Wednesday, February 29, 2012

51 Photos

After two encounters in a row, within a couple of days of each other, that ended up as a poopy mess, I have to confess that I was a little gun-shy about hooking up again. With anyone. But when my local Puerto Rican fuckbuddy, the sexy, muscular furniture mover, messaged me last Thursday night, I couldn’t help but feel the stirrings of longing down in my pants.

sup lover?, he asked.

I was sitting in a Taco Bell at the time, having a solitary early dinner. I had the evening to myself, and didn’t have either the inclination to cook or to spend that much time or money on my meal. I’d planned to head home and work on a couple of projects I have cooking. But this sounded better. How are you, sexy man? I wrote back.

let me have your big dick my love, he texted. i got my own room now we can meet.

That was right. I hadn’t seen my little Rican lover in a few weeks because he’d been in transition. He’d been living with his sister—along with her husband and her husband’s mother and her two daughters—in a cramped two-bedroom apartment when I’d first met him. Since the new year, he’d found a place of his own, which would make getting together easier.

Let’s do it, I texted, after a moment’s hesitation. Those projects at home could wait. My dick was hard, and needed a place to unload.

I picked him up in front of his sister’s high-rise a very few minutes later. He’d been having dinner there. He hopped into my car and, to my surprise, gave me a big kiss on the lips right then and there. His hand went straight to my thigh, and squeezed. The street was dark and its sole lamp was at the far end, but I could tell my mover looked good. He wore a pair of sweatpants that fit tight around his round rear, and hung slack over his muscular legs and thighs. His pecs were barely contained in a wife-beater scooped low enough that I could see the religious tattoos inked on his chest. “Papi,” he breathed, as he put his hand on the back of my head and pulled my face down to him.

I had hastily to put my car into park so that I wouldn’t lose control of it during our kiss.

His new place was only two blocks away. (“Remember the ice cream store and that is my street. Now when you think of ice cream you will always think of me!” he said with delight, on the drive over.) I followed his directions and parked the car in front of an auto shop that was closed for the night. We walked up the street, and paused in front of a large bungalow that had definitely seen better days. He stopped right when we’d stepped through the uneven swinging front gate that needed a coat of paint. “Stay here, papi, while I check to see if it is clear,” he told me.

I was a little taken aback when finally he came back and snuck me through the front door and down the stairs into the basement, past a vibrating washing machine and through a door at the cellar’s far end. When he meant he’d gotten a room, he meant a room. It was a square box of a room with no bathroom, no sink, no kitchen. Just a small window set high near the ceiling, a mattress on the floor, a TV propped on a plastic milk crate, and a closet full of his overalls and casual clothes. On the mattress was spread a fleece bedspread printed with a giant picture of Jesus, holding up a pair of fingers either to bless someone, or perhaps test which way the wind was blowing.

My mover smiled at me with delight. “Now we can be alone when we like, my love,” he said, pushing me down onto the floor and the mattress. “And I get your beautiful cock all to myself.”

When he put it that way, there wasn’t much to which I could object. Right?

Personal confession time. One of the things I rarely write about is how bad my eyesight really is. I usually wear contact lenses, but a couple of times a week I’ll switch things up with my glasses, which are spectacularly nerdy and (I think) rather cool, but without which I’m pretty damned helpless. I was wearing my glasses that night. But I have to admit—once my mover had gently removed them from my nose and ears and folded them up in a safe place on the floor, I wasn’t paying attention to the shabbiness of that room anymore. Nor to the fact that he was removing my clothes while someone from upstairs was sorting their laundry not four feet on the other side of the locked door, or that he was holding down my hands over my head and licking out my pits right there on Christ’s face.

“This is my dick,” he kept saying, after it was loose and free. He put it into his mouth and sucked it all the way down before coming back up for air. “This dick belongs to me, right, pa? All for me?”

“All for you,” I murmured dreamily. Not being able to see him put me into something of a dream state. I just allowed myself to enjoy the sensations, to ride the crest of the wave of pleasure.

“All for me,” he agreed. He had a small bottle of lube on the deep window sill high above the bed. He spread some on his hole and then a little more on my dick, surrounding it with his fist. Then he straddled my hips with his knees and slowly lowered himself down onto my. My eyes opened when I felt the tight ring of his hole surround my flared head. They opened further when he settled right down onto me and slid to the base.

His hips wriggled as he reached bottom. He leaned forward, forced my arms above my head and held them there once more, and kissed me.

We fucked like that for a long time. I would thrust up, and he would grind down. It was slow, and unhurried, and languorous, like a summer afternoon’s fuck. When we came, it was together—him slightly ahead of me, as he jerked his uncut dick until it spewed droplets of clear fluid all over my chest, me only a little behind, with his ass still contracting around my meat. Then we remained connected together as if the orgasms hadn’t happened, for a very long time, still grinding, still moving our hips in their circular orbits around each other’s suns.

When he finally rested on his knees and lifted himself up, he went for the windowsill again. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but after a moment I felt something cold and wet and soft on my dick. He had a packet of baby wipes that he was using on my dick and balls, and he cleaned me off so sweetly and thoroughly that all I could do was sigh and dream and enjoy the sensations against my dick, my pelvis, my balls, my taint. Even if he had been dirty (and I don’t think he was) that was the way to take care of it after.

“I want a photo of you inside my ass, love,” he whispered, when he was done.

I was game. I shrugged and told him sure.

He ran to his closet and a moment later emerged with a battered digital SLR camera. I was a little surprised at how expertly he fiddled with the lens, but I should have remembered he’d told me he’d gone to an art school, in Puerto Rico. “Can I?” he asked, pointing between my legs.

I relaxed. “Okay,” I said. Then with pleasure, I watched as his blurry outline knelt down on the floor, pointed the camera at my three-quarters-hard dick, and snapped a shot.

“Let me take pictures of you, love,” he whispered. “So I can remember.”

Normally I’m wary about letting guys snap photos of my body and face after sex, because I’m not that convinced I’m porn material above the waist. There have been also a couple of times in the past when I’ve seen photos of myself that men have snapped that make me seem as if I’m nothing but a big dick and a couple of huge cavernous nostrils, or who manage to make me look as if I have the worst outbreak of acne possible, even on days my complexion is clear. But my mover was so sweet, and what I could see of him naked and crouched before me was so sexy, that I just held my dick in my hand until it was hard again, pointed it up for the camera, and posed.

The shutter clicked, over and over again. He eased me back against Jesus and shot photos of me smiling at him, my hair wild and crazy. He lifted my legs until my knees pointed at the ceiling, and took shots of me masturbating for him. He cuddled down next to me and made out with me while he held the camera at arm’s length and captured the moment. He took photos of me sucking his dick, of him sucking mine. And he had me take the camera and point it at his hole while I slid into him. Then he would grab the device and look at the photos while we fucked again.

I didn’t see any of the photos. He showed them to me, to his credit. But I simply couldn’t see them. My mover would hold out the viewfinder at arm’s length, and flip through the shots. “That is a good one, my love,” he’d say. Or he’d hiss with pleasure and murmur, “Oh, yessssss. I like that. So beautiful.”

But I couldn’t see them, because my eyesight is simply that bad without my glasses. I would have had to pull the camera down and peer at it through one eye, two inches away, to see anything sharply. My vanity couldn’t stand that indignity.

Or maybe, just maybe, I didn’t really care what the photos looked like. If he was happy, I was happy. I like to think that’s the reason I just lay there, and listened to his grunts and watched his smiles from up close, as he reviewed our moments together.

“How many photos did you take?” I asked, two and a half hours later, when I was pulling on my socks.
I was sitting on the corner of his mattress, legs spread, naked, disheveled. He was standing. He looked at his camera. “Forty-nine,” he said.

“Make it an even fifty,” I told him.

He grinned wide, and pointed the camera at me, so he could take another photo of me in that unglamorous pose—hair hanging down in front of my face, knees spread, cock hanging so low that the tip almost scraped the floor. Then he said, “One more.” And he reached down, and smoothed away my hair, and lifted my chin high in the air. “Like that,” he breathed, backing away. I heard the shutter click a final time.

Fifty-one photos. None of which I actually saw. And you know what? For now I’m good with that.

Monday, February 27, 2012

Hot Chocolate

His online profile claimed he was 39. Framed by my front door, he looked 53. His Manhunt and Adam4Adam profile photos had shown a handsome, lean man with dark hair, a married man, a man with a twinkle in his eye and a big dick between his legs. In person, he was an okay guy, a guy with gray and grizzled hair, a schmo whose eyes kept darting back and forth shiftily, as if he were casing the joint.

He said he liked to kiss, but apparently his idea of making out was pursing his lips into a tight point, and pressing them hard against mine in as chaste an exchange as I used to get from a great-aunt as a child. He wouldn’t allow my tongue to cross that impenetrable fortress. It would’ve been easier to get into Fort Knox’s main gold vault.

I probably should’ve stopped at that point, cut my losses, and called it a day, but I confess I let my horniness get the better of my common sense. I had a day off, and an opportunity to host. My last encounter with the banker who’d pooped all over the floor hadn’t gone so well, and I hadn’t gotten off in the interim. So what if the guy shaved a few years off his age in his online profiles? So what if he didn’t exactly match his older photos? He wasn’t hideous, and I had a dick that needed to get off. So I led him into my bedroom.

He went down on his knees the moment my belt buckle crashed against the floor. His mouth wasn’t the best on my dick—too much teeth—but it was a mouth, and I needed some relief. “You like that?” I asked. “You like that dick?” His eyes were closed as he bobbed up and down on the shaft. Thinking he was too far lost in some kind of sexual daze, I repeated my question. “You like sucking on that big ol’ dick?”
He opened his eyes then, gave me a look of annoyance, and went back to his substandard blow job.

All right, I thought to myself. So he doesn’t like chatter during sex. I’m good with that. I pulled him up on the bed and, while he continued abrading my dick with his incisors, removed my long-sleeved T-shirt. He took a moment to shuck himself out of his jeans and sweatshirt. Even his dick didn’t look as big as it had in his photos, I noted.

None of that seemed to matter at the moment. Because I was getting laid. At least he was showered—and clean enough that I felt comfortable eating out his hole a little bit. He bucked and groaned at the attention. “Shove it in,” he begged me, but instead I kept tonguing his hole. It was the first thing I’d done that got much of a reaction, frankly.

He slipped off the bed; his hands were braced against the floor as I kept my mouth against his hole. Then his torso slid down the side of the mattress, until his butt and legs were the only parts of his body still at my level. The side of his head rested against the wood floor. His eyes were closed. He sighed with contentment. He was ready.

I had some lube at hand, but all I really needed was a little spit. “You cleaned out, right?” I asked, will gun shy after the previous encounter.

“I’m totally clean,” he promised.

I slid in without a problem. His hole was tight and slick, and when he clamped down on it, I felt right about inviting him into my home. The crappy pics hadn’t mattered. They were just window dressing. This is what we both wanted. This fucking like dogs, this rutting like a pair of animals in heat. His head was back, his eyes closed, his mouth was open. He made the smallest sounds of pleasure and exquisite pain with every thrust.

“Let me sit on it,” he begged, after a few minutes.

I had no issues with that.

I pulled out of him very slowly and carefully. Then I clambered onto the bed and threw myself against the pillows. My dick pointed straight in the air. My ceilings are very, very high in this place; he was able to stand up on my bed without having to bend his head, as he positioned himself above me. “I want you to eat me out some more,” he said, as inch by inch he started to bend his knees and lower himself down. “Eat my hole, man.”

And that’s when it started. As his cheeks began to part, stuff started to drip out of his ass. Let’s use an apt phrase that’s been floating around U.S. current events in the last couple of months and call it a frothy santorum. It was the consistency and color of hot chocolate. Not the kind made by any Swiss Miss, however.

And it was sloshing down onto my chest.

My first thought: Jesus christ, not again!

My second thought: How the fuck do I get out of here?

It’s surprising, the way our brains work. I recall very analytically, very quickly, running through a number of calculations. It’d be faster to escape by scooting down toward the bed’s foot—but I’d run the risk of getting the stuff on my face, or in my hair. Pulling my body up toward the head would take a lot longer, but I’d have a lot less chance of getting that shit in my mouth or eye. In the end, and after only a split-second of decision-making, I seized his ankle, yanked it up, and did a roll-and-crouch like an action hero off the side of the bed and onto the floor.

The guy managed to keep his balance. More of the hot chocolate squirted out of his ass onto the bed blanket. Enema juice, it basically was—probably less disgusting than the banker had been, but this time I was gagging and having to clench down on the contents of my stomach. “Are you crazy?” I screeched at him, my face screwed tight with (I think) entirely justified indignation. “That is no way totally clean!”

It actually took the guy a moment to figure out what was going on. He looked at me blankly, then turned to one side to see the brown trail of splotches on my formerly white blanket, then turned to the other side—presumably so he could lawn-sprinkler the entire bed, rather than just the portion of it he’d soiled before. Finally he looked at me. “If you let me use your toilet for a couple of minutes, we could finish up after,” he said.

It was an offer I turned down, mysteriously enough. I had him in his clothes and out the door less than a minute later, and within three minutes, all the bedclothes were in the washer and I was in the shower, both set on hot.

So I’ve got to put it out there. Men of the tri-state area: what the fuck? Is bowel control not a thing here? Am I being super-picky for asking you guys to make sure your asses are cleaned out before we meet? Do I need actually to put the words Please don’t shit on me in my online profiles?

What the god-damned fuck is going on with you guys? This former mid-westerner really wants to know.

Sunday, February 26, 2012

Sunday Morning Questions: Humility Edition

I had recent two stories to related in which the end result of a couple of unfortunate sexual encounters was me being both grossed out and humbled. The "Fudge" entry of Friday was the first; the other will be my next blog installment.

But since I had another recent incident in which I was left with poop on my face (metaphorical, this time), I thought I'd round it out to a trio.

I'm always trying new recipes at home. Usually it falls to me to make dinners, because I'm the only good cook in the house, and because I keep the meals well-balanced and somewhat light. There's a baked spaghetti recipe I've been liking lately, for example—and I'm one of those people who associates that particular dish with midweek church potlucks, and always think of it as greasy and heavy and disgusting. The version I've tried, however, is mostly vegetables, and whole-wheat pasta, and just a touch of cheese. Delicious.

And then there's the dish I served the other night. It's a brown butter gnocchi dish that's heavy on the garlic. I like it because it calls for a lot of wilted fresh spinach, and because it's one of those meals I can throw together in 20 minutes after being out all day. I dashed home on Friday evening to whip it up, there was a made whirlwind through the kitchen of people eating before they went off to their Friday night activities, and then I was left on my own. So I stuffed my iPad in my bag and headed up to the local Starbucks.

It's one of those Starbucks with a drive-through, located immediately off a busy highway exit. There's more traffic through the drive-through than there is in the building itself, which is why I like it. I'm always guaranteed one of the comfy chairs, and reasonable quiet to catch up on my reading.

And of course, there's the barista there on whom I totally crush out.

He's about twenty. He has very long, curly blond hair that he attempts to keep tamped down with a baseball cap. He's got very dark eyebrows, and a clear complexion, and a skinny frame. And whenever I come in, I get a little bit of a vibe that if he's not exactly itching for me to jump his bones, he doesn't mind talking to me as he prepares my skinny mochas, and he certainly doesn't mind the tip.

"Big plans for the night?" I asked him, as I leaned on the counter and watched him play with the various espresso machines.

"Probably heading home and reading some new comics I picked up today," he told me.

I tried to ignore the fact that I was hitting on a boy who still reads comics, and gave him a suave smile. "Sounds like a wild Friday."

"Uh-huh," he said. I'd actually thought he was going to say something else, but he was staring at me.

Well, well, I thought. Maybe he's looking for another kind of wild Friday. "You can't think of anything more interesting to do than that tonight?", I asked, letting the open-ended question dangle. It wasn't overly suggestive, after all. Just vague.

And for a moment I thought he might be buying into it. He kept staring at me with a certain intensity that seemed almost . . . sexual. Like he was lost in some kind of erotic reverie. Then finally his little pink lips parted to speak. I waited to hear what he was going to say. "Dude," he asked, fascinated. "Did someone knock out one of your teeth?"

Of course, it proved that one of those leaves of nutritious fresh wilted spinach had completely wrapped itself around one of my incisors, resisting even the swish of mouthwash I'd taken after dinner. I had to scrape it off with a fingernail in the men's room.


Let's get to some questions from my readers, courtesy of

Do you actively seek out other women-besides the wifey-to sleep with?

I have enjoyed recreational sex with women in the past outside my relationship, and I probably will again.

My preference in recent years has been to meet with couples (whether married, or in a relationship, or something similar) rather than meet single women. There are a number of reasons for that, but the foremost is kind of big-headed; I've had a few occasions on which single women became possessive to the point of being stalkerish, and I'd prefer not to have to replay the scenario of Fatal Attraction, thanks.

Women in a relationship are usually just looking to have fun, or to bring to their relationship something it's not getting on its own. That speed suits me much better.

Do you own an Amazon kindle? Is there any chance you would be willing to publish your blog on the kindle? 

I have, and I use, the Kindle reader on my iPad. I'd be curious about hearing why anyone would think a blog transcribed to a Kindle book file would have any advantage over just reading the site at its web page (aside from portability, for Kindles without fancy web access).

I recently got a job that involves me dealing with the public a lot more than I've ever been used to. I have the ability to write things down for some folks who need a receipt. Would it be unwise to slip my phone number on a receipt? 

You mean, like you're a waiter or a barista? Heck, I say go for it. I've always gotten a thrill (and often a follow-up fuck) when I've gotten a phone number on a receipt.

One thing, though. You might want to make clear that you're flirtatious and interested when you're dealing with the customer—there've been a couple of times I've found a phone number from someone who barely looked at me, and I wasn't certain exactly if they expected me to call and come on to them, or whether they'd scrawled it down accidentally.

Give the guy a nice smile and your number, and he'll give you a call.

What's your favorite reality tv show?

The Amazing Race. I would love to go on it with someone who A) could drive stick shift, and B) would be willing to take on all the solo detours that involve anything cold and/or icy. I, on the other hand, have no issues with bungee jumps, high-wire balancing acts, snakes, or gross food.

Any takers?

Have you ever gotten a woman pregnant? And how many kids do you think you've fathered?

Yes. Three.

What is your favourite porn movie and actor?

I really, really like Jesse O'Toole of several Treasure Island movies. He's got more ink than a newspaper and about a mile of dick—more importantly, he knows how to kiss and take his time. If I could suddenly morph into a porn star, he'd be the one I picked.

Because of him, Breeding Mike O'Neill would probably be my one desert island porn DVD.

What did you get for Christmas?

My blog readers bought me NastyPig underwear, restraints, chaps, CDs, and a DVD. The best present I got from a blog reader, however, was a pair of Bose headphones that I refuse to take from my head.

What music do you like playing while you're having sex?

I'm not fond of music playing during sex. I find it really distracting.

I also don't like trying to set a mood through music when I'm enjoying sex with someone. I like making a mood through the style of lovemaking, and if Japanese techno is thudding out while I'm trying to create something intimate and sweet and memorable, it's just working against me.

Can one tell the difference between bad sex and sex with a virgin if one had no obvious knowledge? 

Absolutely. Most people who give bad sex manage to bluster and talk a good game, as if they're trying to distract their partner from the obvious badness of it. Virgins who are trying to conceal their lack of experience either tend to clam up during the actual act, or apologize a lot.

I don't want to give the impression that sex with virgins is always bad sex. It's not. Sometimes it can be tender and quite passionate and very fulfilling for both parties.

Friday, February 24, 2012


So I’m at this guy’s weekend house. Weekend house, mind you—one of those Victorian two-story New England-type deals originally built in 1860, with a cupola and a grand front porch and a plaque next to the front door stating that it’s part of this hamlet’s historic district. He’s a Manhattan banker who already owns an apartment in the east seventies. (“Don’t hate me,” he begged, when he confessed his profession.) A weekend house that’s been renovated to the gills inside and decorated with tasteful white pine furniture and inoffensive works of art.

I’m a little surprised, after I arrive and beg to take a quick pee in the bathroom, to see one of those signs on the sink that asks guests to help conserve water by hanging up towels if they plan to reuse them, and to leave them on the floor if they wish the maids to provide replacements. Later I figure out that during the summers, he probably clears out his personal belongings and uses a service to rent the place out.

It’s in that kind of waterfront neighborhood. Across the street from the docks, you know. If one had a sailboat, it’d be heaven.

But he’s here now, and I’m here, and we’re undressing each other next to the suitcase he’s got spilled out all over the floor. I’m pleased because he looks like his photo, which is a refreshing change in this area. He’s pleased because I’ve got the big dick he wants. He’s on his knees, leaning across the suitcase to get at it. Then he’s tackling me, arms around my waist, so that I fall back onto the bed with its hundred decorative accent pillows. There are so many pillows, in fact, that there’s a bit of a pillow explosion when my long frame hits the mattress. He has to take a moment to select which of the fussy cushions gets to stay, and which he’s tossing over the suitcase to the other side of the room.

Then we’re making out like demons. He’s a good kisser. Very good. He’s one of those silver foxes, an older guy with a head of gray hair and a gym-worked body, a handsome urban professional who’s probably made a good name for himself along with the wads of cash it would take to buy a weekend house like this one. He’s all about my dick, too. He goes down on it like he’s hungry and it’s the first good meal he’s seen in weeks. I’m groaning and moaning and my eyes are rolling toward the back of my head, as I arrange one of the remaining pillows behind my neck.

He smells good, too. Like soap, or as if he’s stepped right out of the shower. I notice it when I pull him up to kiss me again, and then suck on his nipples. I flip him onto his belly and kiss his shoulders, his back. I scrape my beard down his spine, and let my chin part his ass cheeks. I lick at his hole, and he shivers. Then I bite at it, and it growls and pushes back against my face. He’s getting into the rim job. His hips buck and quiver, his hole opens. I shove in a couple of fingers, and he lets out a low growl from deep within his core. He wants it. He’s ready.

Some lube. Some shoving. It doesn’t take much, and then I’m in. He’s got a sweet hole, and damn, does he ever look good there perched at the edge of the mattress, his ass in the air, his knees spread wide. He looks like a porn actor. He’s loving the fuck as much as he loved going down on me, as much as he loved my mouth against his. He’s no buttoned-down banker, now. He’s a fucking whore, pussying up for a real man’s dick, and he’s letting his pleasure be known. He’s howling and panting and begging me to go deeper. I’m matching him obscenity for obscenity, thrust back with stroke forward, matching every roughness with a pound at his hole.

“Let me get on my back,” he says. “I wanna watch you fuck me. Let me get on my back.”

I pause, and nod. This is when the unspeakable happens.

He pulls off my dick so quickly that it makes a sound like a cork coming out of a wine bottle. Only when it does, a geyser follows. A brown geyser. It’s the consistency of canned beef stew and just as chunky, and not only am I aghast as it splatters out and hits me right between my pelvic bones, but I have to watch as another squirt of it dribbles down his backside and drips onto the floor.

Somehow, he hasn’t even noticed. “Come on, man,” he’s begging. “Stick it back in.”

“You’re dirty,” I tell him.

“Oh shit,” he says, looking up and noticing that his guest has been splattered in the stuff.

Pun not intended, I’m pretty sure.

I’m not gagging. I’m not even grossed out, except in an abstract, mental way. I just don’t say a word and I walk into the bathroom, turn on the shower, and step in. I let the hot water clean away the worst of it, and only then do I reach for the soap and begin to lather up.

When I leave the bathroom, I drop the towel on the floor.

He’s managed to clean up a little while I’ve been in there. “You want to keep going?” he says from the bed. He’s on his back, legs up, playing with himself. Still hopeful.


“Let me jack off then,” he says.

I’m too polite to say no, so carefully watching where I step, I walk over to the bed and sit there beside him while he wanks. It doesn’t take long, thank god. My own dick is limp. The mood’s gone. He might be a handsome banker to everyone else, but now, to me, he’s forevermore that guy who had a chocolate fountain coming out of his ass, and somehow that’s not all that erotic an image.

“Next time I’ll make sure to clean out all the way,” he promises, as he leads me down the stairs and through the kitchen to let me out. Which makes me wonder—how far did he clean, exactly, if that was a partial job? And what would’ve it been like if he hadn’t cleaned at all. “Can I get you anything? Do you want some fudge?”

I turn around, thinking he’s making a badly-timed joke. But no, he’s got a cookie tin open. It’s full of squares of dark chocolate.

I decline. I’ve had enough fudge for the day.

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Dad of the Handsomest Man in Detroit

(This post, the second of two, I originally wrote in my journal about a decade ago. I went searching for it over the weekend when I was thinking about its subject. One of my readers in particular will know exactly who I'm talking about here—you know who you are.)

“Tell me you can come over.” Angelo's voice rasped low over the phone, early this morning. “I need you today.”

Right. I would turn him down. As if. “I need to hop in the shower,” I told him. “Can you give me a half hour?”

“I need to get in the shower too, bud,” When Angelo talks in that way gay men imagine straight guys speak when they’re being casual with each other, it’s totally convincing. I never smirk at his buds, bros, or dogs. “Clean up and make myself reeeeeeal pretty for you.”

No words could have been more calculated to make me hop in the shower more quickly.

Angelo, The Handsomest Man In Detroit, has an arrangement with me. Every two or three weeks, he’ll call on the days I’m most likely available to play with him, and he’ll invite me over. He’s not a planner; we can’t set a date for three days later and meet then. He wants me when he wants me. Thirty minutes after his call, I’ll pull into the driveway of his tiny house in the east suburbs, walk in through his open back door, and find him either in the shower, singing to himself in an off-tune voice, or sprawled on the bed in musky gym clothes. Just hanging, as he likes to say. Hey, bro. I was just hanging, waiting for you.

Then we fuck.

It’s our standard practice, though there’s nothing routine about the sex—that’s outstanding enough to keep me going back. I love the broad planes of his chest, his porn-star good looks, the deep blue of his eyes, the little cleft in his chin; I can’t help but admire the perfect roundness of his ass, or the way he responds when my hand drops to his buttocks and squeezes. He’s a loud lover, a man who likes his pleasures heated and his appetites addressed instantly. I might say no on occasion when other regular sexual partners of mine call, but not to Angelo. Not to The Handsomest Man In Detroit. Him I make time for.

I expected our usual agenda when I pulled into his driveway today and turned off the ignition, but before I could open the door, Angelo padded around the corner in workout gear, his hands making a circular motion, telling me to roll down my window. “Hey,” I said.

He wore a three-day growth of stubble, dark blond and gray. Instantly, when his full lips pulled into a grimace, I knew something was wrong. “My dad is here,” he whispered.

“Oh.” That put a damper on my anticipation.

“He stopped by just a couple of minutes ago.”

“Hey, that’s okay,” I said. “We can do this another time. Really.”

“No.” His hand shot out to clutch my forearm. “I don’t want you to go. I just . . . I don’t know what to introduce you as.”

His hand on my arm was a subtle reminder of why I enjoy being with him—his grasp was firm. He was close enough that I could smell the Dial he’d used in the shower. At the same time, all I could think was, We’ve been fucking for two years and he doesn’t know my name? “Rob,” I said at last.

He gave me the look of patience that people reserve for the slow and the hard of hearing. “I know your name, dumb-ass,” he said. “I meant, I didn’t know how to say why you were here. Maybe I’ll tell him you came over to take me to breakfast? Yeah, that could work. Only, he might invite himself to eat with us. Did you eat?”

I could only stare. Angelo was breaking our routine on so many levels. He was actually appearing outside his house, he was introducing me to family and talking about them going to a meal with us . . . where the hell was this going? At the same time, I was amused and intrigued enough by the situation to say, “Sure, that’s fine.”

I’d barely let the words out of my mouth than Angelo was back around the corner of the house saying, “Hey, Dad! This is Rob! He was kind of going to take me out to breakfast.” I found myself getting out of the car and wandering around the back, where I shook the hand of an old Polish man with an enormous waxed mustache, who greeted me and promptly went back to examining the transformer for some low-voltage outdoor lights. Angelo put his hands on his hips, sucked in his upper lip, and listened to the electrical advice his dad gave him.

It was wrong. All wrong. I don’t know where Dad Of Handsomest Man In Detroit might have learned about electricity, but I do know for a fact that you don’t measure electrical load by multiplying 120 volts by 12 volts, dividing by 15, and asserting that you can get “Ninety-six, probably a hunnert little lamps on this line.”

“I don’t think that’s the way it works,” I said, but when I saw Angelo strutting around and kicking at stray pebbles, his head nodding, I knew that he was simply tolerating his dad’s advice the way I put up with my own father, when he’s on a verbal tear about things I already know, like how storm windows save money. I kept my mouth shut, and let the old guy rant on about where the zinnias should be planted, and how the water hawthorn’s leaves looked limp, and how amazing it was that goldfish could live all through the winter in that frozen pond and still be around come spring.

From time to time, Angelo would look at me with apology, but his attention was on his father; he was full of uh-huhs and yes sirs and of courses as we slowly walked around the garden, looking at the new pond Angelo had dug to expand his water garden. “Let me show you the lighting system I’m installing,” Angelo said. He turned and jogged back to the house, his moccasins scuffing the stony path. “I got it at Home Depot yesterday,” he called.

Once the back screen door had slammed shut, Angelo’s dad poked at the hole in the ground with the stick he’d been carrying around to illustrate his points. “So,” he finally said. “Are you dating my son, or what?”

“Oh gosh.” I was genuinely caught off-guard by the question. Every response that sprang to mind was of the off-color variety. No, I’m just bitch-fucking him. “I’m just . . . taking him out to breakfast,” I said at last, trying to look at anywhere but the man’s face. Then I realized how evasive that seemed, and met his frank gaze square on. “We’re just friends, you know.”

“Breakfast sounds like a date to me. Doesn’t that sound like a date to you?”

“It’s just breakfast.”

“Angelo’s a good boy,” he said, pointing the stick in my direction. “He deserves a good man in his life.” I felt on the defensive. Was he saying I wasn’t a good enough man for his son? Or was he implying that, you know, I should be taking Angelo to expensive dinners instead of cheap-ass breakfast at the local diner? “He deserves a real good man.” I nodded sagely into the back of my fist, and pretended I appreciated the gravity of the moment. Though really, all I wanted to do was press the rewind button on the remote control of my life, and insert a new movie starting at the moment Angelo had called, an hour earlier. Oh, I’m sorry. I’m kind of busy this morning. Maybe next time?

The back door slammed, and Angelo came out, his short legs sprinting over the driveway. “I’d better let you boys have your breakfast,” his dad said.

“Are you hungry?” Angelo asked. “Did you eat?” Again, his eyes were full of apology as he glanced at me. I really liked him at that moment, inviting his dad out to the imaginary breakfast. He’d probably expected his father to decline—as he did—but it was still sweet of him to ask. And to assume I’d play along with it.

“No, no, I’d better get going and let you boys have your fun.” He stuck out his hand to shake mine. “Nice meeting you, Bob.”

“It was great,” I said, not correcting him.

“I’ll walk you to the car,” Angelo said. I’d been prepared to follow, but he grabbed my shoulder as they strolled by, and murmured in my ear, “Go in the bedroom and get comfortable.”

I kicked off my sandals once inside, and rested on the bed. My heels dug into the metal railing of the frame while I waited; I heard them exchanging goodbyes outside the bedroom window, and then a few moments later, the sound of the dad’s truck slowly pulling past. The back screen crashed shut, followed by the slow, soft catch of the inner door. I heard one, then a second moccasin hit the utility room floor. And then there came the sound of Angelo’s bare feet padding across the wood floor as he came to me.

“I am really sorry about that,” he said. “It was really unexpected. I was over at their house yesterday and I said, come by anytime, you don’t have to phone, and I really didn’t expect for him to take me up on it so soon.”

“It’s no problem,” I told him. “Your dad’s a nice guy.”

He stretched and yawned. As his arms flew up, so did his shirt. He tugged it over his head in a smooth motion, and shook out his hair. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“No, really,” I said, from the bed. “It’s no problem.”

“No,” he said, standing in front of me. His thumbs hooked inside the waistband of his jeans; his fingers fumbled for the metal button. As the denim slid down over his thighs and calves, they made the slightest of sounds. He pulled first one leg, then the other out, and tossed the jeans aside. He stood totally naked, an arm's-length away. “I mean, I’ll make it up to you, buddy.” Then he shoved me back onto the bed, one of his knees between my legs as his full weight landed on top of me. His soft lips met mine, and his tongue slid into and out of my mouth. “For being so nice,” he murmured.

His hands slid under my t-shirt until his thumbs and forefingers found my nipples. “Okay,” I said, trying to catch my breath.

So I let him.

Monday, February 20, 2012

The Handsomest Man in Detroit

(This post, the first of two, I originally wrote in my journal about a decade ago. I went searching for it today when I was thinking about its subject. It's interesting how my attitudes about certain things discussed here, such as my feelings about my own attractiveness, have changed in the interim.)

He’s way out of my league. Men I already consider out of my league, would think him way out of theirs. His name is Angelo, but I call him The Handsomest Man in Detroit.

The Handsomest Man in Detroit lives up to his title. He’s fortunate to possess the blond, affable movie star good looks of Robert Redford in his younger days. When he smiles, his eyes sparkle and his lips frame perfect, even, white teeth. His cropped dark blond hair always looks as if he’s just run a hand through it. He’s much shorter than I, no more than five foot six or seven, but his compactness suits him; he’s concentrated sex appeal—bite-sized eye candy. And he likes me.

Beautiful people either intimidate or scare the shit out of me, quite honestly; my lifelong experience has been that like attracts like. In congregations where pretty people gravitate to each other’s shining lights, I’m shunted to the sidelines like the bastard love child of Shrek and Buddy Hackett, feeling fit only to spend the remainder of my days high in the towers of Notre Dame, filing away the hunchback’s corns.

Yet the Handsomest Man in Detroit manages never to make me feel as if I’m his community service project, nor does he contrast the muscular flawlessness of his body to the pale imperfections of my own. Nor do I spend much time emailing him or phoning him to tell him how hot he is; I’ve sensed that other men have turned him off with their groveling. I bide my time and ignore him. Then every two or three weeks he’ll simply call me and in his low, growling voice, ask, “Are you free tonight?”

I was free Monday. “I’m going to leave the back door unlocked for you,” he said. “I’m heading home from the gym now, and might still be showering up when you get there. Just come on in and get comfortable.”

When I arrived a half hour later, I parked my truck in his driveway. Audible through one of the house’s back windows was the percussion of splashing water against a tub floor, accompanied the sounds of humming; through the screen came the scents of steam and soap. The back door was cracked open, as promised. I stepped through and into his laundry room, where on the floor lay a pair of gym shoes, battered, worn, and still warm, as if kicked off when he’d entered the house. Dark blue sweat shorts with a legend of University of Michigan lay draped over the short flight of stairs up to his living room; a few feet further away, a discarded gray jockstrap, its edges worn and frayed, decorated the carpet.

Angelo still sang to himself when I rapped at the bathroom door. I could see the hazy outline of his body behind the transparent shower curtain, and his hands as they reached behind to clean himself out. “Hey buddy!” he said. I felt warmed by the happiness in his voice. “Why don’t you go to the bedroom and get comfortable? Wait,” he added. The curtain slid back with a hiss of the metallic curtain rings. “Whatcha wearing?” He took in my oversized camouflage shorts, my gray t-shirt. “Keep it on . . . let me undress you when I get there.”

The curtain slid shut again. I kicked off my sandals and lay down on his bed in the next room, my hands cupped beneath the back of my head. It was only a matter of a few seconds before I heard the water slow to a trickle, then stop, followed by the clatter of the curtain rings and the sounds of Angelo stepping onto his bathmat and drying himself off with a towel. I kept my eyes closed while I listened to him padding down the hallway in my direction.

“Hey,” I heard him say. And then he was on top of me, straddling me at the waist, his mouth on mine. Warm moisture still rose from every square inch of his skin. He smelled clean, almost sweet, as if he’d just stepped out of an ad for grooming products. “So hungry for you,” he murmured, his back arching as his squared-off jaw traveled down my chest.

His fingers fumbled at the tie of my shorts, losing momentum when it became obvious they’d formed a knot. “Sorry,” I murmured, embarrassed and trying to help.

He pushed away my hands. “Sssssh.” As his own fingers continued to work at the puzzle, his mouth pressed against my stomach, his lips pulling at the hairs there, tickling and teasing my skin until all I could do was sigh. Finally I felt my zipper’s release. Unfettered by underwear, my cock sprang forward. He caught it expertly in his mouth, and began to slicken it with his tongue and lips. “I’ve wanted this bad, lover,” he said, detaching himself from me and diving for my balls.

Soon my legs lifted into the air as he wrestled my shorts from them, and then he was on top of me again, cock against cock, his taut, narrow hips grinding against me. We crushed our pelvises against each other, our gyrations meshing in rhythm and increasing in pressure; our lips met again, eyes closed.

When finally I unearthed myself from beneath him and flipped him onto his front, my cock left a shimmering snail’s trail where I slid across the black bedspread. He knelt down, perfect butt high in the air, still gyrating his hips. “Please,” he whispered. “I need it bad.”

“What do you need?” I asked him. He doesn’t answer until I slapped his ass, and then he responded only with a gasp. “What do you need?” I repeated.

“Your cock,” he said. “Inside me. Now. Please.”

Within a minute I was inside him. Then finally I said, “You’re beautiful,” I whispered. It’s the only moment I ever allow myself to make the compliment. The two words instantly made him relax and groan, then step up the intensity of our act. I didn’t have to thrust—he did that for me, backing himself onto and off of my meat like an animal in the throes of heat, his hole contracting and squeezing more strongly than almost anyone I’ve been inside. “Oh god, thank you,” he breathed. “Thank you, thank you.”

I raised up his torso so that he was still kneeling on the bed. I stood behind him, feet on the floor, still deep inside as I craned his neck around to kiss him. Then I pushed him down again, thrusting with more vigor. Both his hands clawed the bedspread; I felt a splash of wetness on my foot. He had shot, spattering the bedspread and the floor. But he kept grinding and groaning, urging me to my climax.

When I came, it was with violence, my teeth clenched, my butt cheeks taut. We both stood there for a moment, breathing heavily. Then he spoke. “Let’s get in the shower.”

This was the part I almost liked best . . . him with a washcloth, bent down in the tub with the spray stinging his back, tenderly washing my penis and my balls, occasionally leaning forward to kiss or lick my only half-flaccidness. His finger lingered in my navel; he gently bent me over to drag the washcloth’s rough surface between my butt cheeks. And then he helped me dry, and brought to my shorts and my t-shirt, and assisted me back into them.

“You really know how to help a guy clear his mind,” he said.

I wanted to tell him that he really was The Handsomest Man in Detroit, but I slipped back on my sandals and said merely, “Thanks.” That’s the way he likes it played, I’ve learned. Casually. As if I’d condescended to do him a favor, rather than the other way around. “Later?”

“Fuck yeah.” He leaned over to give me one more long, grateful kiss. Post-orgasm, I again felt almost unworthy of attention from such a beautiful person.

On my solo return trip out the door, I paused by the discarded jock strap The Handsomest Man in Detroit had been wearing only an hour and a half before during his workout at the gym, and considered whether or not to pick it up and stuff it in my pocket, as a souvenir.

Sunday, February 19, 2012

Sunday Morning Questions: Isn't It Ironic Edition

A short note to guys on Manhunt: I know it's a rough world out there. I know that the sex sites are the rootin'-tootin' Wild West of the online frontier, where the men are gruff and the sheep run scared. I know the result has prompted many of you to take it out on others in your profiles.

When your Manhunt profile consists only of two paragraphs, however, with one saying you're looking to meet nice guys, and the other reading, "Why is it so hard for men to be polite to each other on this site? Kindness and respect goes a long way with me!", and then you hit me up and respond to my comment of You are a handsome young man with one that reads That's the funniest thing I've ever read! How old are you, ninety? You sound like my grandpa and he's DEAD!!—well, I'm pretty much going to think you're a total asshole.

Don'tcha think?

Now let's get straight to some questions from readers, courtesy of And please, if you have any questions you'd like to ask about me that don't have to do with my dick size or my family life, head over to the site and feel free to ask anonymously.

Have you ever met anyone who tested as average (IQ, SAT, etc.) but still really impressed you as a mind? If yes, how do you think such people differ from those whose test scores stand out?

Some people test well, and are generally pretty smart.

Some people test well and are as dumb as a couple of potatoes in a bucket.

Some people don't test well, and have seemed smarter than some of the guys with Mensa-level IQs to me.

You know, I've run across all kinds of smart people in my life. Some of them have been told repeatedly how stupid and unteachable they are by teachers throughout their life, and by parents, and so-called friends. They've come to believe it, all because they didn't do well on standardized tests, or because they weren't all that great at writing essays. When asked to articulate carefully their ideas, though, they can be as sophisticated as any of their peers, or even more so.

My dad, who is one of the smartest men I know, was told throughout his childhood that he was stupid because of a mild dyslexia that causes him to spell (even still) like a fairly uneducated third grader. He tests badly on standardized tests, and his unedited essays are tough to read because of the spelling. He's a brilliant scholar and a had a long career in academia, though—he's just had to work twice as hard and overcome a lot of feelings of inadequacy because of his circumstances.

What was at the top of your Christmas list?

Peace on earth, and goodwill to men. And by 'goodwill' I mean Uniqlo no-wale corduroy jeans in every color, size 31/34, and by 'men' I mean me.

When you're at the gym, how can you tell if a straight acting guy is Straight or Gay?

I'm usually pretty sure they're open to gay sex when they're going down on me in the sauna.

Do you reckon you'll still be a top at 60 or 70+ ?

Probably. What interests me more is whether I'll still be attracting the bottom boys at that age.

How did your upbringing differ most from the norm, and how did this shape your adult personality?

I grew up in a household in which the sensibility was decidedly liberal, actively political, and in which sex was not a taboo topic nor was nudity rare—which was relatively uncommon in the nineteen-sixties and nineteen-seventies, but not unheard of. Usually when you find that combustible combination, though, the kid who grew up in has a name like Sunflower or Autumn.

As a kid I used to have to apologize to my peers for the differences between my house and theirs. Now I think I had a pretty awesome upbringing that's left me adaptable, open, and free of a log of bugaboos that cloud the minds of many people I know. I'm also aware that in other people's eyes, some of the things I see as my virtues—my candor, my sexual openness, my tendency to make a stand and defend it—come off as less than virtuous rudeness, crudeness, and jackass stubbornness.

I'm glad for my hippie-dippie upbringing. It wasn't a bed of roses, but it taught me more about the world than any Leave It to Beaver household.

Have you ever found yourself in the position of willingly giving up something you never thought you'd give up? if so, what was it?

I've given up a handful of friendships I thought would last forever, because they changed and were no longer real friendships. That hurt.

I've given up pursuing someone when it became plain that my attentions were causing him emotional distress. That hurt a lot.

I gave up a home and a place I really liked living so that someone I loved could pursue a dream. That was painful, but worth it, in theory.

Learning to let go of things when it's time is part of a life's journey. It's never without its anguishes, small and large, but it gets easier to contemplate, the more one does it.

Did you have a favorite gift as a kid? What was it?

I had several Christmas gifts when I was a kid that brought me a lot of pleasure. One was a miniature printing press, which I used to write my own newspapers for several years. Another was a chemistry set with which I laboriously worked through every experiment, though strangely it never helped me understand high school chemistry later on. Another was an electronics set, that let me perform various scientific experiments using a transistor, several diodes and resistors, wires, and a AA battery.

Mostly I loved getting board games, though. I still have every board game I've ever received—mostly Parker Brothers classics from the nineteen-sixties and seventies.

The best Christmas gift I ever got was probably an Atari 2600, when the originally came out. I played the heck out of that thing for several years—it probably got more utility than any other Christmas gift I ever received.

Do you wear cologne and if so what kind?

I rarely wear cologne. When I do, it tends to be something extremely light and barely noticeable.

Have you ever been caught by someone, preferably a female, and then had that someone join in?

The whole scenario of 'being caught' seems to be a popular fantasy for a whole bunch of men. It seems to be fueled by an undercurrent of shame and a desire for humiliation—and I've never been particularly ashamed by anything I've done sexually, nor am I into being humiliated. That fantasy has never done anything for me.

I've written in my blog about an incident in my mid-teens in which I was taken home by a couple of police officers for having sex in a park restroom. That was the one and only time in my life I've ever been surprised at anything. So other than that, no, I've never really been caught by anyone, at any time, doing anything, because mainly I know how to close the door and/or lock it.

Friday, February 17, 2012

A Long, Sloppy Blow Job

There are times I will hook up with a guy even though my better judgment tells me to run in the opposite direction. Then I wish I’d listened to my better judgment.

I spent Wednesday in the city. The family’s away for a few days. I took myself shopping, to dinner, to a show. I hung around in a coffee shop trying to connect with one (any one!) of the guys who keep telling me that when I’m in Manhattan, we should get together. Then finally, frustrated, I boarded my train back to the suburbs.

I thought it might be easy to score some sex online. Unfortunately, all the offers I got were from guys in Manhattan, who were suddenly interested in me now that I was twenty miles away. The closest I got was a Latin kid who was listed as being in my city, but then who revealed he was really in New Rochelle, twenty-five minutes down the road. (In Michigan that would’ve been nothing. Here, it’s a long-ass haul.) And that he didn’t have a car. And that he couldn’t host, so I’d have to pick him up, bring him back to my place, then take him back after. At one in the morning.

I was about to give up and just hit the sheets when a guy much closer started hitting me up. He was all top, he told me, but he was in love with my dick and he wanted to give it the expert treatment it deserved. I’m cock-proud enough to enjoy such blandishments, certainly. But I’m usually looking for anal, I told him.

Two tops can have fun together too, he wrote back. I would love to give you a long, sloppy blow job for as long as you like.

I enjoy getting head, I typed. But it doesn’t usually get me off, and I don’t like the guy expecting me to shoot when it’s not likely to happen from a blow job.

Guys say that to me all the time, he said. Then I show them what a real blow job is like.

I said, All right, as long as you know what you’re doing, and you’re not planning to try to beat my dick into submission with your hand.

I use nothing but my mouth, baby. For as long as you want it. Up to you.

So I shrugged, gave him my address and some very explicit instructions on how to find my house, and told him to text me when he pulled up, and that I’d meet him on the front porch. I didn’t need him ringing the bell of my upstairs neighbor at one-thirty in the morning. Then I flipped on the porch light.

Now, I should explain something about my current living situation. I live in a big old house in the middle of nothing. I mean, really. There’s a vast wilderness surrounding the house—nothing but flora in every direction. You know that Andrew Wyeth painting, “Christina’s World”? Well, that’s pretty much what my current living situation is like. Only I have indoor plumbing and cable.

It’s really hard to miss me, in other words. And I give very good directions.

The guy only lived ten minutes away. My phone vibrated fairly quickly with the notice that he was outside. I opened the screen door, and went out on the porch to greet him. And I waited. And I waited.
I could see his car. It was parked on the street where I’d told him, right in front of the slate stones that lead up the vast grassy knoll to the house. But I couldn’t see him. I texted him to ask if he was coming in.


It was five minutes before he texted again. I can’t find your house.

I’d had one unfortunate late-night encounter last year with a methed-up individual who had been pounding on the front doors of my neighbors across the street , while texting me that my road had nothing but even-numbered addresses on it and my address was odd. I was already dreading a repeat of it. I texted some terse comments about how my house was the only fucking house in the area and I was freezing my ass off on the front porch.

I’m at a building with a mail slot that says book deposit on it, he texted me.

The idiot had parked directly in front of my house. And then he had turned, walked five minutes down the street, and arrived in front of the public library.

What. The. Fuck.

I wasn’t all that happy when, a good ten minutes later, I finally got him into the house. He wasn’t all that attractive a guy—definitely there was some disconnect between his fairly good-looking pictures and his actual appearance. But I stomped into the bedroom, kicked off my pants, and let him go at it. I was slightly relieved he didn’t remove his own clothes, since that would make it easier to get rid of him if I had to.

I was pretty sure I was going to have to, fairly quickly.

For one thing, the guy’s ‘long, sloppy blow job’ technique consisted of grabbing my dick in his fist and letting his lips travel as far as the ridge of my head. And apparently ‘for as long as I liked’ was approximately two and a half minutes, because that’s when he started beating me off like he was frantically auditioning for a Shake Weight ad. “You gonna come?” he growled, in none too sexy a manner. “You gonna blow that big beautiful dick for me?”

I pulled myself up, unattached his death grip from my tender meat, and led him back to the front door with a gentle thanks, but no thanks.

So, guys. I’m advising that you not oversell your oral skills. There’s such a thing as good, hot oral sex, and then there’s such a thing as a guy between your legs with his mouth on your dick, not doing anything sexy or that even feels good. Believe it or not, I’m actually going to notice the difference.

When I do, I’m not going to hesitate to boot you out the front door—and make sure that you find your car, so that you’re not wandering around the parking lot of the local public library down the road.

Monday, February 13, 2012

Regular Dudes

I’m sitting in the Mexican food joint, solo, three-quarters of the way through the burrito I’ve ordered for dinner, when he walks in. He’s wearing jeans from Neiman-Marcus, pressed to within an inch of their denimed life. A leather jacket the color of caramel, and softer than butter. And one of those plaid, J. Crew shirts that are the weekend uniform of married dads throughout this county of Connecticut. His hands are in his pockets.

The burrito flippers behind the counter usually call out to each customer as he enters, but right now they’re too engrossed by the scene on the TV. “Is this an actual Superbowl commercial?” one girl asks the manager. She’s all of seventeen.

“I think so,” he says.

The landscaper looks up at the screen as he sidles into the seat opposite me. I tear off a bite of my burrito, stare at him, and chew. “I’m late,” he says. “Sorry, dude.” I say nothing. I’m eating. “I was going to take you out to dinner. Kind of like a date.”

I stop chewing, and stare at him. Then I look at the screen, trying to pretend to be rapt in the pre-game chatter.

Look, I’m going to be honest. I know shit about football. I don’t know how it’s played. Oh, my dad tried to teach me in that obligatory dad-son way when I was a kid, but the rules are so fucking complicated, and there are so many of them, and it takes so long between plays that by the time the ball actually moves a yard or two, I’ve given up and gone on to some far more interesting activity.

I grew up playing (and hating) the two games my dad loved the most as a kid—lacrosse and tennis. And it should tell you something that even after playing on a tennis league all through middle and high school and into college, I never did quite understand its scoring system. I’d just keep swinging until someone was vaulting over the net to shake my hand, at which point I understood the game was over.

There’s just some part of my brain that shuts off in the face of the prospect of learning how to play competitive sports, and football has never been on my radar.

My football knowledge is so poor that it wasn’t until about an hour ago that I even knew who was playing. So while I’m probably competent enough to fake interest in the pre-game commentary, I’m just glad there’s no actual football going on above our heads about which I’d have to make conversation. “I’m good,” I tell him, as I finish up all I want of the burrito. I put the remainder on the plate and push away the tray.

“Told the wife I was going to my buddy’s for the game,” he said. Even though he’s attempting to act casual, his eyes are dancing all over me. I dress in a certain way when I meet the landscaper. I don’t wear the kind of stuff I’d wear into a trip into the city, for example—boots, moleskin overcoat, natty trousers, tight shirt, my garish scarf. I wear Levi’s. And a flannel shirt. And sneakers. “What’d you tell yours?”

“I tell her I’m going out,” I say flatly.

“She doesn’t ask where you’re going?”

I shrug, very slowly. “Does she need to know?”

He’s not paying attention. He’s looking at my body. Unconsciously he licks his lips. “Want to go out to the van?”

“Not yet,” I say. “It’s the national anthem.”

The burrito wranglers are all rapt in Kelly Clarkston warbling her way through the song. I don’t really give a shit. But I like the landscaper thinking I’m a red-blooded, all-American type of guy. He gives all his attention to the television screen during the song’s duration. I watch his pink little lips move along with the words. He even puts his hand over his heart.

“All right,” I tell him, when it’s over. “Let’s go.”

It’s freezing outside, but his van is still warm from his drive over. He must have overheated it, actually. The back of the van is surprisingly toasty after he shuts the doors. I fall to the floor and leg my legs sprawl apart so that my crotch is prominent. My back leans against the rear of a passenger-side seat. I let my hands fall negligently between my thighs, and play air drums with my thumbs.

When he reaches out for me, I draw my legs together. What light there is is coming from the Mexican place and the AT&T store beside it, but it’s enough that he can see my face. “Oh yeah,” he says in a soft voice. He pulls out a roll of bills from his pocket, and peels off three from the top. He pushes them into my outstretched hand, and I bury the identical Ben Franklins in my pocket. After that, my legs are more pliable again. I let him rest his nervous hands on my calves as I unzip and shuck the denim down my legs.

“Fuck,” he whispers, at the sight of my hardness. I love this moment with the landscaper, this inevitability, when he drops all his defenses and carefully-built lies and comes face-to-face with what he truly desires. He can’t bring himself to admit how badly he wants sex with another man. I like knocking the everyday cockiness out of him with my cock. “Fuck!” he repeats. My eight inches are Svengali to his Trilby, though he’s more thoroughly mesmerized by them than by any swinging gold watch.

I pretend to ignore him, though it’s impossible. He’s already breathing with a rasp. It’s been a while since we last met, and he’s been deprived. He needs this.

“You told me I could touch it this time,” he said. It’s a child’s plea. He’s begging me. I act as if I’m considering changing my mind. He rolls over and exposes his right hip, and thrusts a hand into his pocket. A fifty-dollar bill grazes my ball and lands beneath them. Then a twenty. Without a word, I scoop up the bills and shove them into my shirt pocket.

His fingers are cold, but on my red-hot dick they’ll warm up soon enough. He squeezes—too hard, in fact. I make little noises to tell him to back down, and he lessens his death grip so that it’s soft and almost feather-like. He’s lying on the floor of the van in an uncomfortable-looking posture, absorbed by what he’s holding. I’ve been with young guys before who’ve never played with a man-sized dick before, and the same kind of fascination has taken hold of this guy. His thumb rubs over the head, smooths the bead of precum at the tip, plays with the shaft. “Is this gay?” he asks, suddenly.

I think it’s pretty gay, yeah. Guys having sex with each other is pretty much the definition of gay. But I don’t say anything. In fact, I’m too busy saying, “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” because he’s scooting up and approaching my dick with his mouth open.

“I’m not going to suck it,” he says. Then, foxily, “Unless you want me to.”

“Fuck no,” I say, as if offended by the very idea of a dude slobbering down on my hog.

“I’m just going to lick the balls while I stroke you,” he explains. He’s already thought this one out, I realize. Planned it all along. He knew exactly how’d he work it, how he’d put the married straight guy at ease. Throw enough cash at him, make it sound convincing, take it a step further. “You’ve let me suck your nuts before. Same thing. Just my hand this time.”

“I don’t know,” I say, with the maximum amount of doubt in my voice.

“Come on, dude,” he says. He’s wheedling. The need is almost plaintive.

I pause for a moment, then nod. He can have his way. I just lay back against the seat and let him work. His breath is hot and soft of my nuts, and then there’s the sensation of his tongue working against them. His hands are warm now, and they surround my cock and jerk at it clumsily. The scene is hot, though, and I’m turned on by the scam we’re both working on the other. So it doesn’t take long before a steady flow of precum is leaking down my shaft and onto his hand.

He doesn’t care. I let him play with my dick for a long, long time in the back of that dark van. Then I take over. I remove his fingers with the least amount of touching him possible, then grip my shaft in a firm fist and begin to jack it. He’s grunting softly to himself with his eyes wide open as he still licks at my nuts.

I put on a show for him. I tip my head back. I shiver and quake as I stroke faster. I pretend not to notice when his tongue moves from the safe area of my balls to the lowermost inch of my shaft.

“It’s all good,” he urges. “Just two regular dudes. Doing stuff. The women don’t got to know about it. Doesn’t make anyone less of a man.” The words are making a pleasant buzz against my balls, but they’re annoying. “Come on, buddy. Score that touchdown.”

“Shut up,” I say, not having to feign the annoyance in my voice.

The warning works. He resumes his licking. In the quiet it doesn’t take me long to climax. I let out a long growl from my diaphragm, hiss through my pursed mouth, and shoot. The load drools out of my dick and slides in a long rope onto his cheek. Then another joins it. A third is building up at the tip and pooling out when I slump back violently against the seat.

When he sits up, he’s got my load on his face. He seems a little bit panicked by it. He reaches for the roll of paper towels he conveniently has beneath the seat, and wipes the stuff away as if it’s burning. “Didn’t expect that,” he says.

“Gotta go,” I tell him, sounding brusque. I’m zipping and adjusting my shirt already.

“Fuck,” he says, looking at his right hand. “I touched a dick. I touched a dick. I mean, I’ve touched my own.”

“Mine’s bigger,” I say, stating it as a fact, not a question.

“You want to go back in, watch some more of the game, get a bite to eat?” he asks, as I crawl over to the door to let myself out.

“Gotta go,” I repeat. Then I’m in the cold air, and hitting the remote on my car to open the doors.

I’m barely on the road when he’s texting me. dude u r the hottest!!!

I don’t know about that, but I’m a forty-eight-year-old guy with money in his pocket from putting on a jackoff show, and that’s not too bad at all.

Sunday, February 12, 2012

Sunday Morning Questions: Bruised Ego Edition

I wanted to thank all you guys who made my birthday week a big ego-boosting success.

I received in the U.S. mail quite a few packages containing small gifts from readers—which, in time-honored tradition, I'll be modeling on here when I can get some time to take photos. Those were fantastic gifts, and I thank all those who sent them.

I'd also like to thank the many, many, many readers who took time out to send me birthday greetings on or around the day, either through email or Facebook or an instant messenger or notes on various sex sites, or comments here. Lots of you sent naked photos, just like I requested for my special birthday gift. And I do mean lots of you. If you haven't heard a thank-you from me yet, it's merely because I'm still working my way through the stack—but I greatly appreciated them all.

It's a little overwhelming and humbling for me to know that so many readers actually give a damn. So thank you for that.

But lest you think that my notion of self-worth is ballooning beyond all safe proportions, let me assure you I get it pricked at regular intervals. Allow me to lift the veil on my domestic arrangements a little and share a story of yesterday, when I was window-shopping at Macy's with the family. I was trying on a Calvin Klein sports jacket and looking super-foxy, when I noticed an attractive woman checking me out. I smiled. She smiled. Her glance lingered. Maybe it was the jacket. Maybe it was me. I turned, feeling like James Bond, and had this exchange with the spouse:

ME: Honey, that hot chick is totally checking me out.
THE SPOUSE: Really? She must be an undercover security guard.

Insert rim shot here, folks. That's how they keep me biddable around here.

Let's get to some questions.

Lots of guys love jocks, thongs, underwear, or speedos to get in the mood for sex. During sex, do you (a) take them off & put them away nicely, (b) leave them on & try to keep clean (c) leave them on & get dirty, or (d) rip them off & render unwearable?

I would never rip another man's underwear unless he has specifically asked me to. Nice underwear isn't cheap. I don't go through strange wallets and rip up another man's twenty-dollar bills, either.

If asked or invited, then yes, I've done it.

Usually when it comes to underwear, I like to get it wet with my mouth as I eat the guy's dick through it, or munch at his hole. Then I'll take it off and do what comes naturally.

Why are you comfortable with the risks you take?

I could ask you the same question. Why are you comfortable with the risks you take, whether they're walking on icy patches without adequate traction, or driving over the speed limit, or eating a poor diet, or smoking, or speeding through a yellow light just as it flashes to red? Why are you comfortable living near a power plant, or eating processed foods, or accepting a job that causes your stress levels to go through the roof?

Just because some of the risks with which I'm comfortable are sexual does not automatically make them morally worse, or even more dangerous, than the ones you accept as everyday risks without a thought.

I try always to be aware of risks, and not to push the ones with which I'm not comfortable. You should be doing the same.

Have you ever slept with somone 10 years or more older than you? Over 10 years younger?

When I was first having sex, the guys were all two to three times my age. Now most of them are less than half my age. It's worked out well.

Have you ever been or ever been in a 3-way where someone or you was double penetrated (2 cocks in 1 hole)?

I've been in double-penetration scenes many times as a top. Because of my length, usually I have to be the top who lies down with the bottom sitting on my dick, while the other top enters from behind. As a result, I've usually got several hundred pounds of flesh on top of me and absolutely no ability to thrust or control the sensations.

Which would probably explain why I don't like DP scenes.

Morning wood: Pee or jerk-off? Discuss

Pee. At my age, when I've gotta go, I've gotta GO.

After you jerk off, do you eat your load?

Often I do, yes. When I was a kid I learned to do it after masturbating not only because I liked the taste of sperm, but because it was an easy way to get rid of the evidence.

If a guy wanted to borrow a weeks worth of underwear from you, which pairs would you lend him?

What's he going to do with him? That's what I'd want to know, first. If he's just going to wear them and return them, I'd probably give him a variety collection of some of my slinkier and more expensive pairs.

If he's going to do something dirty with them, though, I'd probably lend him the cheaper stuff I have from H&M and Uniqlo. Those I can replace more easily if things get out of hand.

How do you accomplish all that you do and also play the piano? You seem never to practice, yet good enough to make a little money playing. Do you practice, but just never mention it?

One of the things about my blog is that it really shows a very narrow slice of my life--a few minutes out of the day, really. Twenty minutes here. An hour there. An episode from my past. There's a lot I do that I don't really write about in the blog.

I don't write about the minutiae of my day-to-day work, for example, or discuss some of the insane projects I undertake around my kitchen (I make my own jams and yogurt like a crazy person), or the artsy stuff I do in the evenings to keep my hands and mind busy, or the crazy amounts of reading I do, or the video games I play. I don't talk about the time I spend with my family at home, or much of the craziness that sometimes comes with the activities I do for them.

So no, I don't really discuss playing the piano in my blog, and unless you're living in the apartment upstairs from me, you really don't know how much I practice. I started playing at the age of six, did it all through high school and college, and made extra money on Sundays playing for a small church for a few years. I'm not a fantastic pianist. I'm a terrific sight reader and a great accompanist, but there are certain things I can't do (improvise, play by ear, read chord sheets without great pain for everyone involved, or transpose) that keep me from being sought after for anything other than grade schools, show choirs, and churches.

But I do play for pleasure, and that's not a bad skill to have.

Friday, February 10, 2012

Open Forum Friday: Online Hookup Turn-Offs

Online is how men find each other for sex these days. Sure, it’s still possible to cruise public parks or restrooms to find some occasional dick. One can still head to the bar and pick someone up. Okay, I suppose it’s still possible to meet people at places like the job or while doing things like volunteer work or attending church, but let’s face it. Going online, whether on one of the many sex cruising websites, or Craigslist, or a phone app like Grindr, is these days the fastest and most expedient way for most horny guys looking for man-on-man action to get laid.

That’s one of the reasons I do it. But it’s also so ripe for the mocking that I can’t resist going at it, on occasion.

Which is basically my set-up for saying, I was going to write today about a fuck I had this week that was less than stellar, but then I decided to be an old curmudgeon instead, as if I were starring as a sexed-up Mr. Wilson in a reboot of the Hank Ketcham comic strip called ‘Dennis the Leather Menace.’

So. Without further ado, I present:

4 Things I Wish You Wouldn’t Write Me in Your Hookup Notes


It’s usually a one-word note. Not even that. Just a subject line in an online email, on a site like Manhunt or Adam4Adam. UNLOCK.

What it means is that the guy wants you to flip the switch that permits him to see any private photos you might have that aren’t on view to the general public. Simple enough, right? Sure, there might be more polite ways to ask such a thing. Hey, I find you attractive. May I see your locked pics? comes to mind.

Unlock strikes me as abrupt and imperative, but hey. At least it’s not coy, right?

The thing is that I don’t lock my photos. They’re all out there in the open, X-rated and G-rated alike, shots of my goofy face rubbing up next to photos of my nuts and dick on proud display. (Not in the same single photo. I don't do that any more.)

I know that most guys, particularly in my area, don’t do such a thing. They have either their faces and torsos on display and their gonads behind the lock, or the reverse. Not me. I’ve received email lectures about doing it from local guys who are shocked that I’d be so trashy. Screw ‘em.

Don’t ask me to unlock. I don’t have anything to unlock. You look like a dumbass, saying it. It’s like walking up to a naked man and yelling at him, Take it off!

Note: I do have locked pics on my BBRT profile—but only because the site asks that users lock penetration shots. It’s also the one site where I don’t have people sending me UNLOCK emails.

2. Picture Inequity

I suppose I shouldn’t really complain about notes with twice the number of words as UNLOCK. But I’m gonna complain about this one: MORE PICS?

I do have more pics. I have a lot more pics. I have a decade’s worth of digital shots, dating back to the days when I had a Sony Mavica that recorded photos on floppy disks.

But see, sir, the thing is that while I have—oh, I don’t know—eight or ten photos on my profile, you’ve got exactly zero. Or maybe one. And if you do have one, that one is a particularly small and grainy shot of what could be your chest, or might be your elbow. Again, I don’t know. It’s tough to tell when it’s so blurry and out of focus that it seems to have been shot through a field of dirty beer mugs.

With my old Mavica.

So here’s the thing, guys. If you really want someone to send you more pics, why not make the first and more generous move? Say, I really like your pics. What’s your email so I can send you a few more? Do you have any others to trade, too? Not only does it make you sound as if you’re trying to do the right thing, but it tells the guy that you’re willing to give a little to get a little.

That’s a good thing, because MORE PICS? always gives me the impression that you don’t think my existing pics are good enough for your blurry ass.

3. Are you still interested?

There’s a certain type of personality online that needs constant reassurance. I find that type of personal fucking exhausting.

There’s always a good initial fit, it seems. Mutual interest on both sides. But there’s something that keeps us from getting together right away. That something is usually distance—I’m where I am, and they’re in Pennsylvania, or Boston. Or it could be scheduling—he’s in Manhattan, but he’s only available weekends, and I usually only go into the city on weekdays.

So then will come the barrage of emails. Hi, I thought we were a good match the other day but I need to know if you’re interested in getting together sometime. There still aren’t any concrete suggestions of what to do, on his end. Just a general need to know if I’m interested.

Nothing wrong with that. Once.

But the more extreme types of this personality require constant reassurance. Usually within about ten seconds of me logging on. Are you still interested in meeting sometime? I need to know. Or, I really need to know if you still want to meet.

Dude, listen. I’ve told you I’m interested. I’ve given you ways to contact me. I’ve given you my schedule and probable best days to hook up. The ball’s in your court. We’re not a Victorian relationship with a decade-long engagement; it’s not my responsibility daily to assure you that my intentions have not changed, or that I don’t have my eye on that saucy minx who shows a bit of ankle from under her bustle.

If propping up your fragile ego is becoming a bit of a full-time job, chances are that you’re going to be put on my block list real soon.

4. Lookin

Another one-word note. LOOKING. Or sometimes, LOOKIN. Sometimes with a question mark, often without.

Yeah, I might be lookin’. I might even have found you attractive under other circumstances. But for some reason, those one-word notes, usually no more than a subject line, I find really off-putting.

Or off-puttin’.

If you can’t be bothered to write even a simple note like, I can host and I’m horny, want to come over?, chances are that I really don’t want to meet you. You’re just telling me you’re a lazy fuck, basically. And who wants to labor over a lazy fuck?

Man, apparently I am Mr. Wilson.

So readers, tell me. What’re the notes you dread getting online? Is it the ‘sups, or the UNLOCKS? Is it the constant requests for you to top when you’ve plainly stated you’re a bottom? I declare this Open Forum Friday. Gentlemen, start your engines. And may the best griper win!

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

Another Round with the Runt

The runt’s hole is a sloppy little pucker, red and raw from my teeth, tongue, and beard. When I draw my face away from between his ass cheeks, the car’s cold air hits the wet flesh. The shock makes it contract and expand, like a winking eye.

It’s quiet at this end of the parking lot, which runs alongside the New Haven line. Every few minutes a Metro North train roars by, obscuring his whimpers as it rattles along on the tracks and stops at the station this parking lot services. A few commuter cars still pepper this remote section of the lot, so far away from the station that it would take a brisk three-minute walk to make the train. By and large, though, this time of night the lot is deserted. In the back seat of my car, parked in a pool of shadow, we’re invisible from anyone who might drive by. Invisible from the banks of apartments that rise four stories above us, over the empty lot. Invisible from the world.

I’ve been eating at the runt’s hole for a good half-hour. He’s been loving it. His cock is dripping pre-cum like a faucet. I’ve told him not to touch his meat. His skinny legs are up in the air, sometimes resting on my shoulders, sometimes resting on the back of the driver’s seat. Most of the time, though, his completely naked body is curled into as tight a ball as possible. He’s conserving heat. He’s pushing up that hole, exposing it, giving me the maximum possible access. He wants more. He wants my face buried in that private place, and he’d take it forever, if we had world enough and time.

But I haven’t picked him up from his folks’ place to munch on his butt indefinitely. It’s awkward in the back seat, even with the seats pushed up, but I perch my left leg on the seat as my right squats on the floor. I raise myself up and align my dick with the boy’s hole. I use my right hand to spread a glob of spit over my meat. My left hand cups, then covers his mouth, pressing down firmly. I feel his head make a dent into the seat cushion.

Then I cock my head, like a curious bird. Ready? I’m asking him silently.

The runt begins to nod. I’ve already anticipated him. Before he’s given assent, I’m driving in.

I hadn’t planned it, but an Acela speeds by at that moment. The high-speed Amtrak is a rush of noise and wind that shakes my car as it passes—or perhaps it’s the runt’s attempt to escape the cock stretching open his asshole. He’s still yelling when nothing’s left of the train’s passing but a few still-vibrating signs, and the memory of an echo. “You want me to stop?” I ask him.

No. He shakes his head no, panicked I might pull out. His eyes have a watery film covering them that reflects what traces of light seep into the car.

“I could pull out and drive your scrawny ass home,” I drawl. “Is that what you want?”

No. He shakes his head more desperately, trying to dislodge my fingers. “Do it,” he says. It’s cold enough in the car that his breath spirals up toward me, like smoke. “Fuck it,” he begs. "Fuck that hole."

The little runt brings out the sadist in me. I shove the rest of my meat in, without mercy. My hand claps down on his mouth to muffle the rest of his yell. His legs flail helplessly in the air to either side. For a moment there’s panic in his eyes, but ultimately he knows there’s a price to pay for all that pleasure I’ve given him. He’s paying, now.

Soon enough, it starts paying back to him. Mere seconds after I’ve hit bottom, his body is shifting and accommodating me in ways that only come from an experienced hole. Then he starts nodding. Yes, he’s saying without words. Yes. Yes.

It’s okay to remove my hand. I pull it away from his mouth. His breath is ragged and heavy when I take one stroke, then another. His hole is the warmest thing on the earth at that moment, and my dick is growing harder and hotter by the second.

The third stroke triggers something in him. He’s already breathing like he’s run a four-minute mile. Now his chest heaves, and his ass bucks so strongly that I almost slide out of him. His hands grasp at my hips, though, keeping me in.

He’s shooting. The first spurt arrives with such velocity that I can hear it hit his skin, like a tightened drum. He shakes and quivers through the rest of it, loud in his pleasure.

I haven’t even touched him yet.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. I can hear him trying to moisten his lips. "Oh fuck. Sorry."

“Why?” I ask.

“Because I came too quick?” It’s more of a question than a reply.

“Do you think we’re done here?” I ask. I pull my dick out, all save for the head. That I leave inside, marking my place.

“No,” he says, in a tiny voice. Even in the silence, he sounds like he’s speaking from the bottom of a well.

“No. . . ?”

“No sir,” he amends.

“That’s right, son,” I tell him, pushing him back into the seat. Then I drive back inside him, hard. I’m awarded with a cry of need that borders on distress as once more I split open that hole.

I was just getting started.

Monday, February 6, 2012

Allan, Part 3

(This entry is a continuation of previous posts, Allan, Part 1, and Allan, Part 2.)

It’s August of 2009, and I was in the grungier of Detroit’s two bathhouses. (It had been years since the gum incident at the older and cleaner facility, and I’d not been back since.) It was a Tuesday morning, and although I’d had a lot of sex since my arrival a couple of hours before, it hadn’t been that good. There’d been a weird guy who kept coming into my room every few minutes to ask if I want any company, while he showed me the tiny mushroom sprig that was his dick, barely visible beneath the thick bush of his pubes. I keep telling him no, but he wasn’t getting the message. Then there’d been the black guy who’d used so much teeth on my dick that I would’ve sworn he was trying to scrape off a layer of dermis.

Then a tall, thin guy had entered the room. The place had been pretty dark that morning, so I wasn’t able to see much about him. He wore a baseball cap. Once, when he removed it, he proved to have a very close-shaved head beneath. He didn’t say much. He softly pushed me down onto my back, on the thin mattress. He kept a hand on my chest as he straddled his legs and ass over my hips. Then he wriggled his hole down onto my dick, and began rising and falling in a regular rhythm.

And I thought to myself, Allan? Because there was something in his size and general build, and in the way he moved, and especially in his hunger for my dick, that brought to mind the boy I’d known nearly a decade before. There was enough to give me doubt, though. Allan rarely kissed me when we fucked, and this guy kept his mouth firmly on mine. Allan had always been into he sex for the pleasure of his own hole. This man in the dark kept asking me questions—Do you like that? Does that feel good? Should I keep doing that? Questions that made me suspect my pleasure was coming before his. And hot as the sexual haze might have been in which Allan had dwelled, years before, he never really struck me as completely present during sex.

This guy was not only present, but he was responsive, and sweet, and tender, and gentle, even as he milked two loads in a row from my dick, sitting on it. He wasn’t intending to let me up until I came. And again I thought to myself, Allan?

At the end of two hours of really good sex, all of which took place with me on my back as he attended to me with a very, very skilled hole from above, he got up and shuffled out. He closed the door to all but a crack on his way out. I was too weak and spent to get up and close it all the way. A few moments later, the door opened again. I was ready to shoo out the guy who’d intruded, but it was the baseball-capped guy again. He handed out a slip of paper. “You should text me on Tuesdays if you want to fuck,” he said, pushing it into my fingers. “I think we’d have a really good time.”

Then he was gone.

I didn’t recognize the number on the slip, to be honest. I kept it in my dresser throughout the week, and then got up the nerve to text it the following Tuesday. I got a reply back almost instantly, with an address, and the instructions to come on over.

The address, of course, was Allan’s. So I knew. I was willing to return to his tiny little house, however, because I recognized something had changed about him. I wanted to find out what.

The changes were evident when I stepped into the living room. He invited me in rather formally, I thought. “The place looks great!” I enthused, honestly, when I looked around. I’d never seen the curtains and blinds open in his living room before. The sun was warming the room and its old furniture. The living room was clean, and tidy. When I’d known Allan in the old days, he’d kept sheets thrown over everything, and there’d been layers of dust and cigarette smoke residue everywhere. Not now. There wasn’t even an aroma of smoke. The room looked as if someone actually lived there, rather than was camping out there and having sex on someone else’s furniture.

“I thought we’d go in here,” he said, shyly taking my hand and leading me down the postage stamp-sized hallway to the bedroom. The door was open. The room was dim, but not dark. Like the living room, it was completely clean and fresh.

“What happened—?” I started to say.

I’d meant to ask, what happened to all your drag queen stuff? Because the last time I’d been in that room, it had been filled with it. There weren’t any dresses spilling out of the closets. In fact, one of the closet doors lay open, and I could see there were only regular old shirts and pants within. The vanity that had occupied the wall opposite the bed was just gone. Completely gone. Any trace of Allan’s sequined past had just vanished.

It was when I saw him looking at me blankly that I realized something. Allan had no idea who I was.
He didn’t remember me from the decade before.

He didn’t know we had a history. He didn’t know I knew him, and was arriving with all the preconceptions I’d carried from before.

I know that people are thinking, If you guys fucked so much, how could you not know each other, even after a few years? Allan had changed, though. He’d been boyish when I knew him. He was a man, on our second go-round. He was leaner, and more muscular. His head was shaved.

And he even fucked differently. We made love in his bed that first morning, for the first time ever. It wasn’t all about him getting his hole stretched to the maximum, either—though he certainly craved that. Between fucks (and we did fuck multiple times that morning) he would go down on me, and suck me from ass to mouth. He licked my nipples, and chewed them exactly how I liked. He touched me with the flats of his hands, all over. He rubbed his mouth and lips over my neck.

He even kissed me. Deep, sensual kisses that lingered, and tasted of mint.

At no time during the sex did he light up a cigarette or joint. He was there, and present, and responded to every one of my thrusts and jabs with keening and moans of pleasure, and gratitude in his stare. It was like fucking the best possible version of Allan, and it turned me on beyond belief.

Yet he didn’t recognize me at all, even when I stabbed him into his first anal orgasm with me since the reunion. I watched and held him as he shook and shivered and clung to me with his arms and legs both behind my back. “It’s been a long, long time since anyone did that to me,” he panted, laughing to himself.

But no recognition at all.

The truth is that I’d changed as well over those years. I’d weighed about two-twenty-five when I knew Allan the first time around, and I’d slimmed down to one-sixty. I was dressing better—or at least in clothing that didn’t swamp me. I’d grown a beard. My hair was longer. Something Allan said to me that morning gave me a better key to the whole situation, though. I was hinting around, trying to find out whether I was so forgettable, when he said something about his past: he told me that when he’d been younger, he’d been a messed-up kid. Constantly on drugs. Even dealing. (That I knew.) “I was pretty much in a haze for five years,” he said. “But then I cleaned up and got my act together.”

He had.

For a good six months I was Allan’s Tuesday-morning lover. He knew about my home situation, but didn’t care. He wanted a part-time boyfriend, not a full-time husband. So on Tuesdays, we belonged to each other. We’d spend hours in his bed, making love to each other, exchanging honeyed words, gently encouraging each other to orgasm. My climaxes were loud and explosive and left him juicy. His were more private, and intense, and always anal—I still never saw him blow a load, or even grow hard very often.

But he never remembered me. I kept thinking, Okay, this’ll be the fuck that brings it all back to him. Nope. Never. Allan didn’t like talking about those days before the millennium. He would evade when I brought up his past, or tried to get him to talk about a possible drag queen career. He didn’t want to go there. After a while, I didn’t see any reason to try to take him out of the present, which he so very clearly was enjoying. So I stopped asking.

My story of Allan ends with a whimper.

The winter semester after we started to fuck was kind of hellacious for me, scheduling-wise; I was teaching what was for me a full load, and I wasn’t as free on Tuesdays as I had been, the semesters before. I can’t remember why, but Tuesdays were the only day Allan could meet me—so there were a couple of weeks we missed being together.

Allan didn’t like that. I’d tell him a couple of days before when I’d have to cancel, and he’d seem resigned and sad about it. After a couple of weeks, it turned to petulance. I tried explaining that I wasn’t avoiding him, or fucking someone else, but that it was just work-related shit keeping us apart, but he didn’t want to hear it. The third time, he was outright angry. You know, he texted, just don’t bother texting me any more. Or calling. Don’t contact me at all.

I was irritated enough that day that I thought, You know, enough, then. I won’t. So I didn’t.

Then, three weeks later, I got another text from him. You were the last person I expected to treat me that way. Goodbye.

“You mean, to obey your instructions not to contact you again?” I snarled, and erased his number from my phone.

And that was the end of Allan.

Looking back, I regret it all. I couldn’t help the scheduling, of course, but I wish we’d found another day or night to meet—I tried, but he couldn’t. I wish we’d not parted so rancorously—that I’d been less irritable, that he’d been less dramatic. I wish he could’ve known how much I loved making love to him when he was off the weed, and also that he could’ve known how much I admired him when he was a mere boy, slutting out his hole to all takers in the baths.

It’s probably no coincidence that I started keeping a public sex blog shortly after the demise of my relationship to Allan. I had a keen and pervasive sense, then, of how easily encounters could be completely forgotten, and how time sweetly and slyly erases from the memory people who had meant everything and then some during the space of an encounter. I had a sense of things slipping away. And I didn’t want that to happen again.

Allan, I loved you, quite sincerely. We weren’t meant to be together for very long, but the universe was kind enough to bring us together twice, and to give us many moments of shared passion and intimacy.

I hope somewhere in your memory there’s a tiny space for me.