This last weekend was pretty frustrating from a hooking-up standpoint. It was the kind of weekend in which I had a nice wide few hours of sexual availability open for most of Saturday, only to get the flakiest responses known to online mankind.
Case in point: I stepped away for the computer to pee, wash my hands, and grab a snack at one point and came back to find no less than six emails from one sole gentleman on Adam4Adam. At 4:12 he messaged to tell me I was hot. Then I got a message informing me he’d unlocked his private photos, at 4:13; at the same time he added me to his friends list. Then he sent an email asking what I was into. At 4:15 he sent me a guess I’m not your type message, and then at 4:16 he told me he was removing me from his friends list.
I got back, read it all, and noticed that he’d also relocked his photos. Wow, I wrote to him drily. From first interest to rejection in less than four minutes, without me being able to say a damned word. Thanks for that wide-open window of opportunity, there.
I was cruising BBRT yesterday when a guy hit me up. I noticed his location first, which was within about a hundred and twenty miles of me—close enough to meet sometimes, but a little out of the question for a spur-of-the-moment impulse drive. Then I noticed his profile name, which was an unusual first name. In fact, it was the first name of a guy I’d fucked and fisted almost a decade ago.
It was unusual enough a name that I’ve remembered it and the guy ever since. I remember the whole party, actually. It was the first time I met my long-term buddy Chris, who introduced me to the whole online hooking-up thing. Chris used to live in one of Detroit’s skeezier suburbs—one of those neighborhoods in which I was always nervous (more so than in most parts of the city of Detroit itself) to leave my car parked and unattended. He’d converted his basement to a sexual playroom; a sling hung from the rafters, and there was an area to hose down, and several old sofas and chairs covered with blankets that guys could fuck on.
I got invited to a party at Chris’s house by a fellow known as Bowzer. Yes, like the guy from Sha Na Na. (I’m well aware I’m dating myself.) Bowzer was a man of definite sexual appeal. He had a shaved head, a muscular little body, and the look of a rough fuck. In photos he looks a little bit like a porn star. In person, however, he smelled a little bit like soiled diapers and cigarettes. His teeth were rotten. And the first (and only) time I went to his house to bang him, he stopped the proceedings mid-fuck when the bell rang to conduct a drug deal. Naked. Standing in the front door of his home.
I don’t know why I agreed to go with him to Chris’s party, but I was wary enough of Bowzer at least to contact Chris online and make sure I was both expected and welcome. As it turned out, it was the start of a very good relationship between us. I arrived at his place and met the guys who were there for his party that day. There was Chris himself, who was lean and furry and sweet and rather shy. There was Bowzer, who spent the entire party wandering around in a pot-induced haze, muttering to himself and swatting imaginary insects, like one of those homeless guys pushing a shopping cart in a forgotten part of any downtown area. There were a couple from downriver Detroit who were both heavily into leather.
And then there was Neo, the guy with the unusual name. He was from the east coast, visiting down especially for this party. Chris had been fucking and fisting him since his arrival the day before. He and Chris and the couple and Bowser were all present and dressed up in leather when I arrived. I didn’t own any leather, but the downriver couple were more than happen to dress me up, Barbie-style, in a pair of chaps, a harness, a leather vest, and a shiny black cap covered with studs. They even had a pair of size eleven knee-high boots for me to wear.
I looked fucking ridiculous. That’s all I’m going to say about that.
Save for Bowzer, whom everyone hated (and whom I never saw again, when I later found out that he’d told them all I was his boyfriend), the rest of us had a great time. Chris was all top as well, and the two of us fucked and fisted the downriver couple in the sling, taking turns on their hot holes. The more aggressively piggy of the guy wanted to prove what a hole he was by greasing up my right foot with Crisco. He then sat right down on it and took it up to the ankle. It was the first and only time I’ve effectively footed a guy. Word of advice: the heel is tricky.
It was with Neo, though, that I really connected. He had eyes that would bore into me as I played with his hole. He kissed like a sloppy maniac, and sucked like his mouth was wider, wetter, and deeper than anything human. For a lot of the party, while Chris was fucking with the couple and Bowzer was wandering around like a lunatic, Neo and I spent having an intense session on the sofa. We’d squeeze and torture each other’s tits, and make out, and then I’d fuck and load him. I remember at one point the guy I’d footed was eating a couple of loads out of Neo’s hole while his boyfriend was rimming my ass and cleaning Neo off my dick with his mouth, while Neo and I made out and held each other. It was a good time.
The kind you think you’d remember, right?
But it wasn’t even memory that was an issue, yesterday. When I saw that this guy who looked like Neo, had the name of Neo, was a fisting bottom like Neo,and came from the same part of the country from which Neo had flown in from had dropped me a note saying that he thought I was hot and he wanted to fuck, I thought it would be okay to remind him that we’d actually connected before and had a good time. We met about ten years ago when you were visiting my buddy Chris in Detroit, I told him. Remember me?
No, he wrote back. I’ve never been to Detroit in my life.
And I was all, But . . . but . . . but . . . !
But no. He wouldn’t be shaken from his story. He’d never been to Detroit. He’d never been to Michigan. He didn’t know anyone named Chris. He didn’t attend a sling party a decade before with a druggie, a couple, a lean top, and a guy who looked comical in leather. None of it.
I mean, he was perfectly polite about it all, and not trying to be rude or anything. But I was a little weirded out.
So I went onto my computer drive and sure enough, quickly found the folder of photos from Valentine’s Day, 2002, the night of the party. Somehow someone had managed to capture Bowzer in action during the three minutes of the night he was actually having sex. There was I, looking pathetic in my costume. And there was Neo, sucking dick and getting fucked in several shots. Same guy. Same face, though ten years younger. Same facial hair. Same build. Same exact armband on his right bicep. Same fucking leather in the then and now photos.
I mean, it’s the same guy. Has to be. And for the life of me I can’t figure out why he’s saying we never fucked.
It’s not a mean thing—it’s not like he said, Ew, you’re nasty, of course we never hooked up. It’s not as if his interests have changed to the less vanilla, or that he’s undergone a religious conversion and it’s more convenient for him to pretend we never connected. Nor is it as if he’d said, You know, 2002 was a fucking long time ago and I can’t remember my tricks that far back. I could’ve understood a simple memory lapse. I can’t remember what day of the week it is, most times.
The whole Nope, I’ve never been to Detroit thing threw me, though. You remember when you’ve been to Detroit. Maybe you don’t want to admit you’ve been there. But you remember it.
The only other explanations with which I’m left are that he’s either a clone or a Cylon. A sexual Cylon who doesn’t yet know that he’s little more than a replication, programmed to seek human cock and fist, better to learn human weaknesses and vulnerability before the final plan that reduces us to a race of sexual slaves.
It sounds a little like a porn movie that ought to be made. Come to think, I wouldn’t mind that kind of planetary dominance at all.