Monday, July 30, 2012

Reckless Drivin' on Dirty Back Roads

Today’s essay is courtesy of a reader who wrote in the following question:

Give hope to the hopeless & tell us the funniest time you've mistaken someone's approach as something sexual when it was as mundane as wanting directions. If you have failures I may end up with one or two successes—and wouldn't you wanna help a brotha out?

I always want to help a brotha out. Here goes.

I’ve mentioned before that I didn’t learn to drive until I was in my early twenties. It wasn’t out of any particular timidity on my part to climb behind a wheel, believe me; I wanted to drive very badly, and concealing my lack of a license during my college years was both shameful and almost more work than the college courses themselves.

No, my dad very simply didn’t want to pay the exorbitant insurance rates on a teenager. I think he would have been quite happy to let me rely on him and on my mother for rides, and kept me on the mercy of the Richmond public bus lines until I was thirty, if he’d had anything to say about it—but when I moved to Michigan to attend graduate school there, I’d been working for a few years, had a little money saved up, and bought my first car from one of his colleagues. It was a dark blue 1979 Chevrolet Malibu with whitewall tires. Despite the fact it was over a decade old when I bought it, it only had something like 12,000 miles on it; the professor from whom I’d purchased it was a little old lady with a cane who drove it a mile back and forth to the campus every day, and then to church on Sundays.

Before I had my own family, and when my mom was still alive, I used to visit my parents in Virginia for all the big holidays. It wasn’t a small undertaking. It was the same thirteen-hour drive that I was still making when I started writing this blog, in fact—across the Ohio and Pennsylvania turnpikes, then snaking down through Southern Pennsylvania and West Virginia to avoid D.C.., and finally into Virginia to Richmond. In those pre-internet days I didn’t have a cell phone to talk in, or email to check, or Twitter to keep me amused. I didn’t have an iPod. My car stereo consisted of an AM radio that seemed somehow only to pick up Spanish-language channels.

So what I would do would be to spend a few days beforehand recording seven or eight mix tapes of my favorite eighties hits (this was during the actual nineteen-eighties, so they weren’t retro, then). Then I’d put my ginormous boom box in the back seat of my car along with a bag full of D batteries and all those mix tapes, hop in the car, and then start the looooong trip to Virginia with the Thompson Twins or Vanity 6 blaring from the speakers. I’m a very neat person (generally), and I keep my cars immaculate (usually), but between the boom box and the tapes and the batteries and the bag of snacks I’d bring and the maps I’d keep in the passenger seat because of my conviction I might get lost—a conviction that’s been proved correct more times than I’d like to admit—my car could be a mess when I was making one of those trips home.

Again, in those pre-internet times, picking up men was a very different thing than it is now. These days, if I wanted to hook up on the way back to Virginia, I’d maybe place a Craigslist ad beforehand, or fire up Grindr or Scruff or Adam4Adam on my cell phone when I’d reached a suitable resting place. In those days, I could stop at one of the numerous truck stops or rest areas along the way and try my luck in the men’s rooms. Or I could simply look out the window as I drove.

Oh yeah. Those were the glory days of car cruising. It was not at all unusual for me to find men to fuck around with simply by locking gazes with a man in the passing lane and pulling off at the next exit to drop trou in the woods, or behind a barn, or fuck in a car. Especially when I’d drive through West Virginia or the rural parts of Virginia. One trip, a platonic gay friend of mine was making his way to Florida. I’d agreed to drive him to Richmond, where another buddy of his would be taking him the rest of the way. We crossed the West Virginia state line and the cruising started. Guys were leering and winking at us from their cars. We drove into Virginia and one not-too-attractive fellow followed us for over twenty miles, leaning over to open his mouth and circle his O-shaped lips with his slurping tongue, to indicate he wanted to blow one or both of us. He’d speed ahead, slow down to let us overtake him, then repeat the invitation, over and over again. (It probably didn’t help that my friend kept winking at him to tease him, when we’d pass.)


So I was on the way down to Virginia for one of the holidays—Easter, I think it was. It was fairly warm. I had my boom box playing something embarrassing in the back seat. The greatest hits of Ta Mara and the Seen, maybe. I’m driving down a lonely stretch of West Virginia highway with nothing in front of me when a man pulls up beside me in a red pickup truck. It was like one of those red pickup trucks you’d see in country videos—not too shiny, not too beat-up. Well-worn. Obviously used, and not an affectation. And that the wheel is the most fucking gorgeous slab of beef I’d seen in a dog’s age.

I still remember what he looked like. He wore a yellow T-shirt with the sleeves ripped out so that they showed off his big ol’ muscular shoulders and biceps. His hair was short on top and had been trimmed with a precision level, and a little bit longer in the back. Yeah, he had a mullet of sorts, but they were more fashionable then. Shut up.

Even from a lane over I could tell that his eyes were an intense blue. And he had one those square faces that one sees on professional wrestlers—just big, handsome features so broadly painted that his good looks could be recognizable from a football stadium away.

I had my mouth open, singing along to some cheesy song. I snapped it shut, when our eyes locked. And then I swerved because I’d gone a little astray, and I’d overcompensated in steering back between the lines. Whoops.

He zoomed ahead and pulled in front of me. I followed a while, then passed him. When I turned to look at him, he stared back. He nodded. I nodded in return, with my heart pounding. This guy was a stud.
He passed me again. He looked down in my direction. Stared. My cock throbbed in my pants. My throat was dry. Still looking over his shoulder, he passed me again.

For about twenty minutes we passed each other, back and forth. He didn’t lick his lips or do anything so obvious, but every time I’d pass, he would stare, and stare. Finally he passed me a final time, then cut in front of me. He put on his blinker about a half-mile before an exit, and pulled off onto it when it arrived. I bit the bullet and followed.

He pulled into some kind of former gas station or something, right off the exit. It wasn’t open, and there were no cars there. My heart was still racing. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, I thought to myself. I would do anything for this guy and my car is a fucking MESS. I don’t know why it mattered to me; I think I was thinking that he wanted to screw, it’d be easier to do in the back seat. That Malibu was fuckin’ big enough. I could’ve hosted a small orgy inside and still had room left for a DJ. So for a frantic thirty seconds after I pulled into a parking space, I was leaning over in the back trying to dispose of a boom box, D batteries that had fallen out of their paper bag and were rolling everywhere, a grocery sack of snacks, and what seemed like a thousand mix tapes.

There was a tap on my window. The guy had gotten out of his truck and sauntered over. He stuck his thumbs in the pockets of his 501s. My view of him was of a sturdy but trim waist, his big basket, and that tight yello T-shirt broadening out into his big ol’ chest. I unrolled the window and looked out and up into those blue, blue eyes. “Hi,” I said. Only I’m sure it came out more like “H-h-h-h-h-huuuhh-h-h-h.”

He put his hands on his thighs and bent over. I could smell him. He smelled like armpit and motor oil—and that was fuckin' perfume to me! “Hey there,” he growled, in a deep porn star voice.

“What’s up?” I asked, trying to sound casual. I stretched out my legs so that he could have a view of the hardness in my pants.

“I noticed you back there on the freeway,” he said, but my Mental Sex Translator interpreted it as Boy, I’m gonna fuck that slutty little cumhole of yours ’til it bleeds.

“Oh yeah?” I asked. My Mental Sex Translator went Please, daddy. That’s how I need it.

“Yeah,” he said in his gravelly bass. “You should probably know your back left tire’s a little low.”

My Mental Sex Translator had already interpreted that as, Down on your fuckin’ knees, son, and choke on my big fat hog. But then I heard what he’d actually said and I was brought up short. “Wait, whuh?”

“Probably about five pounds flat, I’d guess,” he said. “Maybe seven. Just thought you should know.” He flipped me a two-fingered salute at his forehead, and turned to go, as my hope sank like the Titanic. Then he faced me again. “Oh. By the way.”

My heart went pitty-pat at his about-face. “Yeah?”

“Your gas cover door’s open, too.”

There was the crunch of his feet on the gravel, and then a cloud of dust as the pickup truck started up and turned down the state road.

My dick wilted in my shorts. I’d never felt so dumb in my life.

And I was still finding D batteries on the car floor for weeks and weeks afterward.

Monday, July 23, 2012

A Sexual Education: Mr. Goldberg, Part VI

(This is the last of the Mr. Goldberg series. It is not necessary, in your comments, to point out the appropriateness or the legality of the man's actions, or lack thereof. I think it's plain to everyone that they were neither. Thank you in advance.)

I’ve kept a journal since 1983—that’s nearly thirty years, if you don’t want to do the math—and I’ve always intended to write about Mr. Goldberg. I didn’t when I was younger, because I feared I didn’t have the language yet to do justice to how I felt for him. I’m still not sure I do.

In more recent years I’d avoided reflecting about him on the page because writing is, for me, an exercise in commitment. Once it’s on the page, my thoughts and fears and yearnings leave that realm of the unspoken and become documents. How could I document something so far past and so confusing?

I feared that if I wrote about Mr. Goldberg, whatever audience I had would totally miss the message I very much wanted to say about him, namely, No matter how inappropriate his attentions, this man was very important to me. He helped me take first steps toward becoming who I am today. When I walk among my memories of him, I tread on hallowed ground.

Writing about something in my journal anchors it into the narrative of my life—it makes the event more real, in a sense. I don’t mean to imply that the things I don’t record in my diary exist in some it’s-all-pretend Neverland, but when something makes it into the pages of my journal, it’s because I want to remember it, or because I feel it’s significant enough to warrant recording. Vanishingly few people in my life have known about Mr. Goldberg. I could probably count on two hands’ fingers the number of people over the last thirty-odd years to whom I’ve confided our dalliance. Inappropriate as it was, and seamy as it might be to some, I think my life, and this record of it, is the better for giving the man his due.

Conversely, sometimes when I have something in my head that eats away at me—a fear or an anger that won’t dissipate—writing about it in my journal feels like opening the windows and doing a spring cleaning of my brain. It blows away the cobwebs and chases away the shadows. That’s what I did with this series of entries, all because of something that happened some months ago.

Here goes.

One of the things that makes me squeamish on Facebook—my real Facebook account, as opposed to my sex blog presence—is receiving a friend invite from one of my old school friends. Part of me is grumpy because, after all, if I really wanted to remain friends with someone from fourth grade, or high school, or college, wouldn’t I have attempted to keep in touch with them all these years? Another part of me gets grumpy at the grumpy part, because he’s such a curmudgeon, and why is there any harm in getting back in contact with people I liked a hundred years ago when I was young?

A while ago I accepted a friend request from Gus Greer, one of my old grade-school acquaintances. I knew Gus from the fifth through the seventh grade; after that, his parents took him out of the public school system and sent him off to boarding school. (So many parents of my friends removed them from the public schools before they hit ninth grade.)

Where I was quiet and bookish during those years, Gus was a boisterous boy. He was loud, mischievous, and if we’d had a prescient-enough poll, easily would have been voted Most Likely To Be On Academic Probation His First Semester Of College For Drinking And Screwing To Excess. I was a little bit surprised that he hunted me down and added me as a friend at all, because I always remembered being a little bit afraid of him, with his flannel shirts, his muscular Pennsylvania Dutch build, and his messy thatch of surfer-blond hair. I may have visited his house a couple of times since he lived in my neighborhood, but we certainly weren’t the bestest of buddies.

Well, he talked as if we were. In his memory, we seemed to have been inseparable during those three years. Through email we talked about our old band days, and mutual friends, and I grinned at some of the really horrible photos from our yearbook he posted. Whether or not our memories of how close our friendship had been were in synch, Gus seemed to have grown into a genuinely nice guy—married and with a little girl he obviously adores—who seemed not only glad to have found me again, but also seemed pleased that I had a career and relationship that made me happy.

Emboldened by the correspondence, I asked Gus about Mr. Goldberg. We’d both been in sixth-grade homeroom together, and I was hoping I could, with a couple of sidelong questions, find out something that had been bothering me for years—I couldn’t remember Mr. Goldberg’s first name. I’m absolutely certain I knew it at some point, though I never used it. In my head, I always thought of him simply as 'Mr. Goldberg.' (And I should have learned my first lesson about relationships from that alone—never get involved with someone you can’t call by his first name, right? From a practical point of view, how can you Google-stalk them decades later if you don’t?)

Oh wow, Mr. Goldberg! Gus wrote back. I always thought he rocked! He seemed old when we were kids, like all adults, but he was really so young! I remember at the beginning of the year he would give me rides home after school and the music he liked to listen to on the radio was the same as the stuff we all liked. Once when he stopped to get gas I snooped in his glove compartment and found an old joint and thought he had to be the coolest teacher ever.

Now, when I’ve heard the old saw about seeing red before, I’ve always accepted it as some kind of figurative metaphor. However, when I read Gus’s note, for a good thirty seconds my blood pressure elevated to such an extent that it felt as if I was peering at the world through a scarlet gel. My temperature rose. I sweated slightly. My throat went dry and my lips worked as I gargled out sounds of incomprehensible outrage.

Mr. Goldberg gave Gus Greer rides home?!

It honestly felt for a few minutes as if the ground beneath me had dropped away, leaving me teetering in some kind of gravity-free void. I was upset. No, I was more than upset. I felt betrayed. I hadn’t been the only boy Mr. Goldberg had lured into that beat-up hatchback, the fucker. “I’ve always liked blonds.” Well, fuckin’ Gus fuckin’ Greer was about as blond as a head could get. What, had Mr. Goldberg letched after every tow-headed little shit in his sixth-grade classroom and met with rebuffs until finally he had no other recourse than to borrow my fuckin’ Timex? Was I just sloppy seconds? Thirds? Fourths? How many other boys was Mr. Goldberg juggling in his fuckin’ pubescent fuckin’ harem?

I was angry, and hurt. For decades I’d assumed that I was special. Now I felt like the mere flavor of the month. That feeling vanished of uniqueness and of being needed that had sustained me during my friendship with Mr. Goldberg. Those memories no longer existed on hallowed ground. At that moment I felt like a huge chunk of my life, melodramatic as it may sound, was a lie, THANK YOU VERY MUCH, GUS GREER.

My rage lasted for oh, about a half hour. Then it burned itself out with a suddenness I didn’t expect. After a moment of consideration, I chuckled at myself for being an idiot.

Gus wasn’t at fault. He was clueless about the impact his words would have on me. All he knew when he was in sixth grade was that Mr. Goldberg was a rockin’ guy with an ancient joint in his glove box. Had Mr. Goldberg recited the one hundred and sixteenth sonnet to Gus? No. The nuances of Shakespeare would’ve gone right over his head. I laughed it off and genuinely thought I was over it.

But I was still a little bothered. So when I decided to write about Mr. Goldberg, I set to write myself out of a corner—to shine light in the dark places, and chase away the shadows. Writing is therapy, sometimes.

And in writing about the man I think I discovered a few things. Forcing myself to sit down and record my relationship with Mr. Goldberg helped me remember him more clearly than I have in years. Some of the details I resurrected—the football pool, the hatchback—were things I hadn’t thought about in decades. Remembering the way that Mr. Goldberg looked at me so that I could record it—the nervous glances, the moistness of his eyes when he’d hold my hands, that bright spark when our eyes would connect across the empty classroom—convinced me that no matter how many rides Mr. Goldberg might have given Gus, I genuinely did mean something to him.

Remembering my teacher’s smell, the warmth of his hands, the way he’d call me ‘sport,’ only endeared him to me once again. I was able to recapture and appreciate that first flush of possibility he awakened in my life. I might have thought that Gus had rendered barren the grass on the fields of those memories, but where I walked there, it flourished once more.

I had several relationships in the second decade of my life that I ended up mourning. There was Mark the friend I lost when I saw something I should've have. And David with whom I couldn't bring myself to connect I used to think that what they all had in common was my yearning for what might have been.

I’m pretty convinced, though, that it’s regret for my own actions—or my lack thereof—that I’ve been afraid to examine. It’s impossible to build a solid foundation on If only I coulds, or If only this had beens. Life’s made of This is what happened, and This is what I have now, and This is what I should celebrate. I can’t help but think I didn’t offer enough in those relationships, or reach out at the right time. I thought I knew what Mr. Goldberg wanted, and was ready to give it to him, but somehow I missed the mark. I regret that.

Poor Mr. Goldberg. How could I not feel a mix of pity and affection for the man? Handsome as he was, he was a gay Jewish man living the South, hardwired to desire blond boys in the throes of puberty. Even when he had what he wanted right in front of him, willing and eager to please him, he couldn’t bring himself to enjoy it.

How can I begrudge him for trying to find his happiness, when all he did was make me feel supremely special? I’ve never harbored any illusion that I’m a handsome man; I never thought I was a beauty of a kid. For a few months, though, at a time of my life when I needed it most, Mr. Goldberg made me feel not just special—he made me feel beautiful.

While writing these journal entries, the one thing I hoped more than anything else was that when we knew each other, I might have returned at least a small portion of the intangible gifts he gave me.

I fear I didn’t. I can only hope I did.

Sunday, July 22, 2012

Sunday Morning Questions: Asshole (Not the Good Kind) Edition

I don't know whether it was the rain we've been having here in the northeast, or whether it was Mercury in retrograde (as my brother informed me), but damn, I ran across some rude men, Friday morning.

I'd logged onto Adam4Adam for maybe all of five minutes when I got this mysterious message from a local: 
Him: 200 YUSAWME YUWANTME Y N UCHUZ OK here NOSTALL 61 bodybuilder TOP Smooth ERECT My own gym YUSUKME I FUK yu decide after 195 jokers clowns skunks DOIT
I looked at the guy's profile. The comprehensible part of the message seemed to imply that he was 61 and a top. Bodybuilder . . . was debatable. Maybe if he was building his body out of marshmallow, sure. But the rest of it?

I penned a response that you'll agree was, I believe, fairly restrained:

Me: What?

And in response, got this:

Him: one word massage ASHOLE joker I called YOUIR bluff HUH NOW GET LOST GET A CAR GET A JOB the search goes on Republicains n 20012 Ill be great tonight at the club stripping11-200am What he says ASHOLE The BLOCK IS ON gye girl

Um, okay. I blocked him quickly.

The other guy at least I could understand. He didn't have a very attractive photo, and his information was at a minimum. Our conversation went thusly, to begin:

Him: hi 
Me: Good morning. 
Him: bdsm? 
Me: If you're asking if I have experience with it, the answer is yes, but it's not what I'm usually looking for. 
Him: hot think you could get into the idea of tieing me facedown spread eagled to your bed hooding me and ball gagging me and using a double headed dildo on my hole then taking a flogger to my helpless bare ass before you rape my holes? 
Me: Just so you know, I do not have a hood. I do not have a ball gag. I don't own a double-headed dildo or a flogger. My profile clearly states that I cannot host. 

I wasn't saying these things to be contentious or a smart-ass. I just encounter so many guys with these elaborate fantasies who expect me to have all the equipment and do all the work for them—and after getting it time after time, my attitude is pretty much along the lines of "Fuck that!"

He apparently thought I was trying to goad him, though, because he wrote back,

Him: I'm the one with the hood and gag don't you think it would be UNWISE to let a total stranger tie me up in my own place what would stop you or someone from ripping off my belongings and then leave me helpless to escape or scream for help or maybe even MURDER me you fucking asshole??? Is there a reason as to why you cant host for an hour or are you one of those assholes with a boyfriend whose cheating and afraid hes gonna find out what a retard you are!!!

I tried to be very polite in my response:

Me: I don't know you at all, and therefore the reasons why I cannot host are really none of your business. Further, I was not commenting on the wisdom of allowing a stranger to tie one up in one's own home. I think that would be very unwise, indeed. Instead, I was merely stating facts. If stating a few simple facts arouses such hostility, I am pretty certain we would not work out in person. Thanks, and good luck to you.
Then I blocked the fuck out him, too.

Hey, universe. I've had enough of the psychos lately. I could do without the random strangers calling me an asshole—I get enough of that from the people I know, okay?

Now, let's get to some questions from

have you ever slept with anyone just because you felt sorry for them

I have slept with guys because I felt sorry for them many times. I often did so because I thought it would be a genuinely charitable thing to do; I've also done it because I felt backed into a corner and didn't want to hurt the guy's feelings by saying no.

The latter is manipulation of the most passive-aggressive kind, and it happened to me so often and engendered such negative feelings that it took years before I realized how to recognize it from afar and stop it before it got to that point.

I've slept with people to cheer them up, and to offer them solace after a loss, and to make them feel better during stressful times. I've slept with guys to help them actually sleep, and out of mutual boredom, and simply because I wanted to see what they were like in bed although I had no physical attraction to them. I've even slept with guys because it was easier than talking to them.

have you ever been overseas,what nationality in your experiences are the most sexually docile & the most sexually aggressive & insatiable? do you mind the scrutiny you find yourself under due to choosing to blog?

Two very different questions!

All of my travel abroad has been, sadly, limited to the north and central Americas. I'm not sure it's really a hugely wide sample from which to make broad generalizations, but the men of Mexico were some of the most sexually aggressive I've encountered. They act as if they'll fuck anything, too.

When I visited the Dominican Republic, the men there were all quite plain that they expected to fulfill the 'feminine' role for me, as they tended to call it. I suppose they were the most submissive. Canadians like to pretend they're prudes, but boy, can they be nasty when the doors shut and the lights go out.

The scrutiny question is interesting. I don't really reveal anything in my blog that I wouldn't reveal to a trusted friend over a couple of drinks at a local watering hole. I'm not the kind of person who says online what he would never, ever allow to pass through his lips to a real, live person. At the same time, I don't really have much control over who reads my blog, which means that quite often I will encounter readers in the strangest of places in my everyday life. (Yes, there are people who recognize me with my clothes on.)

Even when that happens, I don't feel 'scrutinized.' It's just a startling moment.

What I do mind about choosing the blog are the men who write contentious comments not because they have a genuine point they wish to debate, or a even a point at all, but because they feel they want to knock me down a peg or two. I mind the people who feel entitlement to be mean and ugly simply because I post my experiences publicly. By and large, blogging has been a positive experience for me that's let me make many friends and meet all kinds of interesting people. It only takes a few psychotics to spoil all that, unfortunately.

Have you ever experienced what it's like to be 'fucked awake' while sleeping? Or tops: Have you ever did that to a bottom?

No, I have been on the receiving end of a wake-up-fuck. I did used to see a man, as I wrote in my blog long ago, who would spank me awake in the middle of the night, then fuck me.

I have taken my pleasure of men sleeping with me. They weren't sleeping for long. I used to love to wake up Spencer in the middle of the night with dick sliding into his already-slick hole.

so how do i get a pice of your arse,yes englands wet, rainy & cold but you'd never notice cos you'd be kept out of any naughtiness

This is another of those offers I'd love to accept, once you've invited me, gotten me a good flight, and have found a couple of willing bottoms to put me up for a couple of weeks!

What do you like about being a Breeder? Or maybe a better way to ask is "What does being a Breeder mean to you?"

To put it simply, I like the intimacy that comes with sharing my essence with another human being. Seed is powerful stuff; it creates life. Sharing that with someone who wants it—well, nothing is more special.

Have you ever gone backpacking? Would you like to?

I enjoy camping, so I like to think I'd enjoy backpacking too. But I'd prefer to do it in the nude, and finding spots for that is pretty tough in this country.

Planning on traveling anywhere this summer?

Most likely I'll confine myself to my new area of the country, and explore parts of the northeast I've never seen before. I'm hoping to get to Provincetown at some point, as well.

Friday, July 20, 2012

On Fantasy

Guys are always asking me to tell them my biggest sexual fantasy.

For me, it’s not really a question that carries a lot of weight. Perhaps it might have been when I was younger—a lot younger—and hadn’t really explored as much. At that point I would’ve been able to say, “Hey, I haven’t had a three-way. That sounds exciting.” Or, “I’ve always dreamed about sucking off a pair of twin brothers. Let’s find some!” I might’ve been able to talk about double-penetration, or gang-bangs, or any of the stuff that the untaught typically bring up as the object of their inquisitive and dirty minds.

I tend to be realistic about my fantasies. I’ve always fantasized about stuff that could actually happen at some point. So I don’t moon about unattainable Hollywood icons, or being mounted in serial fashion by all five of the Backstreet Boys. (Maybe Kevin. He was dreamy.) I’m not going to stroke and think about Jessica Rabbit. I’m not going to wish that I could find a sexy giantess whose enormous creamy bosom I must climb and conquer like Sir Edmund Hillary. Anything involving a couple of horny humans and a Mexican donkey, though? Sure. I’m down for that.

I’ve always been a Dr. Frank-N-Furter kind of guy with a “Don’t dream it, be it” attitude; I’ve always felt that sexual fantasies weren’t mean to remain in the realm of daydream forever. If I think about something, there have to be other people out there trying to find the same thing. Why not meet them and let it happen? That’s what I’ve done, and at this point there’s not really that much I haven’t explored at least once. Fantasies are for masturbators, has been my dismissive and knee-jerk response to the question of what I yearn to do, when I’m asked. They’re for folk who are too frightened to go after what they wish for.

Now, I realize that’s not the entire truth of the matter. There are many reasons people fantasize, and I’m always telling people that when it comes to sex, it’s important to recognize and delineate one’s comfort levels and stick to the things that don’t exceed them. Sometimes people genuinely don’t have access to what they want; sometimes they don’t have the mobility, or the health. Sure, we often use our circumstances as an excuse to start off a sentence with the words But I can’t. . . . When that happens, those words are the kiss of death to a fulfilling life. Quite often, though, stuff can genuinely get in the way of us pursuing what we want and crave.

So no, I’m not being judgmental of you guys out there with fantasies yet unfulfilled. All I’d remind you is that no one leaves this life thinking to themselves, “Man, I really wish I’d never tried a three-way. That was a waste of time.” But there are an awful lot of people who come to their ends of their lives with a lot of regrets of promises unfulfilled, and adventure unchased. So think about that the next time you sit down to watch internet porn instead of make a connection with a genuine person.

When readers asked me this question back near the genesis of my sex blog, I did admit that I had one fantasy that had long, long gone unfulfilled. I explained that I had a fantasy that’s very much the flip side of one that bottom men have long confided in me (and which I’ve helped come true several times—so you’d think there’d be some good karma coming my way). They want to be tied up, blindfolded, and forced to service as many anonymous top cocks as possible. I, on the other hand, have always wanted to be blindfolded, restrained, and forced to be at the mercy of a bunch of unseen cocksuckers and hungry holes. I’d prefer there be one guy there I knew, pimping out my dick to others. Other than that, I don’t particularly want to see the men climbing on to ride.

The first time I mentioned this fantasy, I had a ton of readers tell me hell yeah! I’ll do that for you!

Still hasn’t happened.

So I thought I’d throw it out there once more, because I believe that the universe has really no way of knowing what an individual wants unless he puts it out there. Maybe it’ll happen. Maybe not.

But I guess the thing is that if I go to the grave and that’s the only fantasy I haven’t checked off my bucket list? Then I’ll have done a pretty good job.

Ask the Mexican donkey.

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Once in Love with Amy

During my sophomore year of college, I fell in love with a girl in my dormitory. Amy, her name was. Sweet Amy, with the Cupid’s-bow lips and the round, porcelain face of a dainty nineteen-twenties postcard beauty. My infatuation for her was utter and complete. I would hang out in her room and have meals with her; her friends were my friends.

But I never told her I was in love with her. It was obvious to everyone else. I’m certain there was eye-rolling whenever I’d show up with infatuation written all over my face. I was Amy’s confidante, her sounding board, her bestie in every activity, but never her boyfriend.

And that would’ve been because she in turn was helplessly in love with a guy in the dorm named Bob. Bob was a bounder, a bad boy, a drunken lout who thought very highly of himself and his looks. He lived two doors down from me, and I would watch him preen and primp and check his muscles in the mirror for long, long minutes while carrying on a monologue about what a lady-killer he was—despite the fact that he was basically a roly-poly chubby boy. But he had confidence, and a certain swagger, and a beard in the remote early nineteen-eighties, when full beards among youth were exotic and rarely seen.

Bob didn’t love Amy; he didn’t want her as a girlfriend. But he liked her mooning after him, so he kept her on the hook by tossing small intimacies her way from time to time. She’d chase after them gratefully, and then confide her infatuation to me, which in turn kept me on Amy’s hook. She didn’t love me, and didn’t want me as a boyfriend, but on a certain level she liked the attention. When isn’t it flattering to have someone who’ll drop everything to be with you, no matter how maddening you may be?

I, at the time, had an economics professor on the hook. He was wildly in love with me and followed me around on campus like a puppy dog. I didn’t love him, and didn’t want him as a boyfriend, but I was flattered that he wanted me so badly. I’d give him my ass every now and again to keep him on the hook, and I’d accept his odd gifts, and then I’d tell him I couldn’t be with him because I was hopelessly in love with Amy.

Pathetic. A chain of people keeping each other on the hook is never a good thing, people.

Amy took a junior year abroad at a university in Scotland with which our college had a reciprocal exchange agreement. Her announcement of it broke my heart. While she was gone, I wrote long and witty letters keeping her up on what was happening at school, letters into which I poured heart and soul. In return, I got short notes asking how was Bob? I was a dumbass, true, but that hook was in me deep. And to be honest, part of me relished the adolescent angst aroused by the love triangle. This was life, adult life, of the sort I’d read about and seen in the movies for years, and there I was, right in the middle of it, hurting, aching, and bleeding.

I should’ve been a Goth.

The upside of an entire year away from Amy was that when she returned for our senior year, my infatuation had faded somewhat. Oh, it was still there. There were times I would talk myself into the notion that it was time to tell her how I felt and get it out in the open . . . and then I’d do absolutely nothing about it. Which was probably for the best. I gained a certain detachment from my romantic woes, though. Amy wasn’t quite as necessary to me as she had been my sophomore year. If I fucked around with guys—which I was doing basically, you know, constantly—I didn’t feel as if I was betraying my porcelain-faced kewpie doll. It was her tough luck for preferring that doughboy Bob instead of me.

During my senior year, Amy came up with the grand idea of our circle of friends spending the holidays at her home in the suburbs of New York City. It was my very first time in New York, and gosh, it was exciting. I got to see the Christmas lights of Rockefeller Center for the first time, and Fifth Avenue all done up in wreathes and greenery. We would take the train in and see the sights; we saw the Royal Shakespeare Company perform. We stayed up late at night and talked and made cookies without a recipe and sang along with Cyndi Lauper on the radio and played endless games of Trivial Pursuit.

Then halfway through the week, Nigel arrived.

Nigel was one of Amy’s odd ducks. He was a student at the Scottish university where Amy had studied abroad. Now it was his junior year and his university had told our college, “Here, take him off our hands for a couple of semesters. It’s your turn.” Amy hadn’t really known him when she was there, but when he’d arrived on U.S. soil at the start of the autumn, their very slight acquaintance prompted her to make some kind of vague offer of American hospitality. He’d not taken her up on it, though, until around nine o’clock on the night of December 29, he simply showed up at Amy’s front door. We had no idea how he’d found her. Amy’s parents didn’t mind another guest, though, and there was a spare twin bed in the room where I was sleeping, so he simply stayed.

Nigel was of a type I think of as the silly-ass Englishman. He was a Londoner who hated Scotland, hated the U.S., and constantly complained in a toffee-nosed accent how no one on this side of the pond knew how to brew a really topping pot of tea. No, really. He carried thick books with incomprehensible titles plainly displayed so that everyone would know how intellectual he was. Yet in a household of girls, he would never close the door to the bathroom when he peed, and he left the shower rod covered with his dirty underwear and sad-looking socks. He spent long minutes staring off into space, doing nothing, humming to himself. He might’ve talked like Hugh Grant, but in demeanor and looks he was pure Russell Brand. Stoned Russell Brand.

Nigel’s one vanity was his mustache—that’s what he called the fuzzy caterpillar that had settled onto his upper lip, anyway. It was little more than very fine and downy peach fuzz that he cultivated very carefully. He had, and I recall it with crystal clarity, a little silver mustache comb for it. Several times a day he would rise from whatever abstraction had been keeping him drooling for the previous few minutes, head to the nearest mirror, and withdraw the silver comb from its leatherette case. Then, carefully, very carefully, he would peer at his reflection and daintily rearrange those imaginary mustache hairs until they suited them. The first few times, our little group would watch with awe.

Then, as we realized that Nigel was a big lump who was simply following us around and expecting us to buy his meals and theater tickets, we weren’t quite as charmed.

New Year’s Eve came. We spent the day listening to Dick Clark’s Top 100 on the radio, baking brownies without a recipe, and preparing for our venture into the city. Because yes, we had decided it’d be a big lark to head to Times Square to see the ball drop. It was the one and only time in my life I will ever attempt such a thing. It was cold—not just cold, but fucking cold. It was crowded. Obnoxiously crowded. We were deep enough in the crowd that escape was impossible, but not so far in that we could actually see anything. We only could tell that the ball had dropped by the sound of millions cheering.

By the time the crowd had dispersed enough that we could consider heading back to the train, we’d lost Nigel. He’d simply disappeared. We wasted another hour walking around Times Square and environs on the useless blocks of ice that were our feet, trying to find him. And then we figured, eh. He found Amy’s house once. He’d find it again. Probably.

In my memory we didn’t get home to Amy’s until about three in the morning. It must have been five-thirty or six when Nigel finally stumbled in. We must have left the door unlocked or something, because I don’t recall anyone letting him in, and I seemed to be the only person in the house who was awake when he stumbled into the bedroom. He’d been drinking somewhere. I could smell it on his breath and clothing. “Where were you?” I asked him. “We looked and looked for you.”

Nigel shrugged. He wasn’t in much of a condition to form a coherent sentences under the best of circumstances, much less after a night awake and drinking. He started peeling off his sweater and shirt. The complexity of it made him unsteady.

I noticed when he turned around that his wallet was sticking three-quarters out of his back pocket. Manhattan’s Times Square back then was not quite the Disneyland it is now; walking around a city then known for its muggings with his wallet on prominent display seemed like quite the silly-ass Englishman thing for Nigel to do. “Nigel,” I said in exasperation, as I watched him strip down to his underwear. “You need to be more careful. It’s dangerous to. . . .”

My rant was cut short as Nigel lifted the covers and slid into the twin bed. Not his bed. My bed. He was wearing his floppy tank top, or vest as he called it, and a baggy pair of underwear. I was so astonished that I didn’t quite know what to do. I’d made the lightning-fast decision that it probably would be best to get out of my bed and finish out my sleep in his, but the thought of sleeping in his sheets was giving my fastidious self a bit of a pause. That’s when Nigel put his arms around me and very drunkenly began to nuzzle the back of my neck.

Now, I have to say that I wasn’t attracted to Nigel. He was just odd enough to repulse me a little, and that caterpillar on his lip gave me the creeps. But it seemed pretty obvious that as a graduate of a couple of the U.K.’s finer public schools that Nigel knew something about the fine art of buggery. His hands tugged down the elastic of my shorts. Once they were bare, he rammed against my butt cheeks with the very hard rod tenting in his own underpants. And I weakened.

I know, I know. It’s not a moment of which I’m proud. But I’d spent a sexless week in Amy’s house as her only male friend. I hadn’t even dared to use my own hand at night during the time I’d been alone, and with Nigel snoring across the room I’d lost all chance at relief. I was fucking horny, and there was Nigel pawing at me. He was graceless and smelled slightly of body odor. But he was there. So I relaxed, and huddled in the cold under the covers with him, and helped him down with his pants.

It was dark, so I couldn’t see anything. He would have rammed in dry if I’d let him, so I used my own spit to slick his uncut cock. He drove it home without mercy. Nigel was barely awake for what followed. He hugged me as if he were afraid I’d get away, yet fucked me like he hated me. Five, six, seven savage jabs that were for his pleasure alone, and definitely not mine. Eight, nine. On the tenth thrust, he came, squeezing my chest so tightly I imagined ribs cracking. “Oh Amy,” he moaned softly as he flooded my ass. “Oh Amy, Amy.”

I’m not sure if the sound of a needle scratching off the record was quite the meme then that it is now, but it would’ve been an appropriate sound at that point. I sat up as best I could as he slipped out of me. “What?” I asked in a normal voice. Nigel had a crush on Amy?

Beneath the silly mustache, Nigel’s face wore a smile. “Thank you, Amy,” he murmured, as he tried to snuggle closer to me. “I love you.”

I waited a moment, horrified, until he fell asleep for good. Then I pulled myself out of the bed, cleaned up in the bathroom, grabbed an extra blanket, and then went downstairs to the family room sofa.

I was curled up there when Amy padded down early. “Nigel’s in your bed,” she said, amazed. I said that yes, I knew, and that’s why I was down there. Amy came and joined me on the sofa, and pulled part of the blanket over her feet. “Honestly, I don’t know why he showed up here,” she complained. “I barely know him.”

I started to laugh. I couldn’t help it. Nigel had let me know exactly why he’d shown up at Amy’s house, even if he wouldn’t remember or admit it when he finally woke up later.

“What?” Amy wanted to know.

I shook my head, and then looked at Amy with affection, and for the first time, it seemed with clarity. She was dear to me, then—and still is, though after college she continued to moon after Bob for years until finally she married a man who looked exactly like him. But on that New Year’s morning of 1985, as we cuddled together on her parents’ sofa, I knew with certainty that Nigel had once and for all cured me of being in love with Amy.

Monday, July 16, 2012

A Sexual Education: Mr. Goldberg, Part V

This entry is a continuation of Mr. Goldberg, Part IV.

To repeat what I said at the beginning of these essays: I'm applying some basic ground rules for this series of memoirs. You may not agree with what happens in them. That's fine. I don't agree with everything that happens in them, either. Expressing that sentiment in a rational and adult manner is okay. 

What's not acceptable is over-reacting to events that happened thirty-six years ago with fear, alarm, name-calling, and cries for someone to be lynched or castrated or prison raped. These are sentiments that have been expressed in my comments section before, and this time around, I won't tolerate them.

“You know what I think about, sport?” By now I knew what he was going to say, almost word for word. “I think spending the night with you. Like, you coming over after school, and us grabbing a bite to eat, maybe watching some television or seeing a game, and then . . . spending the night. If only we could, huh?”

It was the winter of sixth grade. The school year’s first few months had burned away from the heady atmosphere of sex and attraction, like tissue paper over an open flame. Three months before the same confession had made me melt. By now, though, I’d heard it so many times—always the same thing, always the after-school, always the bite to eat, always the vague euphemism of ‘spending the night’—that all I could do was look at my homeroom teacher with hard and jaded blue eyes and think to myself, Why can’t you just fuck me?

As an adult, I look back on that year and think that if Mr. Goldberg was some kind of hardened, predatory hebephile, he was really incredibly bad at it. If sex were all he wanted, if all his flattery and rides home and supplications of chewing gum had been orchestrated solely so he could get his dick in my ass, it could so easily have worked. He could have had it. I would have given my body to him without question or hesitation, nervous and inexperienced as I was. If he’d wanted to see me naked, to fondle me, I would have let him. If he’d announced he wanted to tie me to his bed and pee on me, I might hesitated, but I would’ve gone along with it.

I was ready, and anxious, and chomping at the bit for him. He had me in the palm of his hand, but for whatever reason—fear, an unwillingness to cross the line with a student, a genuine moral repugnance at his own feelings, whatever—he refused to consummate the affair.

Mr. Goldberg’s idea of enjoying our relationship was not the same as mine. I intuited fairly quickly in our relationship that Mr. Goldberg wanted to court me. His tribute of sugared gums was as colorful as any bouquet; the manner in which he would hold my hands in his car, while he looked at me very seriously and told me again and again that we had to take things slow, reminded me more of Almanzo Wilder courting Laura Ingalls than anything I’d witnessed in the twentieth century.

I liked our secret romance, though. When I’d sit in his classroom during before first period, waiting for the roll call to be done, he and I would exchange smiles and knowing glances, and indulge in the intimate satisfaction of the something special between us. It was sweet, and fun. It didn’t have to announced, or talked about. A quick wink or a smile was all it took to make me weak for him again.

And in the afternoons, parked behind my parents’ house in his hatchback, he’d often read to me, or recite poetry, when he thought I was pushing too hard for anything more than our amorous kissing. “Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments,” he’d say, holding my hands between his. With big, dark doe eyes, he’d speak meaningfully and from his heart. “Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.” I would listen, and nod, and keep a sober, attentive face while I tried to convince myself that holding off was all for the good.

All the while, though, I was thinking, Less poetry. More fucking. Close to the time one of my parents was due home, I’d stumble out of the car, hard and tenting, wave him off, and then rush to my room. There I’d sodomize myself with the broom handle until I’d shot the loads that should have been his.
I was one frustrated twelve-year-old.

I suppose lots of gay men, at the blossoming of their sexual feelings, wish for someone strong and experienced and tender to take them in hand and educate them in the act of love. I was one of them. I’d fantasized for months about getting up the nerve to give myself to one of those older men haunting the several tearooms on my parents’ college campus. I hadn’t trusted any of them enough. In Mr. Goldberg I had not only a handsome, athletic man who was something of a physical ideal—he was masculine, built, and handsome—but a man who was totally infatuated with me. Over and over he told me of the dreams he’d had about me, of his visions of a future where we could be together and do whatever we wanted. He made me fall in love with him, hard.

Yet he seemed unwilling to indulge in any physical activities.

Beyond, that is, some tender yet rather adolescent demonstrations of affection in the back seat of his car. He liked to hold my hands, and stroke them. He would lower his head next to mine and rest our foreheads together as he ran his short, stubby fingers over my face, or let his fingers trail over and over again through my long and sloppy hair. Sometimes he would let his hands drift to my neck, or shoulder, but they never ventured to the areas I begged him to touch. If I became too importunate, he would terminate our make-out sessions altogether, and merely nuzzle at my neck and my ears.

The more desperate for sex I grew, the bolder I got. When he would nibble at me chastely, my hands would wander all over his body. I would marvel at the firmness of his muscles. I’d never touched a grown man’s developed chest before, and here was one of the best, warm beneath my hands, separated from them only by a layer of cotton. I would run my palms over his biceps, and let my fingers walk up his solid thighs. Eventually I got so bold as to grab between his legs. He resisted at first, but I was persistent, and eventually he let me wrap my hands around the thick—but not extraordinarily long—bulge in his pants.

The first time it happened, he was so surprised at my forwardness that he gasped, pulled away, and pursed his lips in a round O shape. A long hiss of air escaped from his lips, and his eyes popped so wide open that for a few seconds I was convinced I’d damaged him in my enthusiasm. But then he began to shudder, and shake, and convulse, and I realized what was happening. As he gripped my hands and wrists I could actually feel the heightened pulse of blood through his body. Then his eyes closed. Though the shudders continued for a few seconds more, they gradually subsided. “You shouldn’t have done that, sport,” he panted. “I didn’t want you to see that.”

“You came,” I told him. “You had an orgasm. I know what it is. I’ve wanted to do it to you.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. He kept repeating the words over and over again. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He shook his head, and soon shooed me from the car. From then on, he’d let me repeat the performance every once in a while, but it was as if he allowed himself a small ration of it and no more. One orgasm through his pants every two weeks, followed by massive apologies and promises that we’d never do it again. That was my allotment.

For a forbidden couple, we actually were as chaste as Puritans in a bundling bed. It frustrated the hell out of me. Time after time I’d limp from the car with a hard-on so red and distended that it was painful to touch as I rammed the broom inside me in the privacy of my bedroom. I wanted dick, not Shakespeare.

Virginia’s mild winter turned into spring, and the days grew warmer and longer as my sixth grade year petered out. “I keep thinking about that idea I had,” he would say week after week. “About maybe getting a bite to eat and going out to a game, then, you know. You at my place for a sleep-over. If only I could figure out a way to get your folks to agree. I know it’s tough. It’s all I think about. If only we could.”

Every time he would shake his head, and sigh, and we would go back to our hand-holding and nuzzling and, if it was one of my lucky days, my brief and always successful frottage of him. When it was over—even while he was still in my presence—I would pity the man.

There were a lot of firsts in my life that came with my relationship with Mr. Goldberg, but not least among them was a certainty that even at the age of twelve, sexually I was vastly more mature than he would ever be. I knew that he’d invested all of his fantasies into that one vision of a perfect night together. The meal, the basketball game, the inevitable moment when our sleep-over would begin—he’d committed so thoroughly to the vision in his head that he never was able see that I was willing, wanting, and just as infatuated as he.

I was in front of him, in his hands, right there and present. Yet even when we were alone together, the me he wanted was dozens of miles and hundreds of if-only-we-coulds away. That I was able to see, understand, and mourn it at the age of twelve is something of a miracle.

June came and school let out. I lost my virginity that month in a less-than-ideal way, and that was okay; my top accomplished in the space of a few minutes what I’d ached to happen for almost an entire semester with Mr. Goldberg. It might not have been perfect, it might not have matched anyone’s idealized fantasy of how a deflowering should go, but it was real. Reality is what I needed. Within days, I’d abandoned the broomstick and was taking dicks in restrooms and down at the park. I’d gotten over that hurdle of fear and was having an actual sex life.

The following school year, when I was in seventh grade, I was a jaded young thing. I’d spy Mr. Goldberg in the hallway and regard him with much the same mingled annoyance and regret as someone who took home a two a.m. trick from the bar for some really mediocre sex and ran across the guy the following week in the same spot. We would talk. He’d still slap me on the shoulders and call me sport. He’d still look at me with those shining dark eyes and I could tell he still dreaming of that perfect, unattainable night when he could let himself go and be what he wanted to be, with me.

But we didn’t have any quiet classroom time, and he didn’t give me any rides home. We never talked about it, but we both seemed to sense the window of opportunity had closed. By the time I was in eighth grade, Mr. Goldberg had transferred to another school. We heard it was a higher-paid position. I never found out where he’d gone, or what happened to him after that.

Our time together ended not with a bang, but with a whimper, and it was a shame. But I never begrudged a moment I spent with Mr. Goldberg. After that not once did I think of him with anything but fondness, and a great deal of gratitude. I learned from him that to the shiny promise of sex, beautiful and exciting as it is in that initial rush, we humans bring all our weaknesses, fears, and fallibilities, and that the end result is not always what we imagine. That’s not so a bad lesson to learn right from the get-go.

But oh, for over three and a half decades how I loved the man, and looked back on our clumsy times together through an unabashed haze of nostalgia and affection.

Save for one brief moment some months ago, however, when a few chance words made me reevaluate everything I thought I remembered.

(This series will be concluded next week.)

Friday, July 13, 2012

Open Forum Friday: I Hate 69

I’m just going to throw it out there in a way I haven’t, before: I don’t like to 69.

Whew. That was liberating. Let me say it again: I don’t like to 69.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not repulsed by the idea of mutual simultaneous oral sex. If I’m in the heat of the moment and a guy whisper’s in my ear, Let’s 69, baby, I’m not going to wrinkle my nose, scoot myself away from him in repulsion and declare, “Icky-poo!” If I’m sucking on a guy and all of a sudden he makes a dive for my junk, I’m not going to inform him in a chilly voice to get the hell out and never return again.

The act of 69ing is fun enough, I suppose. It doesn’t make me lose my hard-on. It’s not repulsive in itself—certainly not like a guy squirting his leftover enema juice in my face, or someone asking me to drive finishing nails through his scrotum. (Both of which have happened to me, by the way.) In fact, on the list of Things I’m Officially Not Into, it probably ranks as one of the more arousing and enjoyable activities. But the simple fact is, I’d rather do just about anything else but.

Sometimes it seems that when I look back on all the guys who’ve hit on me during a one or two-week period, I can sense a statistically-skewed distribution of some sort. A trend, if you will. A couple of years ago I hit on a streak of guys who came to me with pre-lubed holes, which is something I haven’t encountered since; week before last I had several guys tell me something I hadn’t heard before, which was slight variations on, “You’ve aged really well.” (Thanks a bunch, fuckers.) I’ve had weeks of flakes, and weeks of slutty bottoms who want multiple cocks.

This last week was the week of the 69. I logged onto Manhunt a couple of times and I’d come back to find my inbox had accumulated a couple of letters with the subject line 69??, but no body. A reader sent me a lot of photos he’d collected from somebody’s Tumblr of guys going at it in a 69 position, and emailed them to me with all-cap message, THIS IS WHAT I WANT US TO DO. Guys kept mentioning it in their come-ons in a way they haven’t in a very long time. It was as if Oprah had featured 69ing in her book club or something, and suddenly everyone was hot to try it. (Is there a lot of 69 in Fifty Shades of Grey? Is that what’s going on?)

As I said, I like oral sex. I enjoy receiving it. I enjoy giving it. There have been times in the past, when I was much younger, that a guy would be sucking on my dick and I would feel guilty simply laying there and enjoying it. It’s tough for me sometimes simply to enjoy something without giving back. So if the guy’s meat was within sucking distance, I’d reluctantly suck on it too, mostly out of guilt. I’d rather have been sucking on it while he lay back and relaxed and enjoyed, not while he was working on me.

My experience of oral sex is entirely pleasurable until the moment comes when I take another man’s dick into my mouth. At that point, it’s almost too much sensation for me. Where before his tongue running over my cock head would make me gasp and groan and arch my back and wish for more, if I am having to divide my attentions between my own dick and his, suddenly that tongue simply feels like sandpaper—unpleasant and even painful. What’s a delightful slippery sensation when I’m sliding in and out of a mouth solo, suddenly becomes awkward and grating on my dick when 69ing.

It’s almost as if the pleasure centers in my mouth when I’m giving head switch off the receptive pleasure centers of my dick when I’m receiving it—except that if a third party is sucking me while I’m eating dick, I’m totally in hog heaven. I don’t know what the difference can be, unless it has something to do with the upside-down positioning required in a mutual 69.

I’ve done quite well managing to talk my way out of 69ing through most of my life, since I’ve pretty much always felt this way. Yet I feel slightly guilty when I encounter men for whom the position is a main course, who think that more than anything else it represents deep-down wallowin’ pig sex. Two dudes chompin’ on each other’s hogs. Yeah man! That’s the stuff! When I’m with one of those fellows I feel as if I missed the boat somehow.

I’m throwing this out to my readers to find out what they have to say about the matter. Is 69ing overrated? Am I doing it wrong—or is there something I should be doing to make it better? (And if so, do you want to help me practice?) Or is there a relatively mild act of which you’re not fond, yourself, and feel mildly embarrassed about admitting? Let’s talk it over in today’s open forum.

Monday, July 9, 2012

A Sexual Education: Mr. Goldberg, Part IV

This entry is a continuation of Mr. Goldberg, Part III.

To repeat what I said at the beginning of that essay: I'm applying some basic ground rules for this series of memoirs. You may not agree with what happens in them. That's fine. I don't agree with everything that happens in them, either. Expressing that sentiment in a rational and adult manner is okay. 

What's not acceptable is over-reacting to events that happened thirty-six years ago with fear, alarm, name-calling, and cries for someone to be lynched or castrated or prison raped. These are sentiments that have been expressed in my comments section before, and this time around, I won't tolerate them.

The day a man first touched me—when a hand swung out sideways and glanced on the tiny bump in my pants in People’s Drug Store where I’d stood browsing the magazine rack—I went home and masturbated furiously and repeatedly. I still hadn’t figured out at that point that it was possible to use my hands to get myself off, so all I could do was rub. I donned a pair of my tightie whities and straddle my pillow and fuck it into senselessness until I came. A dry orgasm, it was then. I went into the bathroom and humped the porcelain tub side, using the bathmat as cushioning. I grabbed onto a support beam in the basement and frotted it for dear life. A record seven times I came that afternoon and evening, thinking about that man and what could have happened.

I matched that record the day Mr. Goldberg and I made out in his car, in the back alley behind my house. By then, though, I was a master of efficiency when it came to masturbation; I could go from zero to orgasm in thirty second flat, if I put my mind to it. My sixth-grade homeroom teacher had left me in overdrive. It seemed that the slightest touch to my dick would set me off, and there I’d be again, wrapping my hands around my tiny dick and jerking it until I shot a juvenile load all over my knuckles. Seven times I came that night, pausing only for dinner.

My brain was afire with all the possibilities. I dreamt of Mr. Goldberg inside of me, fucking me, shooting in me. Calling me ‘sport’ as he held me tight, after. I fantasized about the two of us going off together, living our lives in some remote place where no one knew where we were, or came knocking at our door. I alternated between the sweet and salacious, fantasizing about him wearing my watch while we made tender love one moment, and then imagining him savaging my little boyhole the next.

I know he thought about me, too. Here’s the closest, most intimate and precious memory I have of Mr. Goldberg, after the day we kissed. It was perhaps a couple of weeks later, in the few minutes after school when the hallways were a rapid current of movement as students spilled from their units in the direction of the exits, and filled with noise of cheerful babble, lockers slamming, and the shrieks of the liberated. It was as ideal a situation to have a quiet conversation as a solitary room, for all the notice either of us were afforded. Mr. Goldberg stood with his arms crossed, so that his meaty forearms seemed even bigger than they were.

“You know what I think about, sport?” he asked, speaking softly and intimately. “If only I could get you over to spend the night. You know, maybe after school, you and me go out and get something to eat, then go see a basketball game or something and, you know. Then you spend the night over at my place. A sleep-over.”

The idea made me melt. I wanted nothing more than to spend the night with him. The car had done us well that first time, and for the two or three make-out sessions we’d had since. I knew from television, though, that doing it in bed was the proper way of having sex. It’s what they did on Fantasy Island, anyway.

Mr. Goldberg had been staring at the floor and talking, but then he looked up and met my gaze. “You think . . . you think your folks would ever go for that? A sleep-over?” Before I could answer, he shook his head and sucked in his lips. He spoke with such yearning. “Of course they wouldn’t. God. I don’t know. Maybe I could tell them it was a class thing. Something all the school was doing. You think that might work? If they thought it was a class outing? I don’t know. But I think about it. I think about it a lot . . . I think about it whenever I think about you.”

Thinking about Mr. Goldberg over the years, I’ve realized that the day I recognized his attraction to me was the day I started becoming a conscious being. I don’t exaggerate a whit when I say it was the first step I took toward adulthood—and I don't make that claim because of the illicit sexual tension between us. When I discovered the world of underground gay sex two summers before, I began having to maintain a separate inner monologue that no one else would ever hear. With Mr. Goldberg in the picture, that inner monologue blossomed, and in my head was a running commentary on what was happening between us. I was analyzing things, and judging them, in ways I’d never before known possible.

I can’t recall ever having that third-person observer in my head before that moment, who knowingly managed the appearance I was trying to project, as well as parsed through my interior stream of consciousness and tried to make sense of it all. Even in the midst of the school's noise and chaos, as Mr. Goldberg made his confession to me, that burgeoning new awareness had an insight far beyond my actual maturity: I realized that this little speech, this moment together, was going to sum up all of our time together.

I understood with a certainty born of I-don’t-know-what that while Mr. Goldberg was hopelessly romantic and totally infatuated with me, in the end, he was going to be utterly unable to bring himself to do anything about consummating our affair. If I wanted anything to happen, I was going to have to make it happen myself.

If I’d been a little wiser, I might have understood that self-realization would sum up the rest of my life, as well.

We’d had two sessions a week in his car for the three weeks after that first kiss. We’d climb into the back seat, sink down below the seat backs, and make out like sixth-graders—only one of us was the appropriate age for that, though. Usually he would lie down and I’d be on top of him. I’d hold down his arms on the seat and aggressively kiss him deeply. Through his pants I could always feel the rock-hard bulge within. I’d rock back on it with my ass and grind there, getting my reward in increased passion and wet spots. At some point I’d be bold enough to grab for his cock, to try to massage it through his trousers—and then he’d protest, tell me I was going way too fast, and that I needed to cool my jets.

At first, I did. It was tough. My body was on fire for him. At school I couldn’t think about anything save for when I might see him again, smell him, feel his arms around my little body. I stumbled through the school day, getting my work done somehow, responsibly moving from task to task. I had an easy facility with schoolwork without actually learning much that served me well during this period. At home I’d lock myself into my room and moon about him. I wrote poetry and masturbated, because that’s what kids did in the days before the internet and video games. Us geeky kids, anyway.

And I snuck a broom into my room. I was a fairly neat kid anyway, almost to Felix Unger-like proportions; it wouldn’t have surprised my parents to find a broom in my closet. They would assumed I was trying to keep the wave of their untidiness from crossing the threshold. What might have surprised them, though, was the notion that I was using the rounded wooden broomstick end as a makeshift dildo. I’d drag myself into the empty house after being forcibly ejected from Mr. Goldberg’s car, panting and erect and desperate for any kind of sex, and then I’d lock myself in my room. With a jar of petroleum jelly I’d snitched from the bathroom, I’d lube up the broom handle, and then try to impale myself with it.

My first few times were spectacularly unsuccessful. I worried about splinters, and I wasn’t all that clear about how flexible a hole could be. But the more unconsummated sessions I had with Mr. Goldberg, the hornier and more desperate I got. It only took a week for me to learn how to take an inch of the broom, and then two. It was hard and unyielding, and hurt like hell, but when it was in me I could close my eyes and imagine it was him violating me. That broom handle was my Goldberg stand-in, and when it fucked me, it was thick and brutal and it made me cum three times as hard as when I masturbated without it.

I didn’t enjoy the broom handle dildo, exactly. But I wanted to be ready for the real thing.

Sunday, July 8, 2012

Sunday Morning Questions: Fireworks Edition

One of the annual events in the little community in which I live is a fireworks display around Independence Day, every year. From miles and miles around people congregate in the town park—across the street from where I live—and bring picnics so they can listen to the town band play John Phillip Sousa marches from a bandstand festooned with red, white, and blue ribbons. The local church serves lemonade and popcorn. Kids run around with sparklers. Then after dark, we're treated to about an hour's worth of fireworks over the town pond.

It's very, very New England.

In my much younger days I used to date a guy who was involved in the fireworks displays that used to take place over the baseball stadium near my parents' house in Virginia. Those were nothing like the ones here—a few straggling bursts of light and a lot of duds is what I remember about them.

But I recall complaining to the guy once about the fireworks I particularly disliked. The stadium seemed to have a lot of them, too—the kind of firework that would burst low in the air, produce nothing but a quick flash of bright light, and an immense, deadening boom. Spaced out, they might have been fine, I guessed. I found out from the guy I was fucking that they were intended to be filler, and were really supposed to be for sporadic effect. Not the soul-deadening, ear-splitting, obnoxious percussive assault accompanied by nothing of real interest that they turned out to be in that context. They were cheap, though, and that's why the stadium bought so many of them.

It occurred to me during this year's display that a lot of what I encounter on the internet is like those flashy, booming nothing fireworks. They attempt to make a loud noise. They call attention to themselves. They explode and request—nay, demand—that we take heed.

But you know, nobody likes them that much. Nobody attends the show saying, "Gosh, I hope they have those big obnoxious boomers this evening—and lots of them!"

When I see sites trying to produce an extreme reaction simply by making a big, loud noise, I don't think to myself, "Man, that guy knows how to put on a show!" I don't look forward to more of the same. People stir the pot solely to call attention to themselves, with the notion that a sensational notoriety is better than no attention at all. It's not. It's cheap, and when it's done again and again, it's ultimately dull, and soul-deadening.

Just one man's opinion. Don't take it as gospel. And as always, enjoy what you enjoy and don't let anyone else, including me, tell you otherwise.

Let's get to some questions from

What's your favourite underwear brand?

I tend to like Calvin Klein, just because they're durable and classic. For everyday wear, however, I tend to stick to Uniqlo.

have you ever slept with an inlaw would you sleep with an inlaw,have you ever slept with your kids friends parents or teacher

I can state with absolute certainty that I have totally slept with one of my kid's parents.

So we all know you're often up for a playful romp. Do you have any fetishes that some people might find unusual?

Some people find unusual and squicky activities that I find rather mundane, like rimming, so the answer to your question is an unqualified yes. I'm sure people would find some of the stuff I like unusual.

I enjoy—I really enjoy—having my feet serviced, for example. It's something that happens rarely, and which a lot of people would find super-kinky. I don't find it particularly kinky or taboo. Just pleasurable. Likewise with fisting, an activity that brings associations of men in leather chomping cigars in seedy barroom dark rooms. Many people consider it outrageous, invasive, and a sign of depravity. I find it very sensual, intimate, and an expression of love, respect, and trust between a man and his partner.

So I no longer pretend to be the arbiter of kink or unusual activities. They're all part of human expression, and thus of interest to me.

u need 2 cum 2 arsetralia i'll show you how real men bottom

U need 2 send me a plane ticket and put me up for a couple of weeks and we'll see about that.

When it's really hot outside, do you go outside barechested?

No, because my mother was susceptible to skin cancer, and I don't want to trigger anything by having my lard-white complexion exposed to the sun's direct rays.

dude, I feel like the line in "the hours" - like I'm unravelling. just had a bareback experience..felt good. strangely that one step of faith.. now gets me more confident and daring to try to hookup.

Taking a step in the direction you want to go—whether sexually, or in any other aspect of your life—is going to make you feel more confident, happier, and at one with the world.

I hope you realize from your experience that making yourself happy is within your means. And the same goes for anyone out there.

Friday, July 6, 2012

What He Needs

“Which one?” he asks. “That one?”

He’s pointing to the waitress, a woman of about forty who’s trying to shave fifteen years off her appearance by wearing about five pounds of hair extensions, and nearly as much makeup. She’s got on a flimsy camisole top and skimpy short shorts. As a forty-year-old in normal clothing, she’d probably look fairly attractive. Dressed up like an extra in a Katy Perry video, it’s comic that anyone would think so.

I watch the waitress balance two large plates of mussels on her forearms, while her hands clutch a pair of lobster rolls. These aren’t the cheap-ass kind of lobster rolls they serve in lesser dives, with mayonnaise. No, the lobster’s steeped in melted butter, here, and are served with little bowls with even more butter, ready to be slopped on. I didn’t know a thing about lobster rolls until I moved to this state. It’s all the locals talk about, sometimes—and I’d gotten an extensive talk about them from the tattooed and muscled bartender, on an earlier visit. The Landscaper is watching me watch her get her payload to the table of rowdy, beer-drinking locals. “You like her?”

I roll my eyes. Get serious, the look says.

“Which one, then?”

He and I are sitting side by side at the bar, our backs against the railing. He’s got a gin and tonic in his hand. I’ve been nursing a beer for a while. I don’t like beer, but he’d ordered it for me when he’d seen me walk in. It’s the same bar where we’ve met a couple of times before. I think he gets off on the idea of being seen in public with me; he probably goes home and masturbates furiously at the notion of being out in public with a pussyhound like me. On one level it’s ridiculous. The Landscaper is a handsome man on his own merits—far better-looking than I am. If he were so inclined, he could attract just about any woman he wanted.

At the same time, I know that the reality of the situation isn’t so much what matters here. It’s the story he’s told himself, over and over again, in his fantasies. He’s told himself that I’m some big-time player, a straight guy fallen on slightly hard times who’s allowing the Landscaper the smallest of sexual favors in exchange for cash. He’s told himself I only do that stuff because I really need the dough. He’s made himself believe that he’s lucky that I’m willing to hang out with him once in a while.

And you know, it’s odd, but when I hang out with the Landscaper at this dive, this little restaurant/bar that skulks on the Saugatuck river beneath the shadow of an I-95 overpass, I really kind of am a pussy magnet. While I ponder his question, one of the married women sitting at a nearby table pauses to talk to me as she stumbles on her way to the restroom. She’s blond and pretty, though her skin is coarse from the sun. “I just wanted to tell you,” she said, leaning in to be heard over the noise of the crowd and the loud music coming from the bar’s far end, “I love your singing.”

“What?” I ask. I could hear her perfectly, but I cocked my head as if I couldn’t.

The woman moves in closer, as I thought she would. She touches me on the shoulder with her right hand. Her other hand drops; her fingertips touch the top of my leg three inches above the knee. She’s standing between my god-damned legs, a detail that’s not lost on the Landscaper. “I love your singing,” she said. “I love Duran Duran.”

I always sing Duran Duran on karaoke nights at this place. It reduces all the cougars to their fifteen-year-old selves. I touch her on the arm. “Thanks!” I say. And that’s all I’ve got to say. She wavers for a minute, undocks from the port between my thighs, and sails away, a little unsteadily.

“Fuck,” says the Landscaper as he watches her go. “You could’ve had her. She was hot for you!”

I shrug. I don’t point out that she was also extremely inebriated and smelled like a distillery.

“You could’ve been all up in that. You want to finger her? You want to lick her out?” He’s actually pretty loud, but he can’t be heard over the singing and the noise by anyone but me. Maybe by the bartender standing nearby, but he’s probably heard it all at this point. “You could get that killer dick of yours up in her, man. She’d ride you like a fucking bitch. Fuck. I bet some nights you go home smelling like strange pussy.”

I shrug again, and smile, and act like I’m flattered and not in disagreement with him. And I think to myself, is this really the way straight guys talk to each other?

We sit there for a while. “That one?” he’ll ask, every time a pretty woman comes into the bar.

“Eh,” I’ll say. Every time I’ll have an excuse. Too old. The tits are too big. The tits aren’t big enough. Too nasty. Too uptight. Sometimes he provides the answer for me: Too skanky. Too damned skinny. Too fucking fat.

He likes this routine of sitting in this bar and checking out the chicks, before we do anything together. It gives him a sense of security. We’d been there about an hour when he’s had enough gin and tonics to ask, “How about me?”

“What about you,” I grunt back. My eyes are half-closed.

“How about me?” he asks again. “You want me?”

I snort. “You’re a guy.”

“Come out to the van,” he says. “Did I tell you how much I like your short hair? It looks amazing.” I look at my second beer, appearing embarrassed to be given a compliment by a dude. “Come out to the van.” This time it’s a plea. There’s a note of neediness in his voice.

I sit there, and say nothing. I sit there, and let him wonder if I heard him. I sit there, and I look at the waitress, who’s cleaning up all the mussel shells and a huge amount of wadded-up paper napkins covered in dried butter, and I let him wait for the answer.

Then I stand up, adjust the hang of my jeans, and walk out of the place. He’s only two steps behind me.

He’s parked in the commuter lot of the train station, in a dark corner. There are other cars around, but they’re all there for the Westport nightlife, such as it is. We don’t even bother to pretend to get in through the front doors; he unlocks the back and we crawl onto the carpet.

He’s grabbing for the button on my jeans even before I’m settled against the back of the seats. “Whoa, whoa!” I tell him, sounding alarmed. “What the fuck?”

“Sorry!” he says, raising his hands. “Sorry, man. Just got a little excited.” When I’m with the Landscaper, I’m good at looking disgusted at the notion some dude would put his hands on another dude. Exploitative sure. But you know what? It’s what he wants from me. I give him what he wants in a way no one else has. That’s why he keeps seeing me.

“You know—“

“I know, I know,” he says. He’s trying to placate me in the dramatic, overacted way that the inebriated assume. “Ssshhh. Besides, we should take care of this, right?”

He reaches into his back pocket. He’s already got some fifties ready for me. Six of them, rolled up and squashed into a long rectangle from having been sat on. I count them out, nod, and stick them into my shirt pocket. “All right,” I say.

“Can I take them off?” he asks, crouching over me. His fingers want to go back to my jeans button.

This is the concession I’ve made for him in the last couple of months; I let him take off my pants. “Shoes first,” I order.

Lovingly, he removes my sneakers. He places them side by side at the van’s edge. Then my ankle-high socks. Those he folds and puts into the mouths of my shoes. Grudgingly I lift my hips up as he undoes the jeans and pulls them off. I’m deliberately not wearing shorts. He’s staring at my erect dick as he folds my jeans leg over leg, then in half, then in quarters, and lays them atop my shoes.

“Can I?”

I pause for a moment. I like to let him think there’s a doubt. Then I spread my legs so that he can position himself between them.

He lies on his belly. I can feel his breath on my nuts as I begin to stroke. He wants to do more. He’s asked to do more. He’s offered me double my going rate just to suck me off, the last couple of times. Each time he’s proposed the deal, I’ve let him see me wrestle with the offer. I think he can tell the money’s attractive—and six hundred bucks just to get head? Fuck yes it is. But part of me—the sadistic part of me—enjoys fucking with him more than I’d enjoy the flow.

On some level, I know he’d respect me less if I’d accepted right away. That’s why we haven’t gone there.

This part of the transaction is pretty straightforward. I stroke myself, putting on a show for him while I make a big pretense of him not being present. I jerk with both hands, I tug at my nuts. I double-fist the shaft so that the head and a good two inches are sticking out at the top. I play with the precum, though I don’t eat it, the way I might in my own private masturbation sessions.

He’s going crazy the entire time. “Yeah,” he’s whispering. “You’re thinking about pile-drivin’ that pussy, aren’t you. Getting that big dick all up inside that whore and fucking her until she’s got a pussyful of seed. Banging the shit out of her, man.” Crap like that.

He thinks it’s exciting me to think about fucking some housewife out on a Monday-night spree, and doesn’t realize I’m getting my pleasure from dragging him down into the depths of his own private world. He’s showing me the parts of himself that his wife and kiddy never glimpse, the parts that none of his bluff and hearty buddies ever guess, the parts that he might not even want to admit to himself. That’s the payload for me.

And for him, the payload’s when I shoot. He always gets his mouth on my nuts right before I come—I allow that, and pretend it’s not happening, though the hot and wet slide of his tongue over my smooth sac is what really gets me off in the end. Then there’s cum jetting out of my slit, and down the shaft.

My eyes are totally closed as I let him clean it up. My hands are around my meat, protecting it from the man’s touch, but he licks it off my fingers, off my wrist where it’s flown. He’d fucking lick it off the van carpet if I shot it there.

Some day I might.

When he’s stopped and it’s safe for me to open my eyes without seeing some dude on my seed, I do so. “Gotta jet,” I say, reaching for my pants.

He watches me dress again. I look like a mess, but my car’s not too far away. “Gonna fuck the wife?” he asks. He sounds hopeful. “Gonna give it to her?”

I shrug. “Later, dude,” I tell him.

“Gonna give her what she needs? I bet you give her what she really needs,” he says, as he opens the van doors. There’s a distinct and pronounced bulge in his pants that I’m sure he’ll be taking care of, the moment he’s alone. “I bet you do. I bet you always give all your fucks what they need, huh?”

I smile. That’s a bet he should know he’d definitely win.

Monday, July 2, 2012

A Sexual Education: Mr. Goldberg, Part III

This entry is a continuation of Mr. Goldberg, Part II.

To repeat what I said at the beginning of that essay: I'm applying some basic ground rules for this series of memoirs. You may not agree with what happens in them. That's fine. I don't agree with everything that happens in them, either. Expressing that sentiment in a rational and adult manner is okay. 

What's not acceptable is over-reacting to events that happened thirty-six years ago with fear, alarm, name-calling, and cries for someone to be lynched or castrated or prison raped. These are sentiments that have been expressed in my comments section before, and this time around, I won't tolerate them.

The afternoon we’d awkwardly kissed in his classroom, Mr. Goldberg drove me home and parked his hatchback in the alley behind my parents’ house. Most of the houses in the neighborhood had had shrubbery dividing their back yards from the alley. We could sit there for a long period of time without being observed. My parents weren’t due home for a couple of hours.

We’d ridden without a word between us. Once he’d pulled out of the faculty parking lot, he’d driven for a quarter-mile before he reached over and tousled my hair. Then he rested his hand on my knee. Not my thigh. My knee. And he left it there, like it had been super-glued. I wanted that meaty hand to travel up my thigh, to prod at my hard and raging dick. I wanted it down my shirt and touching me all over my skin. But not while he’s driving, I reasoned. Once we were in the alley behind my house. That’s when we could do stuff.

Once he’d turned off the motor, he coughed nervously. “I don’t want to rush this,” he told me, once he’d turned off the motor. “I know you’ve got to be feeling overwhelmed.”

Perhaps I was, but it wasn’t stopping me. I pulled myself closer to him. Ever since he’d kissed me, all I’d wanted to do was taste those lips again. He smelled like Old Spice and spray starch. The three o’clock shadow on his face had turned his skin into sandpaper. He could’ve left me raw and burned from that stubble for all I cared. I just loved the feel of his lips surrounding mine, of his tongue slipping between them. I had no practical training in kissing and I knew that this open-mouthed avec tongue method was the exotic, French kissing I'd heard so much about, but it came so naturally and felt so very good that it could’ve been Scandinavian or Yugoslavian kissing or something all the way from Easter god-damned Island and I would’ve been okay with it.

I don’t know how long we made out, in the overgrown shade of the alley. It seemed like an afternoon, or a year. It wasn’t long enough. His arms surrounded me and his mouth seemed fixed on mine, immovable, unshakable. Then, like the little would-be slut I was, my hands wrestled themselves out from his clasp and tried to undo his zipper.

Instantly I found him pushing me away. He pressed himself against the driver’s side door almost as if he were contemplating escape. “Hey, hey, sport!” he protested. He raised his hands and patted the air with them. “Cool it, now! You don’t know what you’re doing.”

I knew exactly what I was doing. “I know how to do stuff,” I said, thinking all the sexual activity I’d witnessed on one side of the campus glory hole.

“How?” he sounded alarmed. “Did someone else—? Have you—?” I knew what he was asking me. I shook my head. “Are you still a virgin?” He spoke the last word with a certain hush, as if it might shock my tender sensibilities, and as if we hadn’t been macking on each other like madmen not thirty seconds before. I told him I was. “Then how do you know?”

“I just do,” I assured him. My inner observer, in its infancy as it was, somehow intuited that he didn’t want to hear about my voyeuristic public sex adventures.

I’d shocked him, though. He remained plastered against the door as he readjusted his zipper. I wanted more of him, though. He’d lit the flames. It seemed only fair he dealt with the wildfire he’d started. Even if it was just kissing, I wanted more. I was hot, and greedy, and my youth had me moving like the cartoon Tasmanian Devil—all purpose and motion and fury.

Mr. Goldberg was astonished at how hard he had to work to fend me off. It was for all the world as if he were the virginal young thing and I was the dirty old man. “Gosh, sport,” he said. “Slow down. Let’s both enjoy this. Okay?”

I thought we both had been enjoying it. With reluctance, and a haze of sex-clouded confusion, I agreed.

“Now, let’s cool off,” he suggested. His shirt was rumpled; the hot car and the passion had given him sweat stains at the pits. He tried smoothing things down, but it wasn’t really any use. His voice became more gentle as he reached out and stroked my face. His fingers trailed down my cheeks, as he looked me in the eye. “I want it to be special. A first time’s supposed to be special. Will you let me do that for you?”

It took me a moment to answer. My heart pounded hard. In my head, it sounded like a herd of rhinos had invaded the alley. I was afraid if I opened my mouth, the tell-tale thudding would betray how very badly I wanted him, and how desperately I was thinking about what he’d said, just then.

He wanted to give me my first time. Mr. Goldberg wanted to take my virginity, and he wanted to make it special.

More than anything in the world, I wanted him to have it. And soon.

(To be continued next week.)