When I met the steam room bear at the baths a few weeks ago, we’d spent such an intense few hours making out, fucking, and grinding against each other that there was no chance in hell I wasn’t slipping him my number and email at the conclusion of the afternoon. I give out my number in these situations with absolutely no expectation that the men will call me. They usually don’t. I’m too old and jaded to mope by the phone with my chin on my chubby fist, while Vikki Carr’s “It Must Be Him” plays in the background.
The steam room bear had called, however. He’d sent me a quick text message to confirm the phone number before he’d gotten back to his house an entire state away, that afternoon. Within a few days, we’d exchanged emails to thank each other for a great time together. Then last week we had a flurry of emails when he told me he was making an overnight business trip to Ann Arbor, Saturday.
He had a huge grin on his face when I stepped through his door. He’d trimmed his hair since I’d last seen him; the short cut made him look more professorial and even more handsome than I remembered. He let me know what he thought of me, in the first sentence. “Gawd,” he gushed in his deep voice, as his arms opened for me. “You look just like a teenager. Seriously. I was watching you walk through the parking lot.” Embarrassed and flustered, I gabbled out some kind of denial. “No, seriously, you in no way look forty-seven.”
Nearsighted and burly. That’s how I like ‘em.
Sometimes when I meet a man for the second time, it’s impossible to recreate the chemistry that made the first so memorable. With the steam room bear, that was not an issue. We were at each other immediately in the dark hotel room, stripping off our clothes and attacking each other’s mouths and nipples and necks with our lips and and incisors. Almost immediately I pushed open his tree-trunk legs and lowered myself between them so I could suck on his rock-hard, curved dick. He responded by groaning, grabbing a pillow to support his head, and by running his hand through my hair as he guided me where he most wanted me to work. I licked at his balls and nibbled at the sensitive area just below his crown. At his direction, I ran the flat of my tongue and my beard over the sensitive skin where his leg met his hipbone. He shuddered and jerked when I twisted his nipples from below.
It didn’t take long before I had flipped him over to gobble greedily at his hole. It smelled sweet, like soap and the faintest trace of aftershave. “All I’ve been thinking about is you fucking me,” he said into the pillow, half-muffled and half-dreaming. “How good it felt to have your bare dick in me. I need it.”
“Yeah?” I asked, trying to sound surprised, as if fucking hadn’t really been on my agenda, but that I might possibly somehow be amenable, under the right circumstances. Maybe.
“Yes. Please. Please fuck me.”
“Well. . . .” I drawled, pulling back the flesh of his beefy, sexy ass.
“Ram it in,” he begged. “Just fucking rape it.”
I was already rock-hard just from seeing the guy again, and having spent a good fifteen minutes rimming his hole had caused me to leak a puddle of precum on the hotel bedspread. I didn’t really need to be talked into it. I rubbed a little spit in his already-slick pucker, and slapped more on my dick. Then I teased him with the head right at his entrance. “You sure about this?”
He’d planned some spur in his head, I’m sure, but before he’d gotten out the first syllable, I plunged in. He roared. From the way his hole opened, though, I knew it wasn’t from pain. My suspicion was confirmed when the roar turned into a shouted “YES!” that could have rattled the paintings on the hotel walls. “Ohhhh, yes!” he groaned, clutching the pillows and turning them into support for his chest. “Yes, I needed that big dick in me, exactly like that. Fuck yes!”
His hole had opened for me immediately, with no resistance whatsoever. If my entry had been too rough for him, it was the kind of rough he obviously liked. “I want your sperm, buddy,” he begged. “I’ve gotta have your swimmers in me.”
I was fucking steadily, by then. “Not yet,” I breathed. “I’m not shooting yet, stud.”
“I’m ready for it when you do,” he promised. “You don’t know how hot it was, driving home to my boyfriend last time, with your loads sliming up my guts. I had you leaking out of me all night, man. I loved it.” He willingly let me pull him to a kneeling position. “I want more. Fuck. I wish I had a camera so I could see what it looked like with your big fuckin’ dick goin’ in and out of me.”
“Hang on,” I said, and I pulled out of him to grab my jacket. A moment later I had my phone in hand. I snapped a photo for him as I shoved back in, and then threw the phone down on the bed. Its screen illuminated his face. I saw his eyes open wide, then narrow again as I went down to the hilt. “Fuck,” was his only comment.
He looked at the photo until the screen blinked out. I fucked him on his knees, and then on his side, and finally on his back, his big legs on my chest and shoulders as I heaved into him. When I came, our mouths were already enmeshed. He grunted from his chest as my hips pounded against him once, twice, three times, and my dick swelled to release the flood of seed from my nuts. His hands grabbed for my hips and pulled me into him; he squeezed my cheeks so hard that I thought there might be handprints for days.
Then, once my dick stopped throbbing, he turned me over. We clambered into a position in which I was on my back while he straddled me, my dick still plugging him. I loved the sheer weight of him on me, all two hundred and eighty-five pounds of the guy. I loved being crushed by him, of being pressed flat against the strange mattress by so much warm, furry flesh. We lay like that for a long time, kissing and letting need ebb away and consciousness return.
Then he laughed. “I promised you a massage,” he said.
“Oh gosh,” I laughed in return. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” he whispered.
He spread body lotion into his palm, warming it there so that it wouldn’t be chilly against my skin. And then he’d rub it into my weary, grateful muscles, pressing them into submission. He was good at what he did, too. I wanted it never to end. Down my torso he went, his hands smoothing over my hips and my thighs, squeezing my calves, slicking up my feet and soothing my heels. He turned me onto my stomach and instructed me to rest my shoulders, face, and arms on a pillow, as he rubbed my upper and lower back. When he reached my butt, his hands squeezed the cheeks, then warmed them with the lotion and the flats of his palms. “So beautiful,” he whispered. Then, “So fuckable.”
I took a little breath. One of the first things he’d emailed me in the weeks before had been: I want to flip you. I dream about flipping you. What do you think about that?
The thought had made me hard, that’s what. I’d written back and said, I would be a liar if I hadn’t thought about it myself. But I just want to warn you that as much as I fantasize about it, I get terrified when it comes to doing it. And I’d left it at that. But before I’d left that evening, I’d taken a shower with an enema bulb, just in case.
His fingers probed my hole, dropping silky lotion just within. “Do you think about getting fucked?”
“Yes,” I breathed, trying not to clench.
“Do you think about me fucking you?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“You said you get nervous. What makes you nervous?” he wanted to know.
I don’t think it’s right to saddle a guy with my entire psycho-history. I mean, jeez. Who wants to listen to all that, when the dick is hard and wants a home? So, very briefly, I told him what had happened to make me shut down on bottoming, and that how having to explain and justify my reactions to it simply made not-bottoming easier, thus leading to many years of inactivity.
He listened through it and held me. “It’s not that uncommon, I’m afraid.”
He paused, then said, “Something similar happened to me, once.” He took a few moments to explain. And yes, he did understand. For a few moments after he shared, we held each other very tightly. Then, when it was very quiet, I said, “Fuck me.”
They were still a very difficult two words to say. But I spoke them anyway.
“I don’t want you doing it because you feel you have to,” he started to say.
I put a finger to his mouth. “Put it in me.”
“I’m sure. Fuck me,” I told him.
I heard him fumbling for something in the dark, and heard the sound of tearing metallic wrap, followed by the sound of a condom unfurling. “I think this will make you feel more relaxed about it,” he whispered. When I reached down, I felt his cock covered with latex. He covered it with lube, and then said, “Why don’t you sit on it?”
That was a position I could never manage to enjoy even when I was a total bottom. “Do it from behind,” I asked. It had always been the position in which I took it best.
I turned onto my stomach. Again, the weight of him comforted me. I felt his head against my hole. “This is very special for me,” he whispered into my ear. The pressure against my hole increased and multiplied exponentially. I felt as if I were unravelling, down there, flying apart into pieces. “I hope it is for you.”
“I want it from you,” I said, simply. It was the truth, even though I doubted I could do it.
But it didn’t hurt, as much as I expected. The pressure was intense, yet then came a moment in which the pressure gave way to something more. Every nerve that had been jangling seemed to sing; the strings of some invisible out-of-tune guitar that had been jarring my teeth rang out with a glorious major chord. Then, just as quickly as it had gotten in tune, it stopped.
“My dick’s not cooperating,” he said, pulling out. “I’m going limp. Fuck.”
Without a word, I reached down and yanked off the condom. “Fuck me,” I told him.
He slid back in, hard once more.
It wasn’t glorious. I didn’t experience that high I used to get as a teen, when I had dick after dick stretching me wide. But it didn’t hurt. Much. That is, I didn’t want to push him off me and beg him to stop. I didn’t want to crawl out from under him and run for my car. I liked the warmth of him on me, and atop me. I liked the fullness of it, though it left me gasping. And I loved the grunts and tiny noises of pleasure he made as he pushed in and out. “How much of it is in there?” I wanted to know.
“All of it, baby.” His voice was more a pant, a huff of excitement, than a whisper. “All of it.”
He didn’t last long. That’s not to say he shot quickly. Rather, he ran into erection problems shortly thereafter again, which merely left me confused—am I that lousy a bottom now that guys lose their erections once they’re in me? If I’d been more experienced and able to endure more, I might have felt a little short-changed. But how could I really complain? I hadn’t really been penetrated in almost a decade. Certainly not as deeply as he went. And me made me enjoy it.
I still haven’t been successfully fucked, I guess—that is, a fuck all the way to completion—but I liked it from him. Somehow he made it feel more like a triumph. Afterward, assuring me I hadn’t been dirty or awful, he held me and nursed me back to hardness, then urged me to mount him again. And that’s how we spent the rest of that long evening, with me pumping in more of the loads he craved.