Just don't think that 'yesterday' means yesterday, when in fact it refers to an afternoon a decade ago.
One of the things that makes me an easy-going lover is that nothing really shocks or offends me. I was an early bloomer, sexually. By seventeen I’d experienced more kinks than a geriatric’s joints in December. At slightly more than twice that age I thought there was very little I hadn’t done at least once.
Here it comes: However.
I’d been invited to one of group sex thing party at the baths, yesterday afternoon. It was a nice low-key event in which there were never more than a dozen or so people present at any one time. Few enough people, in other words, that most of them were pairing off and retreating to private rooms rather than carrying on in every available corner, nook, cranny, and bathroom counter.
One of the people present was a man I’ve enjoyed several times over the past couple of years. I have a mild crush on him, to be honest. He’s about six foot four (and it’s rare that I meet people taller than me, even by a mere inch), blue-eyed, broad-shouldered, furry, muscular, and handsome as hell. He’s about twenty years older than me. His hair’s gray and his bristle-brush mustache is white. He’s got those gracefully aged, rugged good looks that most movie stars would envy. If I recall correctly, he’s a judge.
He spotted me instantly, and I was pleased he remembered my name. We went to a back room and began to make out. After a few minutes of foreplay, he rubbed my shoulders and leaned down to put his lips to my ear. In his deep, gravelly voice he growled, “So what do you want to do today?”
“I’m up for anything,” I told him.
He held me away from him. “Anything?” he asked seriously, as if making certain. “Really? Anything?”
There was a brief second when I had one of those okay, what am I getting myself into? warning flashes through my head. But when I thought through it, I felt pretty sure the guy wasn’t going to ask to crap on my face, or ask me to slice up his buttocks with a bowie knife, or put me in a noose. Just to give myself a potential out, though, I grinned invitingly and said, “What did you have in mind?”
He looked slightly embarrassed. “You might think this is weird. I’d need you to go take a shower.” Ah, I thought to myself. He wants me to bottom. It has been a while—a long while, unfortunately—but I was game. “Get your hair really wet,” he added, his voice getting deep and lustful on the last two words.
The last little bit threw me into confusion. I had sudden visions of my having to perform a Flashdance-style routine while water flew in an arc from my wet and floppy hair. But I liked the guy, so I went to the shower and got my hair good and wet and went back to find him while I tried not to trample puddles of water through the place.
“Oh yeah!” he said, when he saw my head. He sat down on a chair and spread his legs. “Now get down on your knees and start sucking.” I obeyed, and watched what he was doing from the corners of my eyes as his dick grew harder and harder in my mouth. He reached into a little black bag, the kind that guys lug around to parties to keep their poppers and toys handy, and pulled out a big black bottle. He squirted some substance into his palm. “Can I?” he asked. I had no idea what was coming next. The slightly floral scent coming from his hand just confused me.
“Sure,” I said around a mouthful of cock.
His hands reached out and riffled through my hair. He started to shampoo me. That was his kink. He liked to run his hands through a guy’s soapy locks while the guy sucked him.
I enjoyed it a lot, actually. His fingers were strong and applied just the right amount of pressure in the right places. Being touched or massaged is something I enjoy even more than sex. He gave me a thorough scalp massage for the thirty minutes it lasted. The look of gratitude on his face afterwards would have been worth it even if I hadn’t been into it. I very much enjoy fulfilling other people’s fantasies or fetishes.
I hadn’t considered the consequences, though. Here I was afterwards sporting a head covered with lather, trying to make it through the halls of the bathhouse back to the showers without anyone noticing. Impossible. Instead of looking sheepish, I just strutted by, shoulders erect, as other men stared at me and at my cap of Vidal Sassoon foam and my little chin frosting of something else entirely.
I told a friend about it afterwards, and was disappointed not even to get an exclamation of surprise from him. “You’re not shocked?” I asked.
He quirked the corners of his mouth. “At you? No.”
“Look,” he said. “After some of the things you’ve done, no matter how oddball you think Shampoo Man sounds, trust me, he's pretty damned mild in comparison.”
He did admit my hair looked nice and shiny.