(This entry is a continuation of the previous post, Allan, Part 1.)
I’d never known anyone to experience anal orgasms before I met Allan. I encountered the phenomenon not at the baths, when he’d be slamming his chute backward onto any stiff cock that appeared behind it, but alone, at his house.
Allan lived on a curious little edge of town, only a few steps from one of the busiest intersections in the city. It was listed, year after year, as one of the most dangerous cross-streets in the metropolitan area; even I’d witnessed, on my visits out there, cars careening heedlessly through red lights and out into the intersections, to meet onrushing traffic with the sound of squealing tires. The first time I drove out to visit Allan at home, I missed his house no less than three times. But there it was, beyond a major car repair facility and a discount jeweler—the tiniest of houses, tucked away on the tiniest of lots, behind a couple of parking lots and a car wash.
Allan had inherited the house from his late grandmother, who’d apparently wanted him to be able to get away from the family. It was his, free and clear; I remember being impressed that someone I knew had a mortgage-free home at such a young age. Back around the millennium, when we were first fucking, it was obvious he hadn’t cleared out any of his grandmother’s furniture. The living room was filled with fussy old sofas with faux-antique scrollwork, with filigreed plant stands and metal wall hangings straight out of a dentist’s office from the Eisenhower era.
We would fuck in the living room, either on a sofa over which he’d draped one of his grandmother’s afghans, or right there on the floor. We never went at it for anything less than hours, when I was there. No short pump-’n’-dumps for us. He would sit me on the floor with my back against the sofa’s seat, straddle me, and ride me for hours.
The fucks were epic. I’d hang onto his hips and just let him ride, up and down, forward and back, around and around. To a big extent I was nothing but a living dildo attached to some guy’s body, when I met Allan back in those days. He wasn’t interested in giving me pleasure. He was just after using my dick with his hole—and unlike the vast majority of guys who are only after that, I didn’t resent it with him. Mostly because I was getting a tremendous amount of satisfaction, as a side effect.
Once we fucked like that, like animals on the floor, for over two hours before I had my first orgasm. He, in the meantime, had enjoyed over a half-dozen. I never once saw Allan shoot a load, but he experienced what he described to me as anal orgasms.
I had no doubt that he was having them. I could see the effects. He’d be bouncing up and down on me and I’d hear his breathing quicken. His nipples would contract from flat, quarter-sized planes into points so sharp and hard they could have carved diamond. His head would tilt back. I’d watch in the low afternoon light filtering through the blinds as a red flush would travel from his face to his chest, and then down his sides to his hips. It was so plain and visible that it was as if someone had poured a tin of watercolors over his head. His hole would tighten around my meat, growing increasingly more insistent. Then he’d gasp. His soft cock would flop around as his body went into spasms. For a good thirty-seconds, he’d shake and quiver like a rag doll.
Then I’d hear him gulp, and try to bring moisture back into his mouth. He’d laugh quietly to himself. “No one else makes me come like that,” he’d say, every time. His ass would relax until it was soft and warm on my cock. His nipples would soften, and spread. The flush would recede, first from his lower regions, and then his chest, and finally his face, until once more his skin was as pale as fallen snow. He’d keep riding—he never stopped riding. But it would be more relaxed, and less frenzied and insistent.
For a long time, the sex with Allan was dreamy and hot, uncomplicated and sweet in its essence. Even thinking of it now, my dick grows stiff at the memory. No matter what the weather, fucking him was like sex on a hot summer’s day. Slow. Unhurried. Sweat would cascade from our bodies, but we didn’t give a fuck. No one was going to see us. I’d leave the house with crazy sex hair that I’d regret later, but I didn’t even notice it with him. His world when we fucked consisted solely of my dick and the sensations it created for him. My world was watching him, and his pretty face, and marveling at his rapture.
I didn’t know much about Allan. Every couple of Saturdays I’d spend at his little house, for close to a year before he told me anything personal about himself. It was as if he’d made the decision, decided to go through with it, and needed to do it. “I have to show you something,” he said one day. He took me by the hand and led me down the hallway. Allan’s house was small, I’ve mentioned. It had a living room, a tiny kitchen, a bathroom the size of a postage stamp, and two small bedrooms. I’d never seen the insides of the bedrooms. The doors were always closed; we always fucked on the living room floor.
When he opened the door to the master bedroom, I blinked a few times. There were dresses all over the room. For a moment I thought they were his grandmother’s, and that he’d still not gotten around to clearing out the memory of her. Really, though, the room looked like a touring company of Hello, Dolly! had exploded within. The dresses were not very grandmotherly, unless your grandmother happened to be a Las Vegas showgirl. But then he pulled me over to a vanity where makeup mirrors sat at three different angles, and picked up a framed photo of a very blond, very cruel-looking, very ponytailed-like-Madonna-in-Truth-or-Dare with Divine’s eye makeup drag queen.
“This is me,” he said shyly.
I was kind of stunned.
I’d gone through a phase in high school and college in which I was afraid to be seen with effeminate men. I’d dated a couple of perfectly nice guys in grad school whose only fault was that they had lilting voices and less-than-butch mannerisms. I used to wear a permanent blush of embarrassment with one guy in particular, a hairdresser who referred to other gay men as ‘she’ and used to poke me in public and say, “Girrrrrrl!”
He was something of a revelation for me. My embarrassment, I realized when I was with him, was my problem, not his. So I made myself go out with him just so I could get over it—and by and large, it worked.
By the time I knew Allan, I regarded drag queens as the fiercest and one of the most admirable portions of the gay population—out in front and taking a lot of the bullets for the rest of us. I didn’t know any personally, though. So when I realized what Allan was telling me, my jaw dropped. Then I grinned. “Oh my gosh,” I remember saying. “You are amazing.”
He was shy and pleased at that. I’d known him for a long time, but this was the first time he really ever told me anything about himself. He sat down at his mirror and showed me some of his wigs, and other photos, as he told me about he’d started doing drag in his teens. I’ve forgotten his drag name, unfortunately, but it was something sharp and clever.
And I remember standing there beside Allan that afternoon, watching him fiddle with all these accoutrements of femininity that I’d never associated with him before, and thinking that it felt exactly like living in a house for so long that one is familiar with every knot in the pine paneling and scrape on the wainscot, only find an entire unexplored secret room one never knew existed. It was fascinating, and sweet, and felt like a breath of fresh air in that fusty little bungalow.
In performance, his persona was just as assertive. I saw him exactly once, on a birthday of mine, at a club on the city’s east side. He worked his way through the crowd, reading people up and down. When he spied me, I thought I was in for some sharp-tongued remarks. Instead, Allan sat down on my lap, put one of his spangled arms around my neck, and proceeded to do most of the rest of his show facing the audience, but with his ass firmly seated on me. My friends thought it was hilarious that I’d attracted the exclusive attentions of a drag queen. I hadn’t told them I knew the man behind the woman.
Right before he left my lap for the night, Allan made the crowd laugh and applaud by planting an enormous kiss on my lips that left his lipstick smudged for the rest of the night. I loved him for that.
We never talked about his side career as a drag performer, while we fucked—any more than we talked about my job, or my life outside the home. But I was both touched and pleased that he’d let me in on that confidence. I got the impression he didn’t talk about it to many people.
I was really fond of Allan, in fact, but we ended up seeing each other for only two years, around the turn of the century. My biggest gripe with him was that he was a big pothead. When we’d fuck, it was always hot sex—but we were having it while he was constantly rolling a joint, smoking it, helping himself to a Chiclet, smoking a cigarette, then having another Chiclet, then rolling a joint. . . . He had the capacity to pleasure himself atop me, but he was never really there. That part was tiresome to me.
Sometime in our second year of fucking he started making drug deals at the house, through the mail slot. The boy who’d only climb off my dick when he’d gotten four or five loads from it suddenly was clambering off me and scampering to his front door in the nude. People would shove money through his mail slot and he’d slip them little dime bags of pot. When these transactions started happening, it was pretty much the last straw for me. Good as the sex was, I didn’t need to be caught up in some drug bust.
I simply ceased going over, and stopped calling.
I didn’t see Allan again. Not at the tubs, not at his home. From time to time I’d run across someone who knew him from the baths, but I thought about him less and less.
Until I ran across him again, almost eight years later.
(To be continued, and concluded, in another entry.)