I don’t know if it’s just me, or whether it’s a phenomenon a lot of tops experience . . . or whether it’s so general that anyone with the minimal thimbleful of good looks that I’ve managed to cobble together gets hit on in the same way. But I get a lot of offers for ‘free massages’ from guys on the internet.
Free massages!, you’re saying to yourselves. Wow! That sounds great! What could be better? Well, my friends, if that’s your reaction, I’ve got a Nigerian associate—he’s just a prince fleeing from the cruel armed forces who have taken over his homeland—who would like to deposit $500,000 to your bank account. Eventually. After you send him a few checks to prove your seriousness.
I’ve always assumed these ‘free massages’ come with strings attached. Specifically, I always envisioned that the guys who offered them are the trolliest of the old trolls, the kind of moss and slime-covered creatures who emerge from under bridges only in the dark of night to disembowel billy goats gruff and eat small children. I picture them as the unattractive men who lurk in the shadows of adult bookstores and cruising areas, hoping to get some action by sheer proximity, and desperate to get a free touch of something they’d ordinarily never score.
Actually, there used to be a man at one of the baths I frequented back in Michigan. He had Ben Franklin hair—long and wispy on the sides, non-existent on top. He had the general silhouette of a much-used upholstered armchair, with a shelf of a forty-five-inch waist where the seat would be. Even in the parts of the bathhouse were other people were shivering from the air conditioning, he perspired like he’d just run a marathon. To top it off, the man’s face was covered in warts. Not just one or two well-placed bumps. Big, honkin’, full-fledged Witchiepoo warts. Dozens of them. He was the living incarnation of troll-like behavior as well. If two men were playing with each other, he’d step right up and attempt to insert himself between them. If he spied someone he liked, he’d follow them around from room to room. If they said no, politely (as I did, many a time), he’d attempt to wheedle and ingratiate himself in. As with a forest fire in a national park, you could basically tell he was on his way when the bathhouse fauna started stampeding, en masse and clutching their towels, in your direction.
Whenever I’ve gotten an offer for a ‘free massage’ from some schmoe without photos, I’ve pictured the warty bathhouse guy and politely declined.
Last summer, though, I had an offer for a free massage from a fellow on one of the sex sites who actually had photos that were pretty recent. He was a professional massage therapist. He liked my body, for some reason. He thought I was attractive, and offered to give me a rubdown if I’d only drive to his place in the back country. I was alone that week and he was difficult to resist; I ended up making the trip and getting the most amazing deep tissue massage from the guy. He made the experience special—candles, scented oils. For approximately three hours I was putty in his hands as he worked every muscle, every joint, and every inch of my body from the soles of my feet to the very top of my scalp. Sure, he got to play with my hard cock and my hole from time to time—but he could’ve had almost any cock he wanted. The guy was pretty fucking amazing.
So when this week another local offered me the services of his hands, gratis, I hesitated before chucking the note in the trash bin. Sure, his profile was indistinct enough that it could’ve been anyone’s. Yeah, he didn’t have a face pic. But he offered to get on camera and show himself, and although he didn’t have enough light to really give me a distinct sense of what he looked like, he didn’t seem too bad. So I invited him over.
Readers. Do not make the same mistake as I.
While it’s true that the free massage guy who trotted into my home at eleven-thirty at night did not have actual warts covering his face, he was not an attractive man. He was quite obviously older than he was claiming by a good twenty years; the hair that had been tidy on cam had somehow blown out to all points of the compass and made him resemble a troll doll; he was five feet and maybe two inches, instead of the six feet he’d claimed; and he talked and giggled and hiccuped like Liza Minnelli at her most intoxicated and hyper.
It was not attractive.
Now ordinarily I would have zero problem gently telling someone that they weren’t quite what I expected, and suggesting that nothing’s going to happen. There’s kind of a point at which doing so is nearly impossible, however. And that point, for future reference, is at the threshold. Like vampires, if you don’t want the troll to stay, don’t let them over the threshold.
But the troll doll flounced by and let himself in my front door while I stood there with my jaw scraping the ground, and after I finished blinking, I shrugged and grinned to myself and figured that at least I’d have a story to tell. So I went through with the ‘massage’ for the sake of my readers. YOU ARE WELCOME, READERS.
Friends, did you ever see that episode of Friends in which for some reason Ross was pretending to be a massage therapist with one of Phoebe’s clients? I think he was so afraid of touching a hairy back that he massaged the guy with wooden spoons. Something like that. Let’s just say that was probably still more pleasurable than the ‘massage’ I received from troll doll. He dabbed here. He dabbed there. He ran a finger down my shoulder blade. He poked a little bit at my sacroiliac. He giggled and gulped like Liza talking about Mama and asked me if I was feeling relaxed. I lay there and tried not to snicker audibly and made the occasional grunt.
Then, after a few minutes of what felt like being prodded at with a pair of chopsticks, he started to kiss my shoulders. “It’s almost midnight,” he said in what I think was supposed to be an alluring tone.
“YEP. SORRY YOU HAVE TO GO. BYE!” I yelled, as I hustled him the hell out.
The things I do for you guys.
Let’s get to some questions from readers.
Some time ago (10.23.10), replying to a comment of Anonymous, you wrote: “Point me in the direction of an aggressive top man who isn't fond of attention! I've never seen such a beast”. Do you have any thought about why these two traits (being an aggressive top and “an attention whore”) tend to coincide in the same person?
Let me state first that I do not think think that aggressive tops are always attention whores. When I talked about tops being fond of attention, I meant in a sexual sense. Tops like to have their dicks stimulated. They enjoy a man servicing them. They like the sensations of fucking. That’s the kind of attention I meant.
Some tops are proud of their equipment. I certainly like showing off mine. Hell, I write an entire blog about what I do with it. I’m an exhibitionist. I know I didn't earn my dick in any way except through the luck of genetics. Still, I like the heads it turns, the desire it arouses, and the opportunities it gets me.
At the same time, I wouldn't call myself an 'attention whore,’ even in bed. I give as much as I get. And in public situations, I'm not the loudest or most outgoing. Quite the opposite.
However, I’ve encountered many men I would label as greedy for any kind of attention, yet who have no intention of returning any of it—both in and out of bed. In fact, it seems to me that of those men, there's a lot of excessive machismo bravado going on in their personalities to cover up some flaw they perceive in themselves. They might have been told they weren’t 'real men' by their mommies and daddies, or they were so afraid of being found out as gay, growing up, that they learned to overcompensate with loudness and brusqueness. Or they might have formed their entire concept of how men interact with each other during sex from porn, where tops are supposed to be mean and masculine and never to say thank you.
Imitating that kind of personality doesn't appeal to me. I don’t pretend to be anything I’m not, as a top. I've got my own style, and I haven't heard any complaints about it.
It seems to me that there are a lot of men out there who are hurting very deeply, and who use sex as a way to erase past or present hurts, to fill voids, or to fix what's broken in their lives. Men want sex, but fear it, and tremble before its pull. If I flatter myself to have any kind of sexual talent at all, it’s been to sometimes intuit what an individual man really needs, and through sex, to give them the permission and the freedom to express what often he can’t put into mere words. It doesn’t make me less aggressive, or less fond of sexual attention. It just exempts me—sometimes—from being a total asshole.
I only recently started playing with guys in earnest. I've fucked three guys now, all bareback. Now I am getting worried and even panicked. Worried about disease and bringing it home to my significant other. I'm also worried that I'm not living an honest, admirable life. What do I do? It will not be easy for me to deny my attraction to men, but I feel like I'm living two lives. If there's any advice you can give me, I'd appreciate it.
I always advise guys that it's best to have some quiet moments and think about where you draw the line when it comes to risk—whether it's risking your marriage or relationship by fucking around, or whether you're risking an STD by fucking bareback.
You know yourself better than anyone; if you're the kind of guy who has sex and then feels like beating himself up for a week after you've had it because you’ve played outside your relationship, or because you fucked raw, then you probably shouldn't be doing either. Do only the stuff for which you're willing to accept the consequences. If you know your partner would leave you because of fucking around, then don't be shocked and surprised when something happens and he or she abandons you. If you're fucking raw, do so knowing that you risk picking up HIV or other STDs, and that you'll have to do the big boy thing and accept responsibility for it.
If those prospects scare you too much, stick to less risky activities. Get guys to suck you off, which is lower-risk than anal. Fuck guys with a rubber. If the idea itself of cheating throws you into a panic, masturbate at home and don't fool around with other men—or work with your partner so that sex outside the relationship is acceptable and therefore not ‘cheating.’ You've got to live with the choices you make.
I want you to be happy. Sex adds to your personal quality of life (and in my case, makes me an all-around nicer mate to have at home). However, being miserable and scared and freaked out all the time will diminish your quality of life far more than the few minutes of sex will add to it. Decide what acts and limits do not exceed your level of comfort, then stick to them.
The old Formspring site has changed its format in a way I don’t like, so that non-registered members can’t leave anonymous questions any longer. So let’s do this: if you have questions for me, please email them to the address on the sidebar. I will keep your identity anonymous, of course, and add them to the queue to address in future Sunday morning editions.