Monday, February 11, 2013

Open Forum Monday: The Big One

I had one of those birthdays last week. It wasn’t a milestone birthday in the traditional sense—that is, the year didn’t end with a zero. But it was one of those birthdays that’s ominous to gay men in general, because it’s a number at which time suddenly stands still and past which, mysteriously no gay man ever ages.

No, not 25. I can see your confusion, though. That’s the age that gay men ape in their dress habits, especially the fifty-somethings who stuff themselves into a Hollister T-shirt under the hope that the brand name will do a David Copperfield on their age and shave off twenty-five years before everyone’s marveling eyes. So no, not 25. The other number.

No, not 29. Yes, I know that’s the age that all women over 30 claim to be. That’s more of a female thing, though. Men over thirty claim they’re 32, all the way up until they’re my age. It doesn’t matter if they’re 39, or 42, or 46. If you look at their profile, or ask them in a bar late at night when the lights are low, they’re going to tell you they’re 32. But not either of those numbers.

And no, it’s not 43. Where’d that come from?

Look, I’ll just tell you. I turned 49. For-ty-niiiiine. It’s the last number to which gay men will admit. Men born in the year I was born—1964—are 49. Men born in the nineteen-fifties are 49. Guys who popped out of a Great Gatsby-era flapper wearing a shingled skirt and shouting twenty-three skiddoo! claim to be 49. Gay men hit 49 and then remain there until their deaths, thirty-five years later. It doesn’t matter that they’re hunched over and clutching a cane and looking like Young Mr. Grace on Are You Being Served?, who doddered around barely able to say his one line of the entire show. He’s 49, dammit, and 49 he’ll stay.


I had an argument with my own brother about the age of 49 a couple of years ago. My brother has been 49 for almost a dozen years now, both in his online profiles and with new guys he meets. It made me more and more anxious about approaching the age myself—not because I feared the number itself. I don’t give a rip. It’s because I had this vision of my age matching his, then surpassing him. Then I’d be the older brother. And that’s a crime against nature. I’m too foxy to be the older brother.

So I nagged. And I pleaded. Finally he changed his age to 99, which in online profile land is basically a big fuck you to anyone who wants to get a general idea of how old someone is.

But it’s still older than 49.

I’d like to proclaim up front that my age will continue to change from year to year. Next February I will be 50. In 2015, I will be 51. Just you wait and see. Check in with in a decade and I’ll be 59. Still foxy, and 59.

I don’t like to let a number dictate how I feel about myself, see. I spent way too much of my early life doing that. It started the week I lost my virginity at 12, in my earliest encounter getting cruised in a men’s room toilet. The guy next to me, after peering through a gloryhole and looking at my smooth and hairless body, passed me a note written on toilet paper and wrapped around a Bic pen that read, How old are you???

Right away, I lied. 14, I wrote back. Because in my naive mind, there was a vast world of experiential difference between a callow youth of 12 and a seasoned sexual professional of 14, and I didn’t want to seem like a young newbie.

God, was I dumb. Not that the guy cared. He had his dick in me less than thirty seconds later.

I was always lying about my age to men in my teens. I added on three, four, five years to make men comfortable about fucking me. In college, because I’d skipped a year of high school and entered early, I added on a couple of years so that my classmates didn’t think I was contemptibly young. I had a baby face in grad school, where I the only 20-year-old surrounded by students in their late twenties, thirties, and forties—so I told everyone I was 25. I added on years until I reached 30, when I decided I’d had enough about apologizing for something as silly as how old I was.

And yes, at 49 I’ve had my share of rejection based on my age. Or more accurately, I’ve run across the guys to whom I’m invisible because I’m not 25 (or wearing that Hollister T to pretend I am). I’ve seen plenty of profiles of guys who absolutely positively will never ever meet anyone over 45 ever! You know what? Screw that. It’s easy to see the scores of those profiles and feel slighted. I don’t intend to waste my time bemoaning them. It seems to me the men who are missing out are those who sit on the sidelines and simply don’t try, because they’re too sensitive to rejection.

In the end, I’d rather be rejected arbitrarily so that I know someone’s a close-minded asshole, than magically accepted because I gave out a fictional number as my age. And that’s, as Edith Ann used to say (see, I’m dating myself), the truth.

So in this Monday’s open forum, I’m curious. Who out there has lied about his or her age in order to land a guy? For what reasons? Are you fibbing about your age now? Are you going older or, more likely, younger? How young do you dare to go—that is, how many years is it safe to shave off in the service of preserving one’s youth? And is there life after 49? I’d love to hear from you guys.

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

The Winner

I know my faults. I’m competitive. Too competitive.

Monday mornings are when we meet. The place is a hotel by the interstate where the rates are hourly and the doors whisper-thin, the ceilings uneven from multiple refacings, the floors so iffy that we pile our discarded clothing onto the room’s only table. When I make him yell, I know that anyone passing can hear him. I don’t really give a shit. The only other places in this run-down hellhole are truckers looking to cut corners on their budgets, or men here for the same reason we are.

To fuck.

He’s got a boyfriend. I don’t give a shit about that, either. His hole’s up in the air, his knees spread apart as far as I can yank them. “You like that?” I snarl at him.

“I love it,” he gasps out.

“You love that dick, don’t you?” I’m pile driving him. Every stroke I take hammers home my shaft. His body shudders from every blow.

“I love your dick,” he gasps out, between gut punches.

“Is my dick bigger than your boyfriend’s?”

He’s reluctant to say. Like it’s a betrayal. Whoring his hole out in a seedy motel room, giving it up for the fourth Monday in a row to the married man who uses him as a cumdump—that’s A-okay. Admitting that my dick is bigger than his boyfriend’s? He acts like it’d be the Judas kiss to his relationship. “Sure,” he groans out, into the sandpapery pillow.

That kind of answer just enrages me. “Not . . . good . . . enough.” He lets out a sob as I pummel him with each word. “I asked you a question. Is my dick . . . bigger . . . than . . . your fucking . . . dumb-ass . . . boyfriend’s?”

“Yes!” he says. The admission is a wet explosion of need and embarrassment. “It’s so much bigger. You have no idea. He’s got nothing compared to you.”

I’m pleased, but not mollified. He’s wearing one of my jocks, a Nasty Pig black and white number. I’d made him slip it off me when I arrived, then don it right away so that he’d feel the warmth of my dick and nuts on it when it slipped onto his waist. I grabbed the waistband like reins. “And am I a better fuck than your boyfriend?”

“Yes!” he yells. This time there’s no hesitation. “Oh god yes. So much better.”

Inwardly, I sneer. This is too easy. And I’m still too damned competitive, if you ask me.

I yank out my dick. He groans like he’s being deprived. His hungry hole has swallowed down two of my loads already—snatched them out of my dick, if you want to know the truth. “So when you pussy up for me, you’re not thinking about him at all, are you?” I ask.

“No.” He’s whimpering. His hole is blindly squeezing out, opening and closing around air, trying to find the meat that’s radiating so much heat behind it.

“And when you’re home at night, in bed with him—“

“I’m thinking of you,” he says. He looks up at me over his shoulder. His eyes are wet with adoration and love. “I’m only thinking of you.”

I go back to my point. “Say it for me, and maybe I’ll give you more of my cock. When I’m home at night. . . .

Please,” he whispers. Then, realizing I mean it, he says, “When I’m at home at night.”

In bed with my short-dicked boyfriend. . . .


“Say it.”

“When I’m at home at night in bed . . . with my short-dicked boyfriend. . . .”

“. . . All I think about is you.”

He parrots the words. “All I think about is you.”

And how you fill me up.”

“I love how you fill me up,” he breathes.

And how you make my hole feel better than anything—anything—he could ever do.”

“Oh god,” he says. I let the tip of my dick nudge against him.

“Fucking say it.” My tone is flat. Commanding. I know he wants to.

“He could never fuck me the way you do,” he tells me. “He couldn’t. Nobody could fuck me the way you do.”

I thrust my cockhead inside him. He tries to shove back onto it for more. Nope. The head’s all he gets for that. “I get in deeper than he does.”

He’s writhing beneath me. His body is lean and lightly muscular. His hair is dark, with flecks of gray at the temple. He’s one of those suits, who lives in a fancy house in a fancy neighborhood. This flophouse is a come-down for his sort. But here he is, whoring himself for my dick in it, begging and gasping and squealing like any cheap piece of ass. “Yes,” he echoes. “You get in so much deeper.”

I give him another inch. “I stretch you out so that you ache after.”

“Yes,” he says. Then reality intrudes as he laughs a little. “It really hurts, after.”

“But you need it.”

“I need it.”

“And he doesn’t give it to you.”

“No,” he whispers. There’s no hesitation now. The betrayal slips fleetly from his lips. “He never did.”

“He never could.”


This time I’m merciful. I shove back into him so hard that he gasps. His eyelids open as wide as possible. His head drops backward. “Please, wreck my hole,” I instruct him to say.

“Please wreck my hole. Just fucking do with it whatever you want. Fuck it. Slam it. Make it hurt.”

“Whose hole is it?” I want to know. “It’s not his hole, is it?”

“It’s your hole,” he says. I start thrusting again. It’s his reward. He luxuriates into the fuck, purring. “It’s your hole. Your hole only. You own it. All I think about is you. When I’m at home at night. With my short-dicked boyfriend. All I think about is you.”

“So I win,” I announce. It’s not a question. It’s never a question.

“You win.”

“Damn right I do,” I say, before I shove his face into the flimsy pillows, and start opening him for load number three.

Too fucking competitive. That’s what I am.

But I don’t give a shit about that either, so long as I come out on top.

Friday, February 1, 2013

Phillip the Brazilian

The thing of it is: whenever I think about the guy, I remember the burst of excitement I got from the initial impression his photos made. Never mind what happened afterwards. When he pops into my head, I remember that curly short hair, the dazzling smile, the skin the color of teak. And I remember my instinctive reaction of Wow, that guy wants me? Okay then! Let's do it!

He was Brazilian. That’s even how he refers to himself when he texts me. Hi, this is Phillip the Brazilian. Come fuck me? I found it charming.

And I wasn’t really betrayed by false photos, either. He lived in a flat over the New York border, at the top of a three-story house that had been subdivided into private apartments. It was snowing out that morning, and when he padded around the house’s side to meet me and lead me upstairs, I was surprised at how handsome he was in person, too. He wore a pair of soccer shorts. made of that sleazy, drape-y fabric that shows every contour of a man’s cock if he’s not wearing underwear. Which he wasn’t. His dark and hairy legs were stuffed into a much-worn pair of gray sweatsocks, and his feet were girdled by sandals that slapped the wet pavement as he approached. He flashed me a smile—god damn, what a smile this fucker had—and asked if I’d found the address okay. Then he put his hand on the small of my back as he guided me into the house and up the stairwell to the top.

Once we were alone, and upstairs beneath the much-repaired plaster ceiling of his bedroom, he gave me another broad, toothy smile. I melted. “You are very, very handsome,” he told me. His words were warm and sweet, his voice like summer honey fresh from the comb. He pulled me down to his sofa and planted a kiss on my lips. His mouth was hot, and moist, and eager; when his tongue slipped between my lips and into my own mouth, I groaned and let him push me down on the cushions. “I’ve wanted you for a long time,” he told me, as he grapples with the buttons on my shirt. “I’ve kept looking at your profile and hoping you’d notice.”

“I wish I had,” I said, trying to catch my breath. He was making me feel so good.

“Oh fuck,” he breathed, when I reached out and started stroking the lump in his sleazy shorts. It was hard to miss that protrusion, that enormous mound of hardened flesh. He’s big, this guy. I wrestled with his waist band and yanked it down below his hips. His dick fell onto me like a tree branch. “You like it?”

“I sure as hell do,” I said. I pulled myself out from under him. I knelt down on the rag carpet and helped him to spread his legs.

It was a beautiful dick. A solid eight inches. Thicker than my own. Cut. Juicy. He drooled precum onto my tongue as he slid himself in. I sucked the upper few inches for a while, then engulfed the whole shaft to the base. He groaned as his head hit the back of my throat. “Don’t make me cum,” he begged. Then, after a moment more, he grabbed me by the ears and pulled my face off his meat. “Fuck me,” he said. “I need your big dick inside me.”

I had no problem with that.

We took ourselves into the bedroom, where he pushed me down onto the mattress, pulled down my pants so they hung around my ankles, and then slathered my dick with lube. “I’m gonna sit on it,” he promised, staring at me with those intense eyes of his. “I’m gonna sit on it and ride it all day.” His head lolled back when he lowered himself onto my shaft. He was tight, but he kept a hold on my cock until half of it was in, and then pushed himself onto the remaining inches.

We both groaned at the same time. It felt good. “I want to ride this all afternoon,” he promised. “Can we fuck all afternoon?”

“I’ve got nowhere to go,” I grinned at him.

“Good, because I want to make you my captive,” he said. “I’m gonna tie you up and keep you as my toy top. Just ride you all afternoon, baby. Take that big white dick up my hole all afternoon until—!”

And this is the point he painted my face with cum. Seriously. I didn’t see it coming. There was no announcement of it, no forewarning. No groaning or panting, no sudden rush of activity. I was just lying there, propping myself up on my elbows and egging him on, listening to him talk in a normal conversational sex voice, when suddenly my face was wet and dripping. I was vaguely aware that my shoulders were sopping, as well. Then he hopped up, hopped off, and scampered into the bathroom across the hallway as quickly as he could.

Now, I’m not exactly the slowest-witted of people, even when most of my body’s blood is concentrated below the waist in my engorged dick. But it really wasn’t until I heard him running the water that I realized what had just happened. My brain was stuck back in the Can we fuck all afternoon? part of the conversation to fully comprehend that I’d just had my face splattered with jism. Then he came back, smiled at me in his Brazilian way, and tossed me my shirt. “That was great!” he enthused.

And inwardly, I was lying there thinking . . . Wait. That’s it?

Whenever I write of these disappointing encounters, there’s always someone who says, “You should’ve just grabbed him and fucked him until you got your satisfaction, stud.” And in some circumstances, that’s pretty much exactly what I would’ve done. However, when your trick is studiously keeping himself out of arm’s length of you, it’s not all that easy. So I gathered my clothes, stuffed myself back in them, and let myself out. I looked at my watch when I got down to the bottom of the stairs.

I’d been there all of seven minutes.

More than a little ticked off, I took myself to lunch at a sandwich shop not a mile away. I’d barely gotten there and parked—it hadn’t been more than ten minutes since I’d exited—when Phillip the Brazilian started texting me again. Can you come back and fuck me again? he wanted to know. I’m horny. And, Can you come over this afternoon? Or maybe tonight? You could spend the night.

I had a vision of myself arriving at eight in the evening and spending the night until eight-o’-seven. I shook my head, thanked the attendant for delivering my sandwich, and just set down the phone.