hand down to his dick—it was larger and thicker than mine, but just as hard. He positioned himself between my legs so that its head knocked repeatedly against my hole, demanding an answer.

I was glad he kissed well; kissing’s the one act to which I respond most passionately. While we made out, grunting and groaning as we thrust against each other, I was dimly aware that the other men had made their way back into the room. The bed shifted slightly as someone sat on its edge; I could hear clothes being removed, words being spoken. But mostly my attention was on Marcus, the things he was doing with his hands to my nipples, my cock, my ass, and of our tongues forcing themselves into each other’s mouths.

“I’ve got to have that,” he said at last, releasing me from his weight. “You gonna give me some of that, Two-Twenties?” His ridiculous nickname for me just made me all the hotter for him. I nodded. I didn’t know what the hell he wanted—my ass? My mouth?—but I would’ve surrendered it gladly. “Good,” he whispered. He dumped a bag of accessories onto the bed, rummaging through its contents to grab the necessary equipment. I heard the rustle of cellophane, the snap of a lube bottle opening, the splurt of liquid. He grabbed at my cock and got it ready, and then before I could even really comprehend what was happening, he was on top of me again, straddling me and lowering his ass down onto me.

He was tight—very tight. But I slid right in, and he groaned at every inch. When I touched bottom, he let it rest for a minute, grabbing onto my hands and shuddering. Then he started to grind his hips, milking me, letting his weight rest on my shoulders. I felt someone else’s hand slide up my leg to my balls, playing briefly with the smooth skin there. Then another hand from the other side, as the party’s other guests one by one felt for themselves the spot where he and I joined. The room was quiet save for our heavy breathing and our grunts. My eyes were mostly closed, but I could sense the other people watching our shadowy forms heave and grind into each other, and hear them masturbating.

“After I nut I’m going to flip you over, Two-Twenties,” Marcus promised. “I’m going to flip you over and give it right back to you. You up for it?”

“Yeah,” I said. I hadn’t—and still haven’t—been topped in something approaching two years at this point, and the thought of doing it and having to wimp out halfway-in frightened me. At the same time, I was aroused enough that I believed wimping out wouldn’t be a possibility. “I want you in me.”

“I’m gonna be in you like you’re in me, Two-Twenties.” He relished saying the nickname, over and over again. “Two-Twenties is going to get my inches up his ass after I . . . oh, shit, yeah!”

The dirty talk always makes me fuck harder. From my position my back I drove up into him, meeting him mid-grind. “You are hot,” I said.

“I had my eye on you when you walked in, boy. Twoooo-Twenties! I wanted . . . shit!”

I felt the first spurt across my forehead, warm and wet and copious; the second flew over my head and landed on the pillow, where it immediately dripped down into my hair. He came freely, yelling with his teeth clenched, until the last spurt dripped out and into my navel. Marcus fell forward, our chests glued together by his fluids. His lips brushed against mine, then moved to my neck, where I could feel his labored breathing. After another moment, my still-hard cock plopped out of his hole. A hand reached out and squeezed it, then vanished.

For a moment we both lay there, our breathing becoming longer and more regular. Then I heard a noise in my ear. Marcus was snoring.

He’d fallen asleep on top of me.

It was nice, for a little while. I like the closeness and the intimacy of that. But then my arms began to sleep from where he still clutched them. He felt heavier and heavier. So I slipped out from under him. Slipped out, that is, in a process that involved shoving him off inch by inch while I tried to reclaim my limbs. I almost hoped he’d wake up while it happened, but he still snored away. All hopes of having my bottomless streak evaporated.

By the time I finally extracted myself from beneath him, the other men had disappeared. The older gentleman had left the hotel room altogether, as had the bald guy; Chris’s two friends were already in their clothing and saying their farewells. Chris himself was smoking a cigarette in the outer room while he pulled on his sneakers. “Damned good show,” he said. “You two were hot.”

I had to admit to a lot of disappointment. “Is that it?” I was still hard; I hadn’t been satisfied. My sex partner had fallen asleep on top of me and everyone else was leaving. “Is that all there is to a blackout hotel sex party?” I asked, quite aware I sounded like a Peggy Lee parody.

“What’re you talking about?” Chris wanted to know, genuinely surprised that I didn’t seem content. “You had fun. I got off watching. And best of all, I don’t think anyone noticed my foot.”

I wrote Marcus the next day, thanking him nicely for the invitation, and asking who had recommended me.

I still haven’t heard a reply.


  1. I'd hate to disappoint you.



    P.S. Great post, but you were fishing for compliments, weren't you?

  2. James,

    Oh, absolutely. I couldn't have been fishing more blatantly.

  3. "O Robbe, thou art slick" . . . as ever! Most likely, methinks, your fans wanted to give you a break while it would have been selfish to expect replies (which you so reliably make). Might their silence have been just as much a sign of regard as their usual comments? Less likely, and again, of course, in my (not-so-humble) opinion, could your very effectiveness of writing have caused it?

    And how? On the one hand (!), your description of sex with Sir Legal Eagle aroused me. On the other, I actually felt a sort of frustration, after finishing the entry (as it were). This stasis, along with me not always giving into the temptation to be a verbal exhibitionist, momentarily decided me against clapping my virtual trap.

    Ambivalence silences. And on further reflection, your description of the atmosphere and would-be revelers -- along with Legal Eagle's sarcastically humorous moniker for you -- were palpable (!!) turn-offs. How to expect otherwise, especially after Legal Eagle became . . . Legal Beagle?!

    Anonicus II

  4. As usual, you paint a picture so vivid that my dick is hard, and my underwear stained. Thank you for your 'inspring' words...

  5. Anonicus,

    I like your theory! I should be thanking everyone for giving me a vacation from having to answer comments.

    I actually kind of liked my nickname. After all, you're only two-twenties once, right?

  6. Richard,

    Thank you, as ever, for responding to my fishing and stroking my . . . er . . . ego.

  7. hehe, nice fun story Two Twenty! Is it your new nick here now? hehe. Maybe we can put up a Fuck Show and hit the roads:

    2:20 feat Lucas


  8. Lucas,

    Don't think for a moment I wouldn't do it!