Monday, December 18, 2017

In the Navy: Part 2

(Part 1 can be found here.)

When I look back on the sexual adventures I had in my preteens and teens, usually I end up thinking I must have had a particularly harried guardian angel looking over me then. I had unpleasant sexual encounters, sure, and I ran into guys who could be rude or aggressive. But not once was I beaten up, or assaulted, or—since I’m still here to write these essay—murdered.

I could have been, so easily. My hundreds and hundreds of trysts with adult men left with me, however, crazily confident when it came to sex; I was certain I could suck, smile, or bullshit my way through just about any situation. So being plopped down in a foreign country with an imperfect grasp of the language, and being steered away from the only people there I knew through a strange neighborhood by a big, built Mexican bull who could’ve snapped me in half? No problem. No matter how wrong it might go, I knew I’d get through the situation safely. I always did.

I actually think it was this confidence (warranted or not) that made me stand out as the most mature kid of just about any group. At sixteen I was only a year older than the freshmen on our class trip—but the difference in our ability to take charge was vast. Señorita Wiggins would never have thought to send any of her freshmen kids out onto the street to look for restaurants or to scope the lay of the neighborhood. But throughout all my years of school I handled myself with such assurance that if I told the teachers I could do something, they damn well believed it.

It took me years for my self-perception of my confidence to catch up with the actual amount of juvenile assurance I possessed, mind you. But thinking back on my walk down that unknown Mexican boulevard with Toro’s hand on my back, guiding me steadily toward his apartment, my thoughts now are less Oh no! What the fuck were you doing, kid?! and more You go and get it, gurl!

Everyone seemed to know Toro. The gaggles of gay boys in their tight cheap jeans and cheaper tank tops and disco shirts stared at him with longing and respect when we passed; businessmen in front of their stores and restaurants and laundromats nodded or called out his name. Toro seemed to know everyone, as well. Toothless old women cracked a wrinkled grin as he greeted them, and he used his free hand to high-five his friends or clap them on the shoulder as we passed. No one seemed to care about, or be surprised by, the fact that he had his arm around the narrow waist of a skinny white boy from who-knows-where. They probably assumed he had his reasons. And they probably knew what those reasons were, just as surely as I.

Toro didn’t live too far from the alleyway where our hotel sat. Three or four blocks, really, though the trek seemed like the longest parade in the world. But at last he steered me through the arch of a lemon-colored building, down the dark interior hallway, and to a door at the end. He unlocked the iron grating that covered the door, then the door itself. Finally, he took my slender white hand into his hairy, dark-skinned paw, and pulled me inside.

We were alone. My heart had been pounding since the moment Toro clapped his hand on my shoulder, down the street. Now, as I leaned against the pastel-blue wall of his tiny studio apartment, an elaborate crucifix nailed to the wall over my left shoulder, my heart’s timpani beat must have been audible to the man opposite, staring into my eyes. “You are scared?” he asked, in a low, sexual voice.
I shook my head.

“You are a beautiful boy.” He released my hand and traced my jaw with his fingers. “Maybe you are thinking your friend Toro, he is not such an ugly old man, eh?”

There were enough twists in that sentence that in my lust-fogged state I couldn’t figure out whether a yes or a no was the proper answer. Instead, I took a step forward, and lifted my face to his. He pressed his mouth against mine with such ferocity that his enormous, thick mustache felt like a test tube brush up my nostrils. As we still kissed, he lifted me up so that my groin pressed against his belly and my legs wrapped around his waist. He was a beast of a man, a horny homo in the body of a comic book brute. I never weighed more than a hundred and five pounds all the way through college, so I wouldn’t have put up much of a physical challenge to him. We continued making out for a few moments. Then he walked with me clamped around him past the galley kitchen into the one room of his apartment, and deposited me onto the edge of his unmade bed.

He sat on one of the dining room chairs. Our eyes locked, he pulled off his cowboy boots. He stood again. His big hands loosened his belt buckle and undid the button of his jeans, followed by the two or three buttons of his shirt that actually had been fastened. I’d already known his chest would be hairy: the man had hair everywhere. His arms were a forest of fur; his face betrayed a heavy growth of stubble, though he’d probably shaved that morning. Even the tops of his fingers were dense with coarse hair between the knuckles. I wasn’t, however, expecting such definition on his body. He was a man who was naturally muscular; as the silky drapes of his shirt hung to the sides, the sight of him took my breath away. His pecs were heavy, their nipples dark and rigid. Though he had a stocky physique, his stomach was flat. In the golden age of Mexico’s silver screen, with a guitar strapped to his back and a bejeweled sombrero, Toro could’ve been a movie star.

He stepped closer, hulking over me. His crotch loomed in my face. I could feel the heat radiating from behind the worn and unwashed denim. I caught my breath as the flesh within shifted, thickened, hardened. Toro waited for me to make the next move. Maybe he enjoyed the position of power he obviously held over me. Maybe he wanted to make sure I knew what I wanted, that I knew what I was getting myself into.

I wasn’t shy. I reached out and undid the other buttons of his fly. Immediately I realized he wasn’t wearing shorts. He shifted his hips slightly to help the jeans fall around his thighs. As they dropped, his fat uncut dick sprang into my face. It smelled of soap, and the morning’s sweat. Without me even touching it, it grew harder, pointing like a curved digit toward my face. It wasn’t the longest I’d seen, but it certainly was one of the thickest—easily approaching the circumference of a beer can. His foreskin had retracted slightly, leaving the tip to wink at me, mere inches away.

I dropped my jaw, and took him between my lips.

From the satisfied grunt and sigh he let loose, I knew I’d done the right thing. The first move had been mine to make, but from here on out, Toro called the shots. He gave me no time at all to adjust to his girth; he started shoving in and out as he gripped my long blond hair between the clenched left fingers. His right hand grabbed the back waistband of my jeans and hauled me up onto all fours on the mattress so that he could skullfuck me at a comfortable level. My eyes were watering and I struggled to keep breathing, but Toro was relentless in his assault of my mouth.

Somehow my clothes came off. He withdrew to yank my tee over my head; he managed to unbuckle and undo my jeans while he continued sodomizing my lips. My pants fell around my knees and tangled there; he shoved his index and middle fingers into his mouth to wet them, then drove them into my ass.

I howled at the sudden invasion. He pulled his dick out of my throat. “Is this what American boys do for men like me? Or do you know men like me in America?” he asked, shoving his fingers in further and twisting them. I winced, only because he’d not used very much spit to lube me. But my much-fucked hole writhed around his digits and assimilated them. I wanted more. I nodded at his question.

“You like this?” he asked.

To try to impress him, I replied, “Me gusta.”

He withdrew his fingers, spat on them once more, and rammed them back inside me. I moaned happily once again. “I think you do know men like me. You are not a virgin,” he observed.
I’d claimed virginity for years to turn men on. I didn’t bother with Toro. He already seemed to know my truth. I shook my head.

The admission made him drive his fingers in even more deeply. Muttering in Spanish to himself, he stepped all the way out of his pants. His eyes glittered as he observed me on my back, legs up, hole begging to be filled. He commanded something in his own tongue. When he started to turn me over, I realized he wanted me on my knees. I still wore my shoes, and my pants were tangled around my ankles at this point, but he didn’t bother to remove them. Once I was in position, he stepped behind me, spat on his hog, and then he started pushing it in.

Accommodating a cock that thick was a challenge for me. I moaned loudly into the pillow and clutched the iron bedstead for support as he stretched me wider, wider, and then seemingly wider still. He pushed my face into the mattress to keep me quiet, but it was for show. I could tell he enjoyed my distress.

Once he was in, he paused for a moment. And then he began to fuck.

Toro was not a gentle top; if I’d asked him to go easy on me, he would’ve ignored the request. But I asked for nothing, not verbally, at least—not in English, not en Español. My body desired him, though. My ass began to overcome the sheer pain of his entry. It began to crave his fat dick stretching me. I needed to feel that head hitting my deepest core. Toro grabbed me around the hips and began pounding. Within a minute or two he had lifted the lower half of my body from the bed so that only my head and forearms and the top of my chest rested on the mattress; the bottom half of me dangled in mid-air, held in place by his strong hands as he plowed my boyhole. The fuck wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t romantic. He fucked like a selfish top fucks, caring only for his own pleasure, using my skinny body as he saw fit.

And I fucking loved it.

I didn’t really care about my own dick. I didn’t care that I’d probably be limping for the remainder of my time in Mexico City. I just knew that few men in my life were ever going to bang me the way Toro was banging me, and I’d do anything, anything, to make him and his dick happy.

Toro wasn’t a long-laster. Five minutes he held my ass up in the air and assaulted it like I owed him money, while he growled obscenities in Spanish through his teeth. Then he let out a massive grunt, wrenched my ass apart to drive in as deeply as possible, and emptied his nuts into my hole. I was so stretched and sore that the sudden flood of seed stung; I grunted and choked down my own cursing and let him finish. Toro slid out with a wet, slick plop, lowered me so that my shaking feet met the ground. With a mighty groan, he fell back onto the mattress.

I had a moment of doubt. I had cum running out of my ass. My legs had pins and needles; I could barely walk. Toro lay on the bed with his eyes closed. Was I supposed to slink into my clothes and back to the hotel?

Right as I started to look around for my t-shirt, Toro opened his eyes. “Hey, hey, hey,” he murmured, and then patted the mattress next to him. With puppy-like eagerness I bounded over. He moved a pillow to place under my head, and tucked me under his arm. My pants still were hobbling my legs; I
kicked them off and sprawled next to the strange man who’d just bred me.

“Ricky,” he said at last. When I didn’t answer, he added, “Me llamo Ricky. Toro . . . is what they call
me. It means bull. Because. . . .” He grunted, flexed his biceps, and grinned through his mustache.

I reminded him of my name, feeling suddenly shy. I was used to being fucked by men. I wasn’t, however, used to them paying me much attention once I’d served my purpose. But Ricky started asking me question after question. Where in America did I live? What did my parents do? Why was I in Mexico City? Why was I in . . . this part of the city, when there were much more suitable places? I was so comfortable and flattered by his interest that I chattered on and on. I told him about how my class had been promised a week of cultural experiences, and my doubts about the American couple living in the city who’d taken our money and put us in that run-down motel and who so far had taken us to Xochimilco for the morning, abandoned us in a gift shop for two hours, and then vanished to leave us on our own for the remainder of the day. By the time I got to his part of my narrative, when I’d been out getting the lay of the land and trying to find places for us to eat, Ricky was sitting up in bed with his forearms on his knees, the picture of outrage.

“But this is no good!” he said at last. His Freddie Mercury mustache seemed to be bristling. He leapt off the mattress and started pulling clothing off the top of a tiny chest of drawers. He made a gesture at me, indicating I should put on my clothes. While I dressed, he made several loud and successive phone calls as he pulled on his jeans and shirt and cowboy boots. I didn’t understand a one of them—I just knew he was heated about something or other. From his tone of voice, it sounded as if he was ordering people around.

When he finished his last phone call, he put down the receiver and turned to me. “And now, we go,” he announced. Before I could ask where, he was striding out the door. I had no choice but to lope after him.

Our trek back was very much like the walk we’d taken to his apartment. With his hand between my shoulder blades, Toro escorted me back down the boulevard in the direction we’d come. Cigarette between his fingers, he waved at shopkeepers and friends and old women parked in front of laundromats. When we turned onto the cul-de-sac leading to my hotel, though, I started to prickle with doubt.

I was a kid who, so far, had very much managed to keep his everyday life and his many sexual adventures strictly compartmentalized. Except under cover of night, never the twain ever met. My parents and teachers, my scout leaders and my church youth ministers—they all thought of me as the ultimate good boy, the reliable one, the kid who never caused trouble, much less stumbled into it.

There were plenty of grown men who knew my sexual side, but they were the cruisers who fucked me where I lay on splintery wooden picnic tables in the parks at night, open to all, or who held my head down on their cocks in their cars or under the stalls in the tearooms. I never saw those men in my good-boy life; I took extraordinary pains to keep my two worlds from colliding.

Yet here I was, being returned to a Mexican hotel, to one of the teachers I liked best, by a perfect stranger who had just sodomized me in his studio flat. His sperm was still dripping from my ass into my shorts. How in the world, how in the fucking world, was I going to be able to explain this?

Señorita Wiggins was sitting in the dreary hotel lobby along with two or three of the freshmen when Toro burst through the front doors. I’d been gone for perhaps a little over an hour, or ninety minutes at most. At the sight of me, she said my name—or at least the closest Spanish version of my name that she’d assigned me when I’d first been in her class, which was nothing like my real name. The sight of the big, muscular man with his arm around my shoulder obviously confused her for a moment. But Toro raised his arms in the air. “Ah! Señorita Wiggins!” he cried.

With a giant smile, he approached and took the Spanish teacher’s hand in his own, and gave it a very European kiss. Then, smiling as if she were a dear friend whose company he had missed for far too long, and gesticulating expressively, Toro launched into story. He had been helping his poor dear mama with her groceries, he said, when this brave young man had approached and, in the most beautiful and impeccable Español, had asked him for aid in finding food for his starving classmates and his brilliant, wonderful teacher—though surely Señorita Wiggins was too young and beautiful to be a teacher? Perhaps she was a model, too? At any rate, how could any true son of Mexico remain untouched at such need, especially when couched in such impeccable Spanish and with such a pure Castilian accent? He, Toro, born in this very neighborhood and on the very street where this young scholar had met him, would be honored to share what he could of his country, with all happiness. Beginning with dinner that very night, which his family would be overjoyed to provide.

Toro’s story was such a line of absolute bullshit that I was breathless at the audacity of it. Yet the tall tale was so beautifully delivered, and so seemingly sincere, that even I was beginning to believe every word. Only when Toro once more placed his hand on my shoulder in what must have appeared to everyone else a friendly, fatherly gesture, did I remember that less than a half-hour before, this very man had been pounding my hole into his personal cunt.

So voluble was he, so persuasive, that Señorita Wiggins couldn’t turn him down. Within the hour, Toro had persuaded everyone to don their party clothes (which for the Señorita was an actual cute dress, and for the rest of us was our cleanest jeans and tops) and accompany him out into the late afternoon air. I don’t know who Toro had spoken to on the telephone, when we’d been at his place, or what favors he’d called in, but a handful of people had dropped everything and turned themselves out to transform a church hall courtyard into a private party palace for a group of gringos from the States. There were streamers hanging from the ceiling, a piñata (that we didn’t break—I’m thinking they maybe thought we were younger than we were), chickens roasting on a spit, plates of local delicacies, a pair of guitar players, sealed bottles of clean water . . . and a half-dozen friendly gay guys doing all the work. Toro passed them off as his brothers, but I knew better. Still, they were happy to feed us and to put up with our limited language skills, and to laugh and tease us in innocent ways as if they considered us family, too.

Señorita Wiggins was thrilled. The food was delicious, the music authentic. Toro’s friends were so affable, and Toro so attentive and flirty, that within minutes she relaxed and began enjoying herself. The freshmen lost the miserable pallor they’d worn since our flight in. And there I sat next to Toro at the head of the table, shyly enjoying when he would lean over with a laugh and give me an affectionate and fatherly hug around the shoulders while he would whisper something in my ear like, “Maybe later you will get enjoy of my fucking, yes?”

I did enjoy more of his fucking that night, hours later, after the party had finally died down and Toro had walked all of us back to the hotel. “If you do not mind, Señorita,” Toro said at his most charming, “Please allow me to show your finest young scholar the view of this part of the city from the church tower. I know the sacristán of the church; it is a breathtaking view. I will return him to the hotel myself after.”

Señorita Wiggins didn’t mind at all. Back to Toro’s apartment we went, where this time all my clothes hit the floor before my legs went into the air. I was back at the hotel by eleven, flushed and sore and half in love with the man who had successfully romanced everyone on my class trip.

If that had been the extent of my encounter with Toro, it would have been a happy memory. But there was more.

At nine the next morning, when the Señorita and all of us students straggled into the hotel lobby, sore from our the thin mattresses and dreading our scheduled outing with the tour guides from hell, there was Toro with a basket of doughnuts, bringing sunshine into the hotel lobby sheerly from the brilliance of his smile and the reflectiveness of his super-shiny, super-tight shirt. He rained greetings down upon us, and gave an astonished me a special sideways hug, and then proceeded to explain to Señorita Wiggins that he had enjoyed such a wonderful evening with his new American friends that, as selfish as he knew it was, he could not resist spending more time with us. And oh, here were the good people who had arranged our visit to his grateful country! Could he have a word with them? Did we mind? No? All right then. Why didn’t they speak outside, in private?

Toro’s talk with the scam artists who’d taken our tour money was less a pleasant conversation and more of a tirade that we could plainly hear through the hotel’s slightly-ajar front doors. “How could you put these nice Americans into this place! Why, not even prostitutes would use this hotel!” was, if I recall correctly, the highlight of his harangue. (From the Señorita’s expression, I could tell she didn’t disagree.)

Eventually the voices quieted. The doors opened. Toro came back in with the tour guide couple, his hands around their necks as if they were a pair of puppets. They wore hangdog expressions. “I am your tour guide for today!” Toro announced with a brilliant smile. “I will show you my city—as I see it!” Summoning us to follow, Toro walked our class out into the brilliant morning light, promising adventure.

Toro, who must have threatened the tour guides into submission, if not into handing over to him outright all the money we’d given them, was our tour guide for the entire time we were in Mexico City. My memories glow of our week with him. We never knew what we’d be doing for the day, but it would always start with Toro bringing us pastries or fried turnovers for breakfast. We’d follow him out into the warm spring sunshine to the local station on the subway line, which we’d use to travel everywhere. The subway was cheap (a nickel, if I recall), and we could use it to get just about anywhere we wanted. We might see a cathedral in the morning, followed by walk through a historic district in the afternoon led by one of Toro’s ‘friends.’ Food would appear out of nowhere, at no cost to us, at appropriate intervals. We’d enjoy street tacos at picnic tables surrounded by crowds, or fried fish on picnic blankets by the river, or dinners in little outdoor restaurants owned by other willowy men of Toro’s acquaintance.

We visited museums, and a factory where artisans shaped and polished onyx into tabletop sculptures. We sat in the box at the matinee of a play that was entirely in Spanish, with Toro quietly translating the action at appropriate intervals. We attended a bullfight, and immediately wished we had not. One afternoon we spent entirely at one of the largest flea markets I’ve ever seen, where Toro disappeared for a few minutes and returned bearing presents for all—black-handled switchblades for the two boys, pink-handled switchblades for the girls, and a gaudy necklace of semi-precious stones for Señorita Wiggins.

Toro was so charming, so attentive, to Señorita Wiggins that the freshmen on the trip believed he was wooing her. She might have been flattered at his praise and his regards, but I doubt she ever seriously considered him a suitor. What I do know is that she was utterly, blissfully unaware of what Toro was doing to me, every evening at the end of our very long days. Would the Señorita be willing to let the young scholar accompany Toro to see the people of the neighborhood decorating the street for the upcoming festival? Could the young scholar come view the birds on the radio tower? I don’t remember half the excuses he had for getting us alone at the end of each long and full day, and I didn’t care. All I knew is that by day, I shared Toro with my classmates and teacher. By night, for a couple of hours, I belonged to him. He used me like he owned me—like I owed him. And I loved it.

On our final night in the city, Toro announced he’d arranged something special for us. We were all to attend the cine with him and his ‘brothers.’ Most of the various men we’d met throughout the week—the ones who’d made us dinner or given us narrated tours or had been docents at the museums—were outside the little movie house to greet us. Toro bought us popcorn and candy and Coca-Colas and arranged us in the middle of the theater for the show. The movie was Vaselina—that classic with John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John and Stockard Channing—which was just playing on the Mexican screens for the first time. Save for the songs, the whole thing was dubbed into Spanish. I don’t think any of us had actually seen it yet. Once again, Toro was more than happy to translate. He and his friends divided up the parts and told us what they were saying, much to everyone’s amusement

The entire audience, it seemed, was laughing and singing along with the movie, but no group was more convivial than ours. Though the freshmen would wink and nudge each other knowingly whenever Toro would murmur to Señorita Wiggins, I was the one lucky enough to sit through the entire movie with his arm around my shoulder. No one cared. And no one, save Toro’s friends, perhaps, was any the wiser.

We returned to school full of stories about our time in Mexico City. The first thing Señorita Wiggins had us do on our return was to write thank-you notes, en Español, to the man who’d rescued our disaster of a week and made it a wild and unpredictable experience. I sat there, staring at a blank piece of paper, trying to compose a note that betrayed nothing about what I’d really experienced as a Mexican man’s fucktoy. I’d already thanked Toro, or Ricky, during our last encounter at his apartment, after the showing of Grease. He knew I was touched that he’d gone out of his way to brighten the week of a half-dozen kids from some place he’d never visited. He knew how much I loved giving up my hole to his insistent assaults. In my broken Spanish, I think I had made clear how fondly I would think of him, when I reached home. Even if I could say those things in a letter that my Spanish teacher surely was going to look over, I wouldn’t say them again.

Growing up gay in the place and time I did, in an era in which everything gay was ignored and silenced and repressed, imbued me with a keen sense of the ironic; I always recognized the disparity between the dirty reality of things versus the sham of what people wanted on the surface. As innocent as my friendship might have seemed to my teacher and my fellow students on that trip, I got a pretty good kick out of knowing that the letters they were writing to an altruistic Mexican were really going to a voracious homosexual with a taste for white ass, who extracted his price every night when everyone thought I was looking at the moon or the town decorations. I loved knowing that the brothers who had provided them food and entertainment were my gay brothers, not biological kin of Toro’s. Most of all, I was tickled with the secret I’ve never shared until these essay: that my gay teen ass and my slutty ways had saved the trip abroad for those people. For once I’d allowed my bad boy and good boy worlds to collide. I’d honored my sense of sexual adventure, and took chances—and my world was enriched in ways I could never have imagined.

I never heard from Toro again. But I hope he got those letters. It was my honor to be the bull’s boy for a week.

Monday, December 11, 2017

In the Navy: Part 1

I thought I’d written about this incident in my long-ago youth, here in my blog. I alluded to it once, apparently. But I never followed up.

I was a sophomore in high school in the late nineteen-seventies when my Spanish teachers decided to organize a class trip to Mexico over the Easter break. Señorita Wiggins was an energetic and pretty young woman in her late twenties who, with her pert little Afro, her suede vests and turtlenecks, and her procession of plaid bellbottoms with truly astonishing flares around the ankles, walked the halls of my inner-city high school like a glamorous, living version of Barbie’s black friend Christie.

Everyone adored Señorita Wiggins. She was sweet and funny and enthusiastic about teaching, and always willing to try something new to help her students appreciate the language she loved so much. Her classroom would be set up as a Spanish flea market one afternoon, a South American kitchen the next. All the girls in school wanted to dress like Señorita Wiggins—a not-unattainable dream, considering that most of her wardrobe appeared on the more mod pages of the Sears Wishbook. All the boys developed crushes over her sunny smile.

I’d graduated from Señorita Wiggins’ class, however, into the allegedly more advanced tutelage of Señora Brooke. The Señora was a woman so close to retirement that she’d more or less given up teaching at all. On Mondays she’d give us a weekly assignment of translating a couple of paragraphs from our textbook, due Fridays. The rest of the week we spent playing endless rounds of Monopoly: Edición en Español, or the Spanish-language version of the French card game Milles Bornes. We’d learned a lot of vocabulary under Señorita Wiggins; Señora Brooke was supposed to provide us with an in-depth education on verb tenses and idiom. But since she was too busy with her English-language romance magazines, and we students were all arguing over who got to build hotels on Paseo Tablado, none of us really learned to be able to say much of anything other than in the present tense.

Which is, of course, ideal for traveling in a foreign country.

The trip was originally supposed to be open to everyone in either section of the two teachers’ classes. Only a half-dozen kids ended up going, though. The small numbers had a lot to do with the economic makeup of my high school, which drew its students from most of Richmond’s large north side. It was the tradition back then for Richmond’s white parents to send their kids through the public school system until the ninth grade, when they’d be abruptly transferred to a private school so they wouldn’t be ‘held back’ by ‘rougher elements’—that is, the same black kids their own children had been attending school with for all the other eight grades. My parents thought that kind of thinking utter bullshit. When it came to extracurriculars like class trips, though, the simple fact was that few of the African-American families wanted to spare the five hundred dollars. Even my own parents were dubious. In the end, the school’s sole white boy ended up in the Richmond airport on Easter morning, suitcase in hand, accompanied by five kids from the freshman class. Señorita Wiggins was our only chaperone. Originally Señora Brooke had been slated to join us, but when it became apparent that the group was going to be super-small, she exercised her option not to give a shit and happily resigned her place.

The descent into Mexico City was the worst I’ve ever experienced in my entire life. I attribute a decades-long suspicion of air travel entirely to that one flight. As we flew over the country’s most mountainous regions, the plane would capriciously just drop in mid-air and leave our stomachs several hundred feet above while our heads were spinning down below. The plane would then tilt to one side, then the other, level out in order to lull us all into a sense of false security, and then suddenly just drop once again. The turbulence caused the Mexicans on the the flight loudly to rediscover their Catholic faith and the Padre nuestros and the Dios te salve Marias were flying as fast and as furiously as the clacking rosary beads. By the time we landed, most of the seat backs had fingernail gouges from the plane’s passengers gripping on for dear life. Our group was the last to disembark after the wild scramble for the open doors. Poor Señorita Wiggins’ milk-chocolate complexion had taken on a distinct tint of green, and we had to wait for her stomach to calm down before we dared leave.

Señorita Wiggins had never before attempted a class trip of any sort. She’d turned for help to a small company—a married couple, really—in Mexico City purporting to specialize in educational travel excursions. She’d handed over our money to them and in return, they were supposed to give us rooms in a luxury hotel and arrange tours for some of the most exotic and cultural sights of Mexico City. The couple met us outside the airport in a beat-up old Volkswagen van so beat-up and painted in so many motley colors that it made the Scooby-Doo gang’s Mystery Machine seem like an actual limousine in comparison. My recollections of the two tour guides are sketchy, since we ended up seeing remarkably little of them during the week. However, in the film version of my life, were I able to sit in on the casting sessions in a purely advisory role, I’d probably whisper to the director, Just pick out a pair of the shadiest-looking meth-heads you can find and I suspect I’d end up in the general ball park.

In their rickety old van, where we had to sit gingerly in the back and lift up our feet to avoid the giant hole in the floor, the pair drove us away from the airport and into the depths of the city. None of us, not even Señorita Wiggins, who had gone to school in Spain and prided herself on the pure Castilian accent she was passing onto her students, knew anything about the city’s geography. All we knew was that our luxury hotel was in the heart of the old city. And it seemed that to get to the heart of the old city, we had to start at the city’s rancid toenails and slowly work our way up. We inhaled fumes in that nasty van for what seemed like hours, visiting what definitely were the stinky crotch and dirty armpits of the city before finally pulling into a dark dead-end alleyway so narrow that cars entering it had to back out to exit. The van slowed to a stop. “Home, sweet home for a week!” caroled the female half of the couple, as we stumbled out. “Isn’t it authentic?”

Authentic was one word for it. Shithole was another, and probably the better. We’d seen some attractive photographs of the hotel’s exterior back home in our brochure; perhaps they’d been taken in the nineteen-thirties when the hotel had been built, and before the hulking slums existed that surrounded it now. What it was, in 1979, however, was a squalid, dirty stone turd festooned with candelabra sconces and peeling paint, lurking at the far end of a cul-de-sac that smelled like someone’s chamber pot. The hotel’s inside was vast and cavernous, black as Dracula’s castle and only half as comfortable. The scowling clerk of indeterminable gender who sat slumped at the front desk had a bald shrunken apple-head of a noggin covered with bulbous moles, each of which sported a long hair. He or she rubbed his or her nose, sniffed, and tossed some keys our way, working his or her tongue over a yellow set of dentures.

Our hosts had vanished, absconding with our hopes for a fun week, we discovered. Señorita Wiggins attempted to rally, though by this point she was looking grim and unwell. “We’ll get some sleep. Everything will be better mañana!” she assured us. She was so shaky from our flight that nobody protested when she went right to bed without dinner, though before retiring, she made us promise we would not under any circumstances leave the premises.

We kids were hungry, though. The shrunken apple-head doll at the front desk merely blinked slowly at us when we asked for a room service menu—and the hotel certainly didn’t have a restaurant. As the group’s de facto leader by virtue of my seniority, I made the executive decision that we would head down to the head of the alleyway and get something to eat at the Pizza Hut I’d noticed on our drive in. It was not a Pizza Hut, by the way. The restaurant’s name was Pizza Hut. It had a hand-painted sign proclaiming it was Pizza Hut. But any resemblance to the actual Pizza Hut chain ended there. Our Pizza Hut was basically an outdoor shed with picnic tables and a serious case of trademark infringement. But I was able to tell the proprietor in present-tense verbs and my lisping, pure Castilian accent that we liked to eat the pizzas of pepperoni, and that we drink the Coca-Colas, and by the end of the little adventure we had full bellies.

Now that it was definitely past dusk, our walk back was fraught with a little more peril. Our hotel’s alleyway was lined with strange men. Some leaned against the doorways, smoking cigarettes, looking tough and mean. Others sat on the stoops in their wife-beaters and blue jeans and work boots, arms propped on wide-spread legs, daring us to look their way. Still more moved in pairs in the shadows, where they murmured intimately to each other in low voices. The younger kids, I could tell, were freaked out. I kept on the alert as we crept our way back, aware of every eye watching me. And I, with my several years of sexual experience, knew something with certainty that the freshmen didn’t: our so-called tour guides had booked us into a crap hotel in the middle of a gay red-light district.

After the other kids went to their rooms, I stood by the door in the lobby and did what I always did back then with a new cruising site: I watched what was going on, so I could figure out the scene for myself. For an hour or more I stood there, half-hard in my jeans, watching men cruise each other in the alleyway. Some men I could see clearly; one would approach the other, lean in to say something soft and low in his ear. They might share a private laugh. One would nod, and follow. Back toward the mouth of the alley they’d wander, presumably to one of their apartments. So dark it was that some of the men I could see only by the tips of their cigarettes, but I would follow the trace of those little red ovals as they approached each other, danced, and flew away like fireflies with a common destination.

Señorita Wiggins was right that everything looked better the next day. We were still in a shitty hotel on a crap alleyway, but at least it was an alleyway made more bearable by daylight. Our tour hosts arrived in their ratty van at the appointed time to take us to the floating gardens of Xochimilco. It was supposed to be one of the highlights of the week—a leisurely and luxurious trip in a gondola decked with bowers of blooms along a scenic waterway.

I’m not sure if the week we were there was in the off-season or what, but like everything else up until that point, Xochimilco was a huge disappointment. The colorful gondolas were faded and of dubious sea-worthiness. The thickets of full flowers that were supposed to adorn the boats were a few dried-out vines and some sad plastic roses. The canal was murky and the water choppy; the landscape was mostly mud. The boat’s incessant lurching sent Señorita Wiggins’ insides into further turmoil. We had to cut short the outing so she could purge her poor stomach in the restroom. Seeing one of the most naturally-sunny people in the world so sick made us miserable in turn. It didn’t help when our tour guides left us to sit in a gift shop for over an hour before returning with our van to take us back. Our grand first-day outing was done in a few hours; we were back at the hotel by two with nothing else to do and nowhere to eat for the rest of the day.

I’d confessed to Señorita Wiggins early that morning that I’d taken the other kids to the putative Pizza Hut the night before, when she was discomposed. I felt like I had to give her some kind of consolation, because it was becoming rapidly apparent that this trip was going to be something of a bust. In my retelling I played up the adventure of it, and assured her that we’d used our Spanish-language skills to order our own food, and that we’d handled actual Mexican pesos like pros. Somehow, in her debilitated post-vomiting state, I managed to assure her that I was just the person to venture beyond the head of the alleyway and investigate what else there was to do in this neighborhood.

The alleyway wasn’t anywhere near as crowded in the daytime as it had been at night, but it was pretty apparent that my suspicions of the previous evening had been correct; we’d been more or less dumped in the Mexico City equivalent of the Castro. Groups of men I recognized as gay hung in small groups along the walls. They’d suspend their conversations as I walked by, and I was once again conscious of all their eyes on me. I turned my head and caught one man’s eye. “American?” he asked. Even though in my head I had visions of being mugged for my thick American wallet, I nodded out of reflex.

“American!” he said happily to the two men with him. They all must have been in their twenties or early thirties; all of them sported little mustaches and had crammed themselves into tight jeans and form-hugging shirts of a cheap and shiny material suitable more for discos than the streets. “American!” they all cried out. And then, bewilderingly, they sang in three different keys, “In the nah-vee! You can sell the seven seas!”

I escaped their chorus and made my way out to the main street. A few women were in sight, but most of the people occupying the scene were men. Gay men. Gay men with mustaches and shimmering disco shirts and tight jeans. Acres of gay men. I’d promised to get the lay of the land, but already my adolescent mind was making gay lemons into gay lemonade and wondering how efficiently I could get some Mexican dick.

Pretty efficiently, as it turned out.

“American?” I heard someone call.

I had to look around to find the source of the question. A group of gay men sat in folding lawn chairs in front of a farmacia. A transistor radio blared out disco music on a rickety table between them. “Soy Américano,” I stammered out.

One of the other men leapt up to his feet and extended his hand. I held out mine, and he grasped it, thumb hooked to thumb, in a homie handshake. “American? Village People?” he asked. “In the nah-vee?”

In the nah-vee!” all three of them began singing. One of them put his arm around my shoulders and encouraged me to dance along with him. “You can sell the seven seas! In the nah-vee! You can put your mine dat deese!”

To this day, I have never heard anyone with as much enthusiasm for the Village People, or for that particular song, as the Mexican people. As it turned out, everywhere we would end up going, people ended up spontaneously singing “In the Navy” to us. Not “YMCA,” which was the bigger hit back home. I guess it was just freakishly popular in Mexico City that season.

For a few moments I was a white teen beanpole gamely dancing along with a gaggle of amiable Mexican gay guys in the middle of the street, which is probably not exactly the cultural experience my parents had envisioned when I’d wheedled them into ponying up for this trip. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. “You know the Village People?” I heard a very deep voice say.

I turned. I was a tall kid for my age, but the speaker towered over me. Where all the other men of the calle sported little mustaches, this muchacho had a masterwork gracing his upper lip. It was the Freddie fucking Mercury of mustaches—thick, heavy, and exquisitely-groomed. His eyes were dark. His hair gleamed with pomade without looking oily. Like everyone else, he wore one of those disco shirts of shiny material. But this man wore it so much better than anyone else. The sleazy fabric clung to his muscles and outlined his protruding nipples. The first button he’d bothered to fasten was roughly in the area of his navel. Coils of coarse, dark chest hair burst from a V of flesh that pointed like a neon arrow to the enormous bulge in his tight, packed jeans. When he shifted his weight, I noticed he wore shiny cowboy boots with polished metal tips.

This was at the height of the so-called clone look. I was hard-wired to respond to such a flagrant display of masculinity, just like any animal confronted with a blatant mating ritual. My gut lurched. My heart started to pound. My hole somehow tightened and loosened simultaneously. “You know the Village People?” he repeated. “You are American?”

“I’m American,” I managed to rasp out. “But I don’t know the Village People.”

His dark eyes were kind, even though I realized from the way he was looking me up and down that his intentions were anything but pure. “Como se llama? What is your name?” he asked.

I told him, without hesitation, in very prim and proper Spanish. (My name is . . . is one of the first things you learn in a foreign language. You don’t throw away opportunities like that.) “What’s yours?” I asked.

“Toro,” he said.

“Toro,” I repeated, feeling my insides unglue. Bull.

“You are lost?” he asked. “In this place we don’t see many . . . American boys.” The other men in the vicinity shook their heads and laughed a little in agreement.

I explained that I was staying with other people from my school at the hotel down the street. I couldn’t help but notice his nose twitch at the mention of the hotel’s name.

He placed a heavy paw on my scrawny shoulder. “I think you will come with me,” he announced. “If you want.”

Did I want? Hoo boy. Did I ever.

I felt Toro slide his hand down. He planted his palm in the center of my spine with wordless insistence, and gently steered me away from the crowd. The remaining men let loose with a cry I recognized as we moved away—the non-verbal approbation frat boys make when one of their brothers makes a sexual score. The universal sound of males whooping at the virility of one of their own. I heard the slapping of high-fives and some chanting of “Toro! Toro!” as the Mexican man in the cowboy boots led me off to some unknown destination.

And then, over the dissonance of the transistor radio, a chorus of voices raised in lusty song. “In the nah-vee. . . !”

(to be continued)

Monday, December 4, 2017

Why I'm Not Attending That Other Orgy Anymore, Either

It’s all married men. We get together once a month in a motel room. A decent one, not that bedbug palace off exit 9. Everyone’s there by noon, then I lock the door and turn off the lights. After that . . . anything goes.

Anything? I remember replying. This was on Manhunt, several years ago, back in the day when Manhunt was a service that people actually logged into and used.

Fucking, sucking, you name it. Nothing illegal. No drugs. But once the lights are off? Anything your heart desires. The beauty of it is that we’re all married men. Married men know how to be discreet. Married straight dudes are just hotter and more masculine. Am I right? You’re a married man. You know what I mean? And at the end of the day, everyone goes home drained or loaded up or both, back to the wife and kids and no one is the wiser.

When my friend Bert recruited the other gentlemen in his little orgy group, this particular scenario might’ve sounded hot to the average closeted married slob in the suburb where I live—the kind of guy who would post a blurry closeup of his nipple and collarbone on Manhunt and call it a profile photo. The kind of guy who dutifully fucked his wife once a month, and spent the other twenty-nine days furiously masturbating to gay porn on the internet.

But honestly, I wasn’t really buying his particular line of bullshit. Married I might be, but I’m queer enough to know that what happens when a hotel door closes on a roomful of horny men is anything but straight. A married guy with his butt in the air taking a monster-sized dick isn’t any hotter or more masculine than a self-avowed gay guy in the same position. They’re both bitches in heat. There’s no shame in that—but at least the gay guy is the one owning up to what he wants and likes. Whatever untruths Bert’s friends want to tell themselves, individually or as a group, a bunch of married men discreetly having an orgy in a hotel room is no high afternoon tea with crumpets. It’s still a bunch of faggots getting sweaty and swapping cum. (Don’t get me wrong. This faggot is right there in the middle of it all.)

So I rolled my eyes when Bert originally approached me on Manhunt, trying to sell me on his group. I was ready to tell him that he could go shove his ‘safe’ group of ‘straight’ married men up his KY’ed asshole.

Sure. I’ll be there, my fingers typed instead.

Hey. The prospect of a steady orgy in my own backyard was nothing to sneeze at.

I ended up attending Bert’s married men orgy for several years. Once a month like clockwork they’d meet on a Monday during lunchtime. He’d rent a hotel room, accept guys through the door from eleven-thirty until noon, then lock the door and turn out the lights. And you know, the parties were, for the most part, pretty decent. Usually anywhere between six and fifteen men would attend—most of them in their thirties and forties, all sporting rings on their left hands. We’d all throw a few bucks in a jar to cover the cost of the room. Bert would lock the door. We’d all tuck our clothes into neat bundles in the closet or in dresser drawer. Then we’d fuck.

These suburban get-togethers of married men were the Golden Corral of sex parties, to be honest. That is, nothing on the buffet approached gourmet quality . . . but there sure was a whole lot of it to be had. If you wanted to bottom, there’d be a hard dick for your hole (probably mine). If you wanted to top, there would be all kinds of asses up, from which to choose. A musclebound married buddy of mine I was seeing on the side often attended with me, and we’d always put on a pretty spectacular show for everyone—growling, wrestling around, grappling to see who’d get to be on top of whom (position-wise, that is, as I was always the top when it came to fucking). One of the regulars was a local cop who would show up in uniform, which would drive some of the married guys crazy; at least he had a good sense of humor about topping guys and fulfilling their fetish fantasies while wearing his official hat.

Bert’s married group was moderately fun, but not outstanding. A lot of the guys attending simply didn’t have much experience with man-to-man sex. It showed. A few were awkward to the point that even I, who tend to be unfailingly patient with the shy in these situations, would just shrug and move on. Occasionally a guy who didn’t know any better would show up with a dirty ass—a mistake that would happen only once, as he’d taken aside by Bert for a private chat about douching out before playing. A couple of guys hadn’t been socialized well enough in these sexual situations to know when to take ‘no’ for an answer. I remember one particularly grim party in which a guy would keep grabbing my dick and grinding the head against the palm of his hand he’d licked wet. It was an unpleasant and even painful sensation, and I couldn’t get the fucker to stop.

I graduated from this particular sex party when Bert started hosting another regular orgy at his apartment in the city. The Manhattan parties were definitely a step up from their suburban counterparts. For one thing, Bert would curate his invites from a group on Manhunt that extended far beyond closeted married men. The men attending the big city orgies were bi and gay, married and single, and of such an extreme step up in sheer quality that sometimes I was a little intimidated.

Two weeks before each of the monthly parties, Bert would send out to all his invited guests an email stating the party time and the Manhunt screen names of the men who had confirmed they’d attend; he’d update the list a day or two before the actual event. Sharing the guest list with everyone gave all of us the opportunity to check out who we could expect to meet, and brush up on their likes and dislikes—which definitely made things a little easier at the parties themselves. But I’d thumb through these profiles of guys with uniformly muscular bodies and handsome, well-groomed faces and physiques, and for a few doubtful moments I’d think in the back of my mind, Man, THIS is going to be the party when everyone realizes I’M the dog.

Never happened. For one thing, I get confident enough in sexual situations that I don’t let what I’m convinced are my very modest attractions hold me back from having fun. For another, the other guys attending the parties would flood my box beforehand, begging me for cock. I’d always arrive at these parties already carrying a very full dance card.

The Manhattan gatherings were a more sophisticated affair. They’d always begin with a cocktail party of sorts—wine and appetizers. I’m maybe making it sound a little grander than it really was, since the wine came in boxes and the appetizers were usually peanuts and bags of kettle corn. Yet there’d always be a half hour of conversation of the type in which New Yorkers always seem to indulge, centered around rent prices and careers. Then someone (okay, usually it was me) would make a move on someone else, there’d be the sound of a belt unbuckling and pants dropping, and suddenly these staid uptown apartment dwellers would be getting as down and dirty as in any inner-city bathhouse.

The sex at these parties could be outstanding. Because there were usually more than twenty men at these things, and because we had the whole apartment to spread out in, as guys split off into pairs and smaller groups, there’d be ample room to get up to more athletic couplings than I’d find in a hotel room with two dozen guys jockeying for space on a couple of full-size beds. The guys were less inhibited; the asses were rounded, the holes opened up more readily. And like I said, I’d come to the parties having already promised some time to several of the men present. I’m not being immodest when I say that every time I showed up, I was very often the center of attention.

And gentlemen, it’s not because I’m spectacularly built, or because I have a hot six-pack, or because I take amazing torso shots. None of those things are true. Part of my popularity comes from the fact that I have a spectacular cock, true, but there’s way more to it than that. I’m a great love maker. I take the most nervous and shy fellow and, for the few minutes I’m eight inches deep inside his aching, stretched-out hole, I make him feel like the center of the fucking universe. I make him feel like he’s the most desirable, beautiful man on earth. It’s not faked. I don’t pretend. When I fuck, I’m not just shoving my dick into an orifice. I plunge into everything a man is. I accept him for the things that make him proud, and make him forget the parts of himself he despises. I celebrate him, and him alone. I let him know that he’s desired. I give him the freedom to feel happy, and loved. And I make damn sure to let him know how much he’s satisfying me.

That, gentlemen, is the secret of my sexual success.

At the parties I’d make love to a man while a group of a dozen naked horny fuckers were shoving around us on a rickety sofa bed, cheering us on. Even in that noisy, smelly crowd, I’d make that bottom feel like he and I were the only ones who existed. The only ones who mattered. Then, once he’d had an earth-shattering orgasm, I’d pull out, clean off, and gladly perform the same service for the next man on my dance card. Most nights I’d fuck eight, ten, fifteen asses, long and hard. I might not have shot off in all of them, but I’d damn well make sure they came from my pounding . . . and four or five lucky bastards would walk away carrying some of my DNA deep in their guts.

So yeah. I was popular at those parties. Bert knew it. He capitalized it. When he’d send out his invitations, my name would be at the top of the list. When he was trying to recruit new meat, Bert would ask guys to write me on Manhunt; I’d reply in a friendly manner assuring them that yes, if they showed up, I’d be more than happy personally to give them a good time. There were guys who would fly in from other states to attend the party—scheduling their work trips to coincide with the orgies. I was a good boy for Bert, convincing hot men to come to a hot party for a hot time. I was good to Bert, too. I’m always good to orgy hosts. I’d always save a special fuck and a special load for him, usually late in the evening when most of the men were tired and the air was drowsy and quiet. I’d ease him back onto the mattress in the master bedroom, use a couple of fingers to slide some lube up his chute, and slide right in as together we’d relive the highlights of the evening

And then I missed a party. I don’t remember why. Until I find a patron who’s willing to sponsor me for a life of orgies and naked guest appearances in porn, I’ll sadly have to keep, you know, working and stuff. That’s probably what I was doing the night I had to skip out. As usual, Bert sent out the party invitation. I RSVPed early to say I wasn’t going to be able to attend. I thought it was over, strangely enough.

But then in the two weeks before the party, I started getting a number of messages from guys on Manhunt. Looking forward to seeing you on Monday after next, they’d say. Hope you save a fuck for me. I’d have to write the guys back and tell them that I was sorry, but I wasn’t going to be available that night. But you’re on the guest list as confirmed, they’d say. Sure enough, when I checked the list, there I was, right at the top.

I wrote Bert and reminded him I wasn’t going to be able to attend. I just left you on there in case you were free at the last minute, he replied. I explained to him that if I actually were able to attend at the last minute—which I wasn’t going to be able to do—I would feel free to attend, but that I should be removed from the list until then. When he didn’t reply, I thought I’d made my point. Yet the day before, when he sent out the final reminder, there I was, still on the guest list.

That day and the day of the orgy, my appearance at the top of a list was only a minor annoyance. The day after the orgy, though, I started getting emails from men I’d never met. How come you weren’t there last night? I was expecting to spend some private time with you, said one. Another said, I flew in from North Carolina because Bert told me what a good top you were. Didn’t expect you to flake like that.

Flaking? Now my reputation was on the line.

I was pretty stern when I emailed Bert directly. I told him that leaving me on the list when I knew I wasn’t going to attend one of his get-togethers was doing me a disservice; guys who were counting on me to show up were writing me and accusing me of flaking out—which was unjust.

But you draw the guys in, he said. You’re good advertising for me.

So advertise when I’m actually going to be there. It’s not that tough! I wrote back. Again, I thought it was settled.

A couple of months later I had to skip another orgy. Same thing happened. I told Bert I wouldn’t be able to show up, yet when he emailed everyone, there I was again, right at the top of the list of attendees. This time I wrote Bert right off the bat and told him I really didn’t want to go through the same thing as last time, and would he please, please, remove my name from the guest list?

He didn’t. The emails showed up on Manhunt hours after the party. Why weren’t you there? Please don’t tell me you’re a flake.

This time around, I was infuriated. I’d asked nicely to be removed from the list. I given Bert a logical and honest accounting of why I’d prefer not to be listed as going to a sex party when I couldn’t attend. But you’re good advertising! he replied again. You bring in the hottest guys.
Bert, I can’t be your fucking mascot, I wrote back. Your parties would get on just fine without me, you know. I really don’t want guys writing me again accusing me of flaking.

Then maybe you’d better fucking show up, he replied.

Fuck this, I said. To myself. Not to him. Though I was tempted.

Sex I can get anywhere—I don’t have an issue with that. Treat me like meat, though, and dangle me as bait, without my consent? That kind of treatment I don’t need.

True story, though. After our blow-out, Bert and I didn’t talk for over a year. I didn’t go to any of his parties (which got along fine without me, of course). Mainly that was because I was no longer invited, even though at first Bert made sure to tell people to ask me why I wasn’t coming any more. (Irritating me further.) For months and months I didn’t hear from the guy. Until this week, that is, when I was part of a mass mailing on a sex site. He’s throwing a party in Manhattan, it says. Enclosed is a list of guys who’ve confirmed that they’ll be attending.

And guess whose screen name is right there, plain as day, even though he didn’t RSVP?


And that, children, is why I don’t go to that orgy any more.

Monday, November 13, 2017

Why I'm Not Attending Your Orgy Anymore

When I lived in Michigan, one gentleman of my acquaintance threw consistently what were probably the best orgies I ever attended. He’d curate the list of guests carefully, inviting only men he’d met and could personally vouch for. Everyone in attendance was fairly attractive—usually I felt like the charity case of the bunch, honestly. He had a well-appointed basement playroom with mattresses for fucking, slings for fucking and fisting, and a couple of benches for restraints or paddling or whatever his guests felt like getting into. There were plenty of paper towels and a shower in the playroom for clean-up.

What he was mostly a stickler for was the proportion of tops to bottoms; as a bottom himself, he disliked the notion of any holes remaining empty at any given time. He’d invite enough tops, or at least versatile guys who’d happily mount an ass on request, so that each bottom would be happy. The parties were pretty much a well-run marvel. They’d start on time, last for hours, and except for the one party where I kind of ticked off the host (just a little, it turned out) by breeding all the designated tops, the host’s carefully-selected cast of pigs never went awry.

I’ve been to a lot of bad groups, too. I’ve attended orgies in which a dozen guys stood at one end of a hotel room, clothed or clamping their hands so firmly in front of their junk that they might as well be clothed, watching two or three others fuck but refusing to participate. I’ve gone to a couple of orgies—and never returned—in which sex was secondary (or even further down the list) to drug transactions. And I was far across the room when I attended one terrible, terrible orgy in which a guy getting fisted in a sling suddenly let loose with a geyser of diarrhea that sprayed with fire-hydrant force over most of the attendees, the host’s bedroom furniture, and expensive carpet. It was basically a scatological Monty Python skit gone wrong.

I’ve been to enough bad orgies, in fact, that I will no longer attend a group sex session that sounds as if it’s poorly organized or sketchy. Yet finding a good sex group organizer is no easy task. I was lucky enough, when I relocated to the East Coast several years back, to find a couple that suited me just fine.

For a little over the last half-decade I attended a midweek orgy thrown by a retired Yale professor. He hosts them every Wednesday without fail in his little New Haven apartment; I tended to show up every two or three weeks. New Haven is something of a haul for me. It’s an hour drive, even going opposite the early rush hour traffic. There’s also the little-observed fact that, despite what Ivy League fantasies you’ve seen brought to life on reruns of Gilmore Girls, New Haven is pretty much the stinking armpit of Connecticut. But the host is friendly and a great kisser, and enjoys nothing better than watching guys fuck like animals in his apartment once a week, so I’ve made the drive every couple of weeks, held my nose, and dove into that pile of ass.

The Professor’s parties are on an open invitation system, so they’re not as carefully curated as some. His attendees tend to be regulars, though, so they can be counted on gleefully to join in the action rather than stand around and watch. There’s usually a democratic atmosphere at the gatherings: anyone’s welcome, everyone can get some. There’s a core group of men who range from their fifties to their seventies, myself included, but all of them are pretty fucking desirable; and then there’s usually equal numbers of young guys from the surrounding colleges and universities offering up their holes and dicks to the daddies. Demographically, it’s almost a reverse bell curve—the numbers skew higher at the lower and higher age ranges, then dip low for guys in their thirties and forties.

And even though the accommodations aren’t grand in the least—literally all the action takes places in the host’s bedroom on one mysteriously sturdy queen bed and on the carpet around the bed’s three sides—for the most part, everyone has fun. Sure, there’ve been a couple of times I’ve gone and the attendance has been scarce, or the chemistry hasn’t been right, but I always enjoy making out with The Professor when that happens; I enjoy letting him shove his fingers into my greased-up ass and mumble about how he’s molesting me, while he licks and chews my nuts and deep-throats my dick. I’ve enjoyed the relations I’ve built with some of the other regulars over the years. It was always low-stress, midweek fun.

That is, until about a year and a half ago when I accumulated a stalker there. A thin, nervous-looking married fellow started attending. He was a good fuck; he knew how to suck my dick, too. The first couple of times, he’d come into the room naked, his eyes would lock with mine, and I’d grin at the sight of him, then nod him over to take his place between my open legs. The third or fourth time we met, I remember fucking him in such a contorted position—his shoulders, neck and head, were the only parts of him making contact with the mattress, and the soles of his feet were curled over his body and pressed against the wall over his head—that when he climaxed from the fuck, he sprayed his face and hair with his own seed. The guys at the group that week were cheering us on as I banged him. I made him a happy man that day.

He followed me out to the car, after I put on my clothes and exited the apartment. “I’m Peter,” he told me, shaking my hand. “I’ve never had a fuck as good as what you give me.” Then he entered my cell number in his phone, presumably so we could get together at some point.

Peter started out texting me once a week to see if I’d be attending parties at The Professor’s. But then, at the actual parties, he started cockblocking me from other guys, and cockblocking other guys from me; if someone had his lips around my meat, he’d actually pull the guy off and replace that mouth with his own. He started telling guys that all my loads were his and his alone, and a couple told me he’d threatened them to keep away from me. It got to the point that one new attendee confided in private that he thought Peter was my jealous boyfriend.

I was pretty popular at The Professor’s parties. Most days I was in a lot of demand. And honestly, when I’m indulging in group sex, I like to be generous with my attention. I like making the shy guys feel desirable. I enjoy helping the whores feel even more whorey. “You really can’t be acting like that,” I’d tell Peter, explaining to him that in a group situation, just about everyone should have an equal shot at sex with me as he did. I encouraged him to have fun with other big-decked tops who attended, and that I’d still fuck him . . . once . . . if he behaved.

But he’d laugh it off. “You can’t blame me for wanting your dick more than anyone else,” he’d say, or something else that managed to sound both complimentary and entitled. So when Peter would text me and ask if I were attending The Professor’s groups that week, I’d lie and say I wasn’t—and when he said he wouldn’t bother to go, then, I’d show up anyway. It worked for a while until one week I showed up after claiming I wouldn’t, and found him lurking in The Professor’s parking lot to catch me. After that, I just stopped going to The Professor’s for a long time.

The whole Peter thing came after all those other stalker types I endured in years prior. I was determined not to allow him to get to me the way other men had, in recent years. Missing a group sex session was a small price to pay to eliminate the craziness I could see he was threatening. I blocked him on my phone to stop his phone calls. I blocked his profiles on sex sites when he started trying to wheedle me through those; when he would create alternate profiles to try to get to me again, I’d block those, too. Eventually he stopped trying to get in contact.

It wasn’t until this last summer, though, before I opted to go back to The Professor’s place again. I saw The Professor’s profile pop up one day on my track list at a sex site; I sent him a quick hello and got a reproachful reply that he hadn’t seen me for a little over a year. I explained to him that I meant no discourtesy, but that I’d encountered some craziness with one of his other guests, and that I thought avoiding the group would be the best way to keep my life calm.

“Was the guy bothering you named Peter?” he wrote back.

I said I wasn’t trying to get anyone in trouble with him, but I was curious why he thought it was Peter.

“Because Peter has been stalking several guys from my groups,” he wrote back. “He’s been told not to show his face around here again.”

I might’ve admitted, at that point, that Peter was the guy.

Since The Professor assured me that all his groups in the future would be not only Peter-free, but free of all crazy people, I decided to go back. I had good fun the first time I attended. I fucked a lot of hot student asses. One super-handsome guy in his sixties with an enormous dick decided that I should be his fuckboy and bottom for him.

“It’s not going to fit,” I told him, frankly. His dick—and I’m not exaggerating here—was easily about eight inches around and a good nine or nine and a half inches long. It made beer can cocks look puny. I could look at it and tell that him trying to fuck me with it was going to be like trying to put a baseball bat through the eye of a needle, yet I was flattered enough by his attention that I got on all fours and arched my back and encouraged him as he banged against the back door with that battering ram. He didn’t break through—not enough a little. But we both were good sports about it.

Maybe, I thought to myself, The Professor’s parties would be viable again.

Two weeks later I gave the party another shot. It was a hot late summer day. When I arrived in The Professor’s parking lot, the sun was very nearly directly overheat. I was a few minutes early, so I pulled into a space, shifted into park, and waited.

Most of the attendees of the orgies tended to park in a certain area close to the westernmost entrance of the building. It wasn’t long until a car pulled around the building’s far end and sidled into a space a few away from mine. The driver had ginger hair and the freckled complexion that often accompanies it. I watched as he leaned forward and looked my direction. Our eyes locked. He smiled.

Well, well, well, I thought. A resident of the complex wouldn’t have pulled his car to a stop and remained inside; only someone early to the orgy would’ve done that. The guy was tolerable-looking enough that I didn’t mind his cruising me. In fact, I really wouldn’t have minded him inviting me back to his place and skipping the orgy altogether—because as much as I love group sex, I love a hot one-on-one even better. I turned off my engine, tucked my wallet and phone in my secret car hiding place, got out, and sauntered over to him.

He rolled down the window as I reached his car. “Hey there,” he said, looking me over. “Thinking of going to the party?”

“Yup,” I drawled, sounding way more Southern than usual. “How about yourself?”

I was kind of expecting him to ask me back to his place about then, so confident I was of my magnetic appeal. But instead, this redhead said, “Weeeeellllll . . . there’s kind of a story behind that.” Before I could ask what, or exert my better judgment and walk away, he said, “You know The Professor?”

“I do.”

“Well, he doesn’t like me very much, but he’s the host, and I don’t want to come in if he’s not going to want me there.” Oh god, already I was thinking. This is going to be 100% pure drama, isn’t it. “So I was kind of hoping that you might go inside and ask him if it would be okay if I came in?”

This request was so totally the opposite of what I expected that in the moment, all I could do is shrug and say, “Sure.”

“I’ll reward you if he lets me come in,” he said roguishly. But at that point, I really didn’t care.
I entered The Professor’s apartment as usual. I kicked off my shoes, walked back to the bedroom. The Professor was already busy with one of the regulars on the queen bed. He raised his hands happily to invite me into a hug when I poked my head around the corner. We kissed, and I began taking off my shirt. “I should probably tell you first,” I said. “There’s a guy outside sitting in a car, who says you don’t like him, and. . . .”

“Ohhhhhh, Christ,” said The Professor. “Is he a redhead?” I said that indeed he was. “What a fucking freak. Don’t let him on you. He’s a stalker. He hasn’t been here in a long time, and I was hoping he was gone for good. Why don’t you go tell him . . . oh, what the fuck. Go tell him he can come in.”
Honestly, I was kind of hoping that my turn as messenger boy was over. But just inviting a stalker into his home seemed kind of crazy to me. “I don’t mind telling him you said no.”

“Nah, tell him he can come in. But Christ, I hope he doesn’t end up stalking anyone this time.”

I rebuttoned my shirt, then left to put my sneakers back on. Basically I was stomping, all the way back out to the guy’s car. I’d arrived only a few minutes earlier ready to fuck and have fun. Playing ambassador between two warring nations had not been on my agenda. “He says you can come,” I barked at the guy in the car.

“Really? I can come? He said that? You didn’t just make it up?” He said it to my back, though, because I’d already turned and started walking back to the apartment. I wasn’t going to reassure the guy. I wasn’t going to tell him everything was all right. Everything wasn’t all right.

Maybe everyone else had fun that day, but I found the sex very awkward. Attendance was light. I found myself trying to avoid the red-headed guy the whole time. When you’re in a smallish bedroom with ten guys, avoiding one of them isn’t exactly an easy thing to do. I was face-fucking a college kid when he tried to get on his knees and shove my cocksucker out of the way. “Let me pay you back, like I promised,” he whispered.

I just smiled, patted him on the head, and pushed his face onto someone else’s cock while I moved to the other side of the room.

I was lying on the bed, getting head from one of the regulars, when he suddenly loomed over me, his average-sized dick pointed at my mouth. “Let me pay you back,” he said again.

“Nah. I’ve gotta get some water,” I said.

Finally, I was fucking a young guy whose endurance wasn’t extensive. The kid begged for a break after I’d pounded him for only a little while. The redhead instantly scooted over and dropped down on all fours. “Now it’s my turn,” he said.

“I just came,” I lied.

Then I went to collect my clothes.

Groups aren’t fun when one person mistakes good sex for a lifetime commitment. Groups aren’t fun when one person runs amok. Groups definitely aren’t fun when the host knows a stalker is outside and say, “Oh, what the fuck. Tell him he can come in.”

And that, sir, is why I’m not attending your orgy any more.

Monday, October 9, 2017

On the Grindr

When smartphones were just becoming popular—and I realize that already this story sounds like the creaky tale of an old-timer who just doesn’t understand why whippersnappers these days don’t appreciate the velocipede or the Edison cylinder phonograph—Grindr was the first sex app that really took advantage of geolocation features. But that doesn’t mean I liked it.

One of the reasons I avoided Grindr for so many years is that its most popular use, back in the midwest when it first launched, was for currying scorn. I’d go into a gay bar and see gaggles of guys clustered around someone with a brand-new iPhone 3G to peer at the tiny screen running Grindr; as they flipped through the photos, they’d play Fuck/Marry/Kill for each profile bold enough to post on the new service, only occasionally glancing up from their merriment to make sure the person in question wasn’t actually standing nearby. In the Midwest, at least, my impression had always been that Grindr was less about actually cruising for encounters, and more about weaponizing people’s unfortunate profile shots either for amusement or outright derision.

When I did download Grindr and gave it a try for a few days, I could watch my phone’s battery icon basically drain from full to empty right before my eyes. That was the nail in the coffin; the app didn’t last very long on my phone. I tried Growlr for a while (never met anyone from it who would actually meet), and Jackd (ditto, nor would I really want to meet anyone from it) before settling on Scruff for my geolocation needs.

Scruff has its share of irritations, mostly minor. The one that bugs me most is how, seemingly upon every login, the app asks me if I’d mind taking a ten-second survey of how they can improve their services. You can improve your services by stop asking me to take constant ten-second surveys of how to improve your services, I’ll reply in the comment box. Then later that day I’ll open the app to find it asking once again if I’m willing to take another ten-second survey of how to improve its services.  Jesus Christ, Johnny Scruff, stop with the nagging already.

Scruff also suffers from a peculiar kind of bloat as it attempts to be all things to all gays; it’s got a travel section that neither I nor anyone else I know uses. It allows people to designated themselves as ‘ambassadors’ of their home cities, and it seems to me that while some men consider their ambassador status (in New York City, at least) to mean that out-of-towners should feel free to message them with tourism-related questions, there are a handful of self-appointed ambassadors who seem to think their diplomatic duties should take place naked and on all fours, with a welcoming hole open to all visitors.

If only U.N. ambassadors were so outgoing.

No, but Scruff has a flexible and straightforward profile system. It makes searching and filtering fairly accessible, albeit with a lot of finger-jabbing at the screen. I like Scruff’s Tinder-like Match system, in which men who swipe right on each other’s photos are notified of their mutual interest. The system’s guys, by and large, are friendly and less twinkish than the alternatives. It doesn’t hurt that my face has been deemed pretty enough that I land on the front page with some regularity.

I’ve had some good hookups from the service. And every now and then a reader tracks me down there, to say hello. (Hello, readers!) Yet when I travel, and even in a densely-populated metropolitan area, Scruff is still not used by as many people as Grindr. And since I have occasional moods when I grumble about why do I have to have Chipotle’s limited selection of five items when I could go to Cheesecake Factory with its thirty-page menu, I have to admit there have been times through the years I’ve had Grindr envy.

Over the summer my spouse took me (as arm candy, naturally) to a fancy-schmancy business dinner function. I was off in the exile corner along with a small group of other wives and accessories sharing a bowl of tortilla chips and some incredibly bad salsa, while all the big shots talked business together on the other side of the room. Then an effete older gentleman, a vision in striped seersucker, wafted over from the big-shots group. I say he was an older gentleman; he was probably about my age. And very likely gay. Guilty by virtue of the matched seersucker and tasseled loafers, really. “Ladies,” he announced, tapping his fingertips together, “and gentleman,” he added, pointedly looking me over. “I’ve made it my mission tonight to bring you up to speed on what’s what . . . and who’s who.”

The man then proceeded to spill all kinds of innocuous dirt about various people attending the function that evening. There was one fellow, for example, who had spent bags and bags of money renovating his summer home in the months before, only to find that it had some irreparable flaw in its foundation. Now it likely needed to be completely demolished. Another fellow was going through a nasty divorce from someone who used to be a backup singer for someone I’d never heard of. This other man had been forced into a lateral transfer from one branch to another; everyone was terribly worried about that one over there, since he’d had a reoccurrence of a cancer scare.

“And that fellow,said Mr. Seersucker, relishing his own gossip as he nodded in the direction of a square-jawed, dark-haired fellow with the clean-cut good looks of an extra from Mad Men, “that fellow is on The Grindr.” For the benefit of the straight women in his audience, which was basically everyone but me, he added, The Grindr is like Tinder for the gays.” Finally, he added, “And his profile has plenty of scandalous photos!”

Well. You can probably guess who quietly excused himself to go get a drink while he pulled out his phone and surreptitiously downloaded Grindr for the first time in about eight years. Yes, I really did. My purpose wasn’t to hook up immediately with the fellow in question; I was just curious to see if he would show up as ten feet away from me. With a shirtless profile pic. And with ‘LOOKING 4’ followed by an eggplant emoji as his user name. You know. All the things a little gay boy grows up dreaming of.

The upshot of that story is that I never did see the square-jawed fellow (or his scandalous photos) on Grindr that evening. But this time around, the app has remained on my phone.

When I got home, I opened up Grindr to see who was in my immediate vicinity. I recognized a face or two from Scruff, but while on Scruff they might’ve been the photos closest to mine, on Grindr they were further down the list. Way further down, in fact. Where on Scruff there might’ve been perhaps three or four guys in a mile radius from me, out here in the bland white heart of suburbia, on Grindr there were dozens. A score or more, even.

I left my profile blank for a while. I didn’t really intend to use it. But after a week, once I’d confirmed the app wasn’t actually slurping my phone’s battery with the avidity of a vampire denied blood for a century or two, I felt emboldened enough to slap up my face pic and a few stats on here.
Boom. Almost immediately I felt my phone vibrate. Hola papi, some Latin twink was writing. Hi daddy, wrote another. You looking? wrote a third. Then another buzz. Que chulo!
Part of it was being new meat on an old service, of course. But now that I’ve been on Grindr for a couple of months, I haven’t exactly noticed the frequency of guys hitting me up declining any.
And you know what’s most curious? Of all the guys wanting to get together for sex on the app, about two-thirds of them send me messages like, Let me breed that hole or I wanna fuck that sexy daddy ass. When I received the first half-dozen of those in rapid succession, I was a little baffled. Did my photo look more bottom-y than usual, or something?

But then I realized that in my profile, I’d simply never specified I was a top. I’m so used to guys reading my online profiles and knowing from the get-go that I’m usually looking to fuck and breed a hole that being seen by new guys as a potential bottom is sheer novelty. Every time I get a new offer from a top assuming I want to get my hole stretched, I giggle like a shy geisha.

I still haven’t put my positional preference on there. But I haven’t taken anyone up on the offer, though. Yet.

So, here’s the TL;DR version for those of you with short attention spans: I’m on The Grindr now. And yeah. There are plenty of scandalous photos. Hit me up when I’m within 75 feet of you, would ya?

Monday, September 11, 2017

The 14th Reason

I decided to write my 13 Reasons series earlier in the summer when I realized I had a lot of stuff to get off my chest. Such a lot of stuff.

There often have been times throughout my sex blog in which I’ve discussed encounters that have gone bad, or my disappointments with various men. I do have a department of bad encounters tag that I use liberally, after all. On the whole, though, throughout my blogging career I’ve kept most of my entries upbeat and complimentary of my partners. I’ve portrayed my sport fucking as steamy, and fun, and adventurous. Perhaps even as enviable. I wasn’t wrong to do so; the sex I have has been all those things.

But there have been episodes, and periods, in which the bad has outweighed the fun and the good. The handful that made up my series were downright harmful.

I didn’t write about those encounters until now for many reasons. Some took time to process. Years, even. Others, like those involving cyberbullies and stalkers, felt like sleeping bears it might be unwise to poke. A lot of my bad memories, however, I avoided writing about because I was wary of how readers would receive them. Historically, my readers have liked it when I focus on the porntastic. When I write openly about what’s bothering me, they’re not as pleased.

My reader feedback in the last few weeks has kind of borne that out. “It was a LOT of Cory,” someone told me today. And yes, yes it was a lot of Cory. There was a lot of Cory in my life for a year, and to this day I’m still dealing with the physical and emotional aftermath. So yeah, for you, four entries might’ve been an awful lot of Cory. For me, it was either the appropriate proportion of Cory, or given how sometimes he lingers, not enough.

“These posts are painful to read,” said another reader. “Some have made me cry.” I get that. I get that people have been reluctant to comment on some posts because my emotions in them are too raw, or too vivid. I respect that stance, even. People don't visit sex blogs so they can wallow in someone else’s misery. Everyone has enough of his or her own. My personal challenge at the beginning of the series was to write everything out as honestly as possible and damn the consequences. It was a good exercise for me. I recognize, though, it wasn’t everyone’s pair of pajama pants.

“I wish that your blog had just continued from where it left off, a year or so ago,” wrote one reader this week. And, my reader, if you happen to be recognizing your words on my page, fear not. I’m not trying to make you feel badly for your wish. I wish my blog could’ve continued from where it left off, too.

But honestly . . . it couldn’t.

Not writing about these hurts was smothering me. Every time one of my readers would spend weeks telling me I meant the world to him, only to disappear or deceive after we fucked, it weighed me down a little more. When one of my readers would demand more of me than he should, when he’d feel entitled to more than he’d earned, it pushed me down more and more. Maybe the individual disappointments each weighed no more than the lead apron my dental assistant drapes across me during an x-ray. But lay one, then another, then another . . . the cumulative weight suffocates.

It’s painful. They’ve made me cry, too. I wish I could’ve just picked up right where I left off. But I can’t.

When I started thinking about this series, in a fit of pique after my encounter with Bill 101, I modeled it after the (mostly ridiculous) Netflix series 13 Reasons Why, in which a high school girl, prior to committing suicide, recorded thirteen 45-minute cassette tape sides accusing thirteen of her peers for driving her to the grave. Each side was a Fuck you! from beyond the grave to one of her classmates who'd pushed her to that extreme.

Snapping Welcome to your tape! at someone who had pissed you off had become the meme of the spring; I was amused by the thought of appropriating it for the screeds I’d never written about the men who’d upset me.

I actually kind of had to weed from the final candidates the many readers who’d just kind of pissed me off, versus the ones whose actions were actually toxic to my well-being. So out went the guys who’d stood me up, or the ones who made promises they never kept, or never intended to keep. I narrowed my selection down to men who had impeded my creativity, to men who seemingly had gone above and beyond to disappoint. All along I intended to end with the knock-out one-two punch of Cory followed by the boy who fell in love with someone else—which I did. But the story of Cory I had to expand by a chapter more than I intended . . . because, again, there was an awful lot of Cory.

Originally I’d envisioned that the very last essay of the series would have been about its real and most persistent antagonist. That is, myself.

Writing these essays has brought me face to face with my many and abundant flaws. When I write about my monstrous vanity and my inflated ego, I’m not being charmingly self-deprecating. I mean to tell you guys I really do have a monstrous vanity and inflated ego.

Week after week I've had to confront ugly facts about myself. For example:

If I didn’t have such a monstrous vanity and inflated ego, I probably would’ve been strong enough not to go down the rabbit hole after the men who fed emotional heroin to those particular flaws. If cartoon birdies didn’t chirp in my eyes and my pupils didn’t dilate into Looney Tunes throbbing hearts every time some reader on the make started a conversation with Wow, sir, I really love your blog, I wouldn’t have had to put up with half the shit I ended up writing about for thirteen weeks.

If I didn’t think so damned highly about myself, if I didn’t truly believe at heart that I am always, always right, I wouldn’t expect men’s lives to be magically changed by my influence or presence. And then I wouldn’t be disappointed when they turn out, after all, to be just as human and fallible as I am myself.

If I were a more ruthlessly honest person, I’d question the morality of keeping a sex blog at all. Readers of my blog who choose to embark on a physical relationship with me are somewhat fair game; they know the likelihood of being written about. But men who are strangers to the blog? Is it fair of me to write about them, afterward—even if (as I do) I change their names and their circumstances to protect their privacy? What about men in my history, who may or may not stumble across my writings and happen to recognize themselves? (It’s happened, more frequently than makes me comfortable.) What kind of ethical compass do I follow, here . . . if I have one left at all, anymore?

I came away from this series feeling like more of a monster than any of the men I carped about. Anyone who imagined that I enjoyed my pity party would be seriously wrong.

But one of the things I try to do nowadays is to be a little kinder to myself than I typically have been in previous decades of my life. I don’t dismiss my offenses off-hand. Instead, I recognize my imperfections where I can. I try to isolate where I might have gone wrong, and see the path I might have chosen instead. Then I resolve to do better. That was the theme of this series, right? If we could do better, we would.

And I want to be able to do better.

My last thirteen entries took my readers through some dark places. I’ve left the impression with a lot of my readers, it seems, that I’m still feeling in the dark. Let me assure everyone, though, that I’ve been writing from a place of strength, and from a stance of conviction. Devastated as I was after the last two men I wrote about, I bounced back. I had pleasing physical and emotional relationships. I’m healthy. Life is good.

Sure, I was disinclined for a very long time to write entries for my sex blog. (You would be, too.) Of course I’ve been extremely wary of friendly overtures from readers, and I’ve been guilty of extreme over-caution in dealing with them—even with some of the readers I’ve known for a very long time. I often activate my usual icy self-defenses more quickly, these days, than I might have in the past.

But that Divine Spark I wrote about in my Cory entries? The internal pilot light that motivates my curiosity, my sexuality, my creativity—the one I worried was snuffed out for good? It’s been burning again, steadily if not brightly, through every one of the essays I wrote for this series.

Let’s end on a lighter, odder note.

I was about halfway through my series when someone tried hitting me up on BBRT. A younger guy in Manhattan. After he oinked at me, I looked over the handful of public photos on his profile. Nice ass, I told him.

It’s yours if you want it, Sir, he wrote back.

Readers, you and I both know my probable reaction to that one. Hands up if you picture me licking my chops, rubbing my hands together, and preparing to move in for the kill. (My hand is up.)

So let’s discuss that, son, I wrote back, while in my mind a mental soundtrack of bow-chicka-bow-wow started to play.

First off, Sir, let this faggot say that your blog changed his life.

Cue the sound of a needle scratching off that soundtrack. What the actual fuck?

May I see your locked pictures? I asked the guy. He assented, and unlocked. Sure enough, just as I suspected, the face in the profile was of This Faggot, the guy I wrote about in my second essay of the series.

What was weird about our conversation, though, was that he seemed to show absolutely either no memory of—or no remorse for—the way he’d led me on just three months prior.

A friend of mine, whom I was exchanging unbelieving texts, kept trying to convince me that This Faggot had read my entry about him and was trying to . . . I don’t know. Get me to admit I’d written it? See if I’d fall for his schtick again?

My argument back to my friend, though, was that This Faggot didn’t really have a clear motivation for coming at me again, without disguising himself, without changing his approach, without seeming to remember any of what had already happened between us. If he’d read the unpleasant (yet thoroughly accurate) account I’d written of him, wouldn’t he be angry? Or, you know, a little more subtle about his revenge?

Or was he just a messed-up ball of denial living so deep in his own fantasies that he really didn’t have any recollection of our tiring encounter? Or maybe just a psycho meth head?

I didn’t know.

So I wrote This Faggot and asked, Don’t you remember talking to me before?

This doesn't think it did, Sir. This Faggot would have remembered the honor of speaking to you. This faggot just knows it always been a fan of your blog and it changed its life.

Right, I wrote back. And we chatted in May.

Can’t remember. Deleted the site for a while.

That’s when I’d had enough. Whether or not he was playing me, I didn’t care. I told him off and told him not to contact me again.

Just when you think it can’t get any weirder, right?

By the way, for the purposes of this guy’s privacy, I’ve completely obscured his profile name in the email exchange I’ve shared above. I’m one hundred percent certain that it won’t be remotely legible and that I totally didn't forget to smudge out his name. Because that’s the sort of kind, caring, fellow I am.