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.


  1. Yeesh. That us nasty and all-too-close to what was probably my worst fecal encounter ever (I will use the word "explosive" and just leave it at that). And honestly, I have no idea why you got a couple bad ones so close together. I suspect with this guy it was a matter of cleaning out too close to the sex that did it, he didn't wait long enough after. But still. I swear not all New England guys are bad. After all, I was clean as a whistle when you and I fucked. I'm sending you comforting hugs and lots of disinfectant wipes.


    1. Bad karma, I think, Ace. Though for what I deserve this, I can't imagine.

    2. I can't imagine it is karma for anything (unless it is for being too foxy for the rest of us to handle). I think you can probably chalk this one up to bad things happening to good people. Or on good people, as the case may be.

    3. ever see the movie, adam and steve? funny episode in the same vein. not as graphic as your description, thankfully.

  2. a bottom I'm sorry for that mess you's enough to gag me for sure and you must have needed a LONG shower to feel clean again.

  3. Sounds like these guys are waiting until the last minute before meeting you to clean out. Don't make last minute play dates and tell them to clean out at least an hour before the meeting so any hershey squirts come out before you meet. That or march them in the bathroom and plop them on the toilet and say push so see if anything comes out.

    As in baseball three strikes you're out, so you don't want there to be a third, you may not escape again.

    1. Both of these guys had three hours between the time we made the date and the time we met.

  4. The role of a "bottom" is a total mystery to me. I guess accidents can happen, but too many of the type you described would certainly make me a total oral guy.

    1. Accidents do happen, and I'm fairly complacent about them—but these were two of the worst incidents I've ever had in a thirty-five year career, one right after the other.

  5. You poor man. Old Trickster is havin' some fun with you, s'I'm thinkin'. On the plus side, I'd say there's a spittin' chance that ol' Frothy Mix hisself will read this entry, which counts for something, karma-wise.

    Jack, occasional trouble is simply part of the territory if you're a fan of butt sex. In my youth in the 70's and into the early '80s, douching was not all that common in my experience in Denver and then NYC, nor do I remember being a participant in either capacity in very many mishaps, particularly given the many opportunities. These disasters seem to me to do with lack of skill, proper equipment, and/or clear understanding of one's own physiology and functional patterns. Bankers are well known for culling their own when self-awareness exposes itself. This second fellow ... who knows?

    1. RedPhillip, you bring up a good point that we've touched on a few times over the course of this blog—douching simply wasn't as common thirty years ago as it is now, thanks to porn culture. I don't think any of us actually enjoyed pulling out a dirty dick back then (or being dirty for a guy), but we weren't quite as super-paranoid about it.

      Even then, though, incidents of this type would've been anomalies.

  6. I can think of nothing more of a total than your experiences with these two dudes. Hope your next encounter is hot, sexy, like the dream dude from Detroit. hal

  7. Damn Rob,
    Not another one my dear friend. One was not enough that you had to have another one. man, that's some bad luck you got there for the past few days. Hoping that you get some nice and clean ones pretty soon sexy. Wishing you some great times real soon. Love reading your posts no matter what my dear friend.


    1. You are sweet, Yves. I noticed you didn't say these were the best posts ever this time—and I don't blame you!

  8. Hey, these recent misadventures prompt two questions.

    1. For a sabbatical leave, I have found myself living in a Grad student dorm for the past month. There are 10 students per bathroom. How the heck is one supposed to “clean out” without freaking out the other students? (Thankfully, my accommodations are about to change)

    2. Whenever I clean out, it seems to me that there can be a delayed effect. Some time later - perhaps an hour, though maybe less, maybe more - I feel an urge to pass wind. I have learned that these urges should be handled with care as, as often as not, I have experienced a small expulsion of ’watery santorum’ rather than gas. Am I alone in this experience? Am I doing something wrong? Should I really be waiting 3 hrs between cleaning and anal sex?

    1. Scotrock, these are both interesting and valid questions. I don't think I'm going to be able to answer them as well as a dedicated bottom, though.

      If you're able to predict that you have the fairly standard reaction in scenario 2, however, I would get into the habit of planning so that you're meeting guys after you pass the last of the water. Getting to know your body, and the ways in which it reacts is all part of getting ready, in this kind of cleansing ritual.

      Other bottoms? Any suggestions?

  9. oh fuck!
    i just posted my comment to your fudge posting - and was gonna seriously thinking about calling it 'hot chocolate' - and hit 'send' before i read this...
    must be something in the air - in both hemispheres!
    honestly - how hard can it be to do a little prep if you wanna cop some dick - sheesh!

  10. Damn.....I was thinking you had a man that looked like hot chocolate ....not that he was producing hot chocolate. YUCK! Of course I read this right after eating my lunch at work. Hoping my stomach stops the topsy turvy it is doing right now.

  11. As a bottom, I have had to be careful about when I clean out because I know that sometimes I have a delayed reaction. The problem is if you get the water too far up in your intestinal tract it takes longer to exit and brings more down with it. I know this all sounds kind of gross, but if a bottom knows how to clean out properly then the gross part can be totally avoided. It is a total turn off on both ends usually. Your last two guys just sounded like a couple of clueless pseudo-bottoms. They need some enema lessons. There is certainly enough information out there about this now. Good Lord how many bottoms have blogs like yours!

  12. I recently came across your blog and have been greatly enjoying the read. I had to reply to this after I read your 'tri-state area' comment. I live in Connecticut and have had similar issues with some men, though thankfully my worst experience was not as bad as this one. I have only lived here so I can't compare it to the people of other regions. People who know me know that I have no tolerance for issues of bodily excrement. The very mention of any bodily fluid while I am eating instantly eliminates my appetite. I feel you're pain.