(This entry is a continuation of previous posts, Allan, Part 1, and Allan, Part 2.)
It’s August of 2009, and I was in the grungier of Detroit’s two bathhouses. (It had been years since the gum incident at the older and cleaner facility, and I’d not been back since.) It was a Tuesday morning, and although I’d had a lot of sex since my arrival a couple of hours before, it hadn’t been that good. There’d been a weird guy who kept coming into my room every few minutes to ask if I want any company, while he showed me the tiny mushroom sprig that was his dick, barely visible beneath the thick bush of his pubes. I keep telling him no, but he wasn’t getting the message. Then there’d been the black guy who’d used so much teeth on my dick that I would’ve sworn he was trying to scrape off a layer of dermis.
Then a tall, thin guy had entered the room. The place had been pretty dark that morning, so I wasn’t able to see much about him. He wore a baseball cap. Once, when he removed it, he proved to have a very close-shaved head beneath. He didn’t say much. He softly pushed me down onto my back, on the thin mattress. He kept a hand on my chest as he straddled his legs and ass over my hips. Then he wriggled his hole down onto my dick, and began rising and falling in a regular rhythm.
And I thought to myself, Allan? Because there was something in his size and general build, and in the way he moved, and especially in his hunger for my dick, that brought to mind the boy I’d known nearly a decade before. There was enough to give me doubt, though. Allan rarely kissed me when we fucked, and this guy kept his mouth firmly on mine. Allan had always been into he sex for the pleasure of his own hole. This man in the dark kept asking me questions—Do you like that? Does that feel good? Should I keep doing that? Questions that made me suspect my pleasure was coming before his. And hot as the sexual haze might have been in which Allan had dwelled, years before, he never really struck me as completely present during sex.
This guy was not only present, but he was responsive, and sweet, and tender, and gentle, even as he milked two loads in a row from my dick, sitting on it. He wasn’t intending to let me up until I came. And again I thought to myself, Allan?
At the end of two hours of really good sex, all of which took place with me on my back as he attended to me with a very, very skilled hole from above, he got up and shuffled out. He closed the door to all but a crack on his way out. I was too weak and spent to get up and close it all the way. A few moments later, the door opened again. I was ready to shoo out the guy who’d intruded, but it was the baseball-capped guy again. He handed out a slip of paper. “You should text me on Tuesdays if you want to fuck,” he said, pushing it into my fingers. “I think we’d have a really good time.”
Then he was gone.
I didn’t recognize the number on the slip, to be honest. I kept it in my dresser throughout the week, and then got up the nerve to text it the following Tuesday. I got a reply back almost instantly, with an address, and the instructions to come on over.
The address, of course, was Allan’s. So I knew. I was willing to return to his tiny little house, however, because I recognized something had changed about him. I wanted to find out what.
The changes were evident when I stepped into the living room. He invited me in rather formally, I thought. “The place looks great!” I enthused, honestly, when I looked around. I’d never seen the curtains and blinds open in his living room before. The sun was warming the room and its old furniture. The living room was clean, and tidy. When I’d known Allan in the old days, he’d kept sheets thrown over everything, and there’d been layers of dust and cigarette smoke residue everywhere. Not now. There wasn’t even an aroma of smoke. The room looked as if someone actually lived there, rather than was camping out there and having sex on someone else’s furniture.
“I thought we’d go in here,” he said, shyly taking my hand and leading me down the postage stamp-sized hallway to the bedroom. The door was open. The room was dim, but not dark. Like the living room, it was completely clean and fresh.
“What happened—?” I started to say.
I’d meant to ask, what happened to all your drag queen stuff? Because the last time I’d been in that room, it had been filled with it. There weren’t any dresses spilling out of the closets. In fact, one of the closet doors lay open, and I could see there were only regular old shirts and pants within. The vanity that had occupied the wall opposite the bed was just gone. Completely gone. Any trace of Allan’s sequined past had just vanished.
It was when I saw him looking at me blankly that I realized something. Allan had no idea who I was.
He didn’t remember me from the decade before.
He didn’t know we had a history. He didn’t know I knew him, and was arriving with all the preconceptions I’d carried from before.
I know that people are thinking, If you guys fucked so much, how could you not know each other, even after a few years? Allan had changed, though. He’d been boyish when I knew him. He was a man, on our second go-round. He was leaner, and more muscular. His head was shaved.
And he even fucked differently. We made love in his bed that first morning, for the first time ever. It wasn’t all about him getting his hole stretched to the maximum, either—though he certainly craved that. Between fucks (and we did fuck multiple times that morning) he would go down on me, and suck me from ass to mouth. He licked my nipples, and chewed them exactly how I liked. He touched me with the flats of his hands, all over. He rubbed his mouth and lips over my neck.
He even kissed me. Deep, sensual kisses that lingered, and tasted of mint.
At no time during the sex did he light up a cigarette or joint. He was there, and present, and responded to every one of my thrusts and jabs with keening and moans of pleasure, and gratitude in his stare. It was like fucking the best possible version of Allan, and it turned me on beyond belief.
Yet he didn’t recognize me at all, even when I stabbed him into his first anal orgasm with me since the reunion. I watched and held him as he shook and shivered and clung to me with his arms and legs both behind my back. “It’s been a long, long time since anyone did that to me,” he panted, laughing to himself.
But no recognition at all.
The truth is that I’d changed as well over those years. I’d weighed about two-twenty-five when I knew Allan the first time around, and I’d slimmed down to one-sixty. I was dressing better—or at least in clothing that didn’t swamp me. I’d grown a beard. My hair was longer. Something Allan said to me that morning gave me a better key to the whole situation, though. I was hinting around, trying to find out whether I was so forgettable, when he said something about his past: he told me that when he’d been younger, he’d been a messed-up kid. Constantly on drugs. Even dealing. (That I knew.) “I was pretty much in a haze for five years,” he said. “But then I cleaned up and got my act together.”
He had.
For a good six months I was Allan’s Tuesday-morning lover. He knew about my home situation, but didn’t care. He wanted a part-time boyfriend, not a full-time husband. So on Tuesdays, we belonged to each other. We’d spend hours in his bed, making love to each other, exchanging honeyed words, gently encouraging each other to orgasm. My climaxes were loud and explosive and left him juicy. His were more private, and intense, and always anal—I still never saw him blow a load, or even grow hard very often.
But he never remembered me. I kept thinking, Okay, this’ll be the fuck that brings it all back to him. Nope. Never. Allan didn’t like talking about those days before the millennium. He would evade when I brought up his past, or tried to get him to talk about a possible drag queen career. He didn’t want to go there. After a while, I didn’t see any reason to try to take him out of the present, which he so very clearly was enjoying. So I stopped asking.
My story of Allan ends with a whimper.
The winter semester after we started to fuck was kind of hellacious for me, scheduling-wise; I was teaching what was for me a full load, and I wasn’t as free on Tuesdays as I had been, the semesters before. I can’t remember why, but Tuesdays were the only day Allan could meet me—so there were a couple of weeks we missed being together.
Allan didn’t like that. I’d tell him a couple of days before when I’d have to cancel, and he’d seem resigned and sad about it. After a couple of weeks, it turned to petulance. I tried explaining that I wasn’t avoiding him, or fucking someone else, but that it was just work-related shit keeping us apart, but he didn’t want to hear it. The third time, he was outright angry. You know, he texted, just don’t bother texting me any more. Or calling. Don’t contact me at all.
I was irritated enough that day that I thought, You know, enough, then. I won’t. So I didn’t.
Then, three weeks later, I got another text from him. You were the last person I expected to treat me that way. Goodbye.
“You mean, to obey your instructions not to contact you again?” I snarled, and erased his number from my phone.
And that was the end of Allan.
Looking back, I regret it all. I couldn’t help the scheduling, of course, but I wish we’d found another day or night to meet—I tried, but he couldn’t. I wish we’d not parted so rancorously—that I’d been less irritable, that he’d been less dramatic. I wish he could’ve known how much I loved making love to him when he was off the weed, and also that he could’ve known how much I admired him when he was a mere boy, slutting out his hole to all takers in the baths.
It’s probably no coincidence that I started keeping a public sex blog shortly after the demise of my relationship to Allan. I had a keen and pervasive sense, then, of how easily encounters could be completely forgotten, and how time sweetly and slyly erases from the memory people who had meant everything and then some during the space of an encounter. I had a sense of things slipping away. And I didn’t want that to happen again.
Allan, I loved you, quite sincerely. We weren’t meant to be together for very long, but the universe was kind enough to bring us together twice, and to give us many moments of shared passion and intimacy.
I hope somewhere in your memory there’s a tiny space for me.
Showing posts with label allan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label allan. Show all posts
Monday, February 6, 2012
Friday, February 3, 2012
Allan, Part 2
(This entry is a continuation of the previous post, Allan, Part 1.)
I’d never known anyone to experience anal orgasms before I met Allan. I encountered the phenomenon not at the baths, when he’d be slamming his chute backward onto any stiff cock that appeared behind it, but alone, at his house.
Allan lived on a curious little edge of town, only a few steps from one of the busiest intersections in the city. It was listed, year after year, as one of the most dangerous cross-streets in the metropolitan area; even I’d witnessed, on my visits out there, cars careening heedlessly through red lights and out into the intersections, to meet onrushing traffic with the sound of squealing tires. The first time I drove out to visit Allan at home, I missed his house no less than three times. But there it was, beyond a major car repair facility and a discount jeweler—the tiniest of houses, tucked away on the tiniest of lots, behind a couple of parking lots and a car wash.
Allan had inherited the house from his late grandmother, who’d apparently wanted him to be able to get away from the family. It was his, free and clear; I remember being impressed that someone I knew had a mortgage-free home at such a young age. Back around the millennium, when we were first fucking, it was obvious he hadn’t cleared out any of his grandmother’s furniture. The living room was filled with fussy old sofas with faux-antique scrollwork, with filigreed plant stands and metal wall hangings straight out of a dentist’s office from the Eisenhower era.
We would fuck in the living room, either on a sofa over which he’d draped one of his grandmother’s afghans, or right there on the floor. We never went at it for anything less than hours, when I was there. No short pump-’n’-dumps for us. He would sit me on the floor with my back against the sofa’s seat, straddle me, and ride me for hours.
The fucks were epic. I’d hang onto his hips and just let him ride, up and down, forward and back, around and around. To a big extent I was nothing but a living dildo attached to some guy’s body, when I met Allan back in those days. He wasn’t interested in giving me pleasure. He was just after using my dick with his hole—and unlike the vast majority of guys who are only after that, I didn’t resent it with him. Mostly because I was getting a tremendous amount of satisfaction, as a side effect.
Once we fucked like that, like animals on the floor, for over two hours before I had my first orgasm. He, in the meantime, had enjoyed over a half-dozen. I never once saw Allan shoot a load, but he experienced what he described to me as anal orgasms.
I had no doubt that he was having them. I could see the effects. He’d be bouncing up and down on me and I’d hear his breathing quicken. His nipples would contract from flat, quarter-sized planes into points so sharp and hard they could have carved diamond. His head would tilt back. I’d watch in the low afternoon light filtering through the blinds as a red flush would travel from his face to his chest, and then down his sides to his hips. It was so plain and visible that it was as if someone had poured a tin of watercolors over his head. His hole would tighten around my meat, growing increasingly more insistent. Then he’d gasp. His soft cock would flop around as his body went into spasms. For a good thirty-seconds, he’d shake and quiver like a rag doll.
Then I’d hear him gulp, and try to bring moisture back into his mouth. He’d laugh quietly to himself. “No one else makes me come like that,” he’d say, every time. His ass would relax until it was soft and warm on my cock. His nipples would soften, and spread. The flush would recede, first from his lower regions, and then his chest, and finally his face, until once more his skin was as pale as fallen snow. He’d keep riding—he never stopped riding. But it would be more relaxed, and less frenzied and insistent.
For a long time, the sex with Allan was dreamy and hot, uncomplicated and sweet in its essence. Even thinking of it now, my dick grows stiff at the memory. No matter what the weather, fucking him was like sex on a hot summer’s day. Slow. Unhurried. Sweat would cascade from our bodies, but we didn’t give a fuck. No one was going to see us. I’d leave the house with crazy sex hair that I’d regret later, but I didn’t even notice it with him. His world when we fucked consisted solely of my dick and the sensations it created for him. My world was watching him, and his pretty face, and marveling at his rapture.
I didn’t know much about Allan. Every couple of Saturdays I’d spend at his little house, for close to a year before he told me anything personal about himself. It was as if he’d made the decision, decided to go through with it, and needed to do it. “I have to show you something,” he said one day. He took me by the hand and led me down the hallway. Allan’s house was small, I’ve mentioned. It had a living room, a tiny kitchen, a bathroom the size of a postage stamp, and two small bedrooms. I’d never seen the insides of the bedrooms. The doors were always closed; we always fucked on the living room floor.
When he opened the door to the master bedroom, I blinked a few times. There were dresses all over the room. For a moment I thought they were his grandmother’s, and that he’d still not gotten around to clearing out the memory of her. Really, though, the room looked like a touring company of Hello, Dolly! had exploded within. The dresses were not very grandmotherly, unless your grandmother happened to be a Las Vegas showgirl. But then he pulled me over to a vanity where makeup mirrors sat at three different angles, and picked up a framed photo of a very blond, very cruel-looking, very ponytailed-like-Madonna-in-Truth-or-Dare with Divine’s eye makeup drag queen.
“This is me,” he said shyly.
I was kind of stunned.
I’d gone through a phase in high school and college in which I was afraid to be seen with effeminate men. I’d dated a couple of perfectly nice guys in grad school whose only fault was that they had lilting voices and less-than-butch mannerisms. I used to wear a permanent blush of embarrassment with one guy in particular, a hairdresser who referred to other gay men as ‘she’ and used to poke me in public and say, “Girrrrrrl!”
He was something of a revelation for me. My embarrassment, I realized when I was with him, was my problem, not his. So I made myself go out with him just so I could get over it—and by and large, it worked.
By the time I knew Allan, I regarded drag queens as the fiercest and one of the most admirable portions of the gay population—out in front and taking a lot of the bullets for the rest of us. I didn’t know any personally, though. So when I realized what Allan was telling me, my jaw dropped. Then I grinned. “Oh my gosh,” I remember saying. “You are amazing.”
He was shy and pleased at that. I’d known him for a long time, but this was the first time he really ever told me anything about himself. He sat down at his mirror and showed me some of his wigs, and other photos, as he told me about he’d started doing drag in his teens. I’ve forgotten his drag name, unfortunately, but it was something sharp and clever.
And I remember standing there beside Allan that afternoon, watching him fiddle with all these accoutrements of femininity that I’d never associated with him before, and thinking that it felt exactly like living in a house for so long that one is familiar with every knot in the pine paneling and scrape on the wainscot, only find an entire unexplored secret room one never knew existed. It was fascinating, and sweet, and felt like a breath of fresh air in that fusty little bungalow.
In performance, his persona was just as assertive. I saw him exactly once, on a birthday of mine, at a club on the city’s east side. He worked his way through the crowd, reading people up and down. When he spied me, I thought I was in for some sharp-tongued remarks. Instead, Allan sat down on my lap, put one of his spangled arms around my neck, and proceeded to do most of the rest of his show facing the audience, but with his ass firmly seated on me. My friends thought it was hilarious that I’d attracted the exclusive attentions of a drag queen. I hadn’t told them I knew the man behind the woman.
Right before he left my lap for the night, Allan made the crowd laugh and applaud by planting an enormous kiss on my lips that left his lipstick smudged for the rest of the night. I loved him for that.
We never talked about his side career as a drag performer, while we fucked—any more than we talked about my job, or my life outside the home. But I was both touched and pleased that he’d let me in on that confidence. I got the impression he didn’t talk about it to many people.
I was really fond of Allan, in fact, but we ended up seeing each other for only two years, around the turn of the century. My biggest gripe with him was that he was a big pothead. When we’d fuck, it was always hot sex—but we were having it while he was constantly rolling a joint, smoking it, helping himself to a Chiclet, smoking a cigarette, then having another Chiclet, then rolling a joint. . . . He had the capacity to pleasure himself atop me, but he was never really there. That part was tiresome to me.
Sometime in our second year of fucking he started making drug deals at the house, through the mail slot. The boy who’d only climb off my dick when he’d gotten four or five loads from it suddenly was clambering off me and scampering to his front door in the nude. People would shove money through his mail slot and he’d slip them little dime bags of pot. When these transactions started happening, it was pretty much the last straw for me. Good as the sex was, I didn’t need to be caught up in some drug bust.
I simply ceased going over, and stopped calling.
I didn’t see Allan again. Not at the tubs, not at his home. From time to time I’d run across someone who knew him from the baths, but I thought about him less and less.
Until I ran across him again, almost eight years later.
(To be continued, and concluded, in another entry.)
I’d never known anyone to experience anal orgasms before I met Allan. I encountered the phenomenon not at the baths, when he’d be slamming his chute backward onto any stiff cock that appeared behind it, but alone, at his house.
Allan lived on a curious little edge of town, only a few steps from one of the busiest intersections in the city. It was listed, year after year, as one of the most dangerous cross-streets in the metropolitan area; even I’d witnessed, on my visits out there, cars careening heedlessly through red lights and out into the intersections, to meet onrushing traffic with the sound of squealing tires. The first time I drove out to visit Allan at home, I missed his house no less than three times. But there it was, beyond a major car repair facility and a discount jeweler—the tiniest of houses, tucked away on the tiniest of lots, behind a couple of parking lots and a car wash.
Allan had inherited the house from his late grandmother, who’d apparently wanted him to be able to get away from the family. It was his, free and clear; I remember being impressed that someone I knew had a mortgage-free home at such a young age. Back around the millennium, when we were first fucking, it was obvious he hadn’t cleared out any of his grandmother’s furniture. The living room was filled with fussy old sofas with faux-antique scrollwork, with filigreed plant stands and metal wall hangings straight out of a dentist’s office from the Eisenhower era.
We would fuck in the living room, either on a sofa over which he’d draped one of his grandmother’s afghans, or right there on the floor. We never went at it for anything less than hours, when I was there. No short pump-’n’-dumps for us. He would sit me on the floor with my back against the sofa’s seat, straddle me, and ride me for hours.
The fucks were epic. I’d hang onto his hips and just let him ride, up and down, forward and back, around and around. To a big extent I was nothing but a living dildo attached to some guy’s body, when I met Allan back in those days. He wasn’t interested in giving me pleasure. He was just after using my dick with his hole—and unlike the vast majority of guys who are only after that, I didn’t resent it with him. Mostly because I was getting a tremendous amount of satisfaction, as a side effect.
Once we fucked like that, like animals on the floor, for over two hours before I had my first orgasm. He, in the meantime, had enjoyed over a half-dozen. I never once saw Allan shoot a load, but he experienced what he described to me as anal orgasms.
I had no doubt that he was having them. I could see the effects. He’d be bouncing up and down on me and I’d hear his breathing quicken. His nipples would contract from flat, quarter-sized planes into points so sharp and hard they could have carved diamond. His head would tilt back. I’d watch in the low afternoon light filtering through the blinds as a red flush would travel from his face to his chest, and then down his sides to his hips. It was so plain and visible that it was as if someone had poured a tin of watercolors over his head. His hole would tighten around my meat, growing increasingly more insistent. Then he’d gasp. His soft cock would flop around as his body went into spasms. For a good thirty-seconds, he’d shake and quiver like a rag doll.
Then I’d hear him gulp, and try to bring moisture back into his mouth. He’d laugh quietly to himself. “No one else makes me come like that,” he’d say, every time. His ass would relax until it was soft and warm on my cock. His nipples would soften, and spread. The flush would recede, first from his lower regions, and then his chest, and finally his face, until once more his skin was as pale as fallen snow. He’d keep riding—he never stopped riding. But it would be more relaxed, and less frenzied and insistent.
For a long time, the sex with Allan was dreamy and hot, uncomplicated and sweet in its essence. Even thinking of it now, my dick grows stiff at the memory. No matter what the weather, fucking him was like sex on a hot summer’s day. Slow. Unhurried. Sweat would cascade from our bodies, but we didn’t give a fuck. No one was going to see us. I’d leave the house with crazy sex hair that I’d regret later, but I didn’t even notice it with him. His world when we fucked consisted solely of my dick and the sensations it created for him. My world was watching him, and his pretty face, and marveling at his rapture.
I didn’t know much about Allan. Every couple of Saturdays I’d spend at his little house, for close to a year before he told me anything personal about himself. It was as if he’d made the decision, decided to go through with it, and needed to do it. “I have to show you something,” he said one day. He took me by the hand and led me down the hallway. Allan’s house was small, I’ve mentioned. It had a living room, a tiny kitchen, a bathroom the size of a postage stamp, and two small bedrooms. I’d never seen the insides of the bedrooms. The doors were always closed; we always fucked on the living room floor.
When he opened the door to the master bedroom, I blinked a few times. There were dresses all over the room. For a moment I thought they were his grandmother’s, and that he’d still not gotten around to clearing out the memory of her. Really, though, the room looked like a touring company of Hello, Dolly! had exploded within. The dresses were not very grandmotherly, unless your grandmother happened to be a Las Vegas showgirl. But then he pulled me over to a vanity where makeup mirrors sat at three different angles, and picked up a framed photo of a very blond, very cruel-looking, very ponytailed-like-Madonna-in-Truth-or-Dare with Divine’s eye makeup drag queen.
“This is me,” he said shyly.
I was kind of stunned.
I’d gone through a phase in high school and college in which I was afraid to be seen with effeminate men. I’d dated a couple of perfectly nice guys in grad school whose only fault was that they had lilting voices and less-than-butch mannerisms. I used to wear a permanent blush of embarrassment with one guy in particular, a hairdresser who referred to other gay men as ‘she’ and used to poke me in public and say, “Girrrrrrl!”
He was something of a revelation for me. My embarrassment, I realized when I was with him, was my problem, not his. So I made myself go out with him just so I could get over it—and by and large, it worked.
By the time I knew Allan, I regarded drag queens as the fiercest and one of the most admirable portions of the gay population—out in front and taking a lot of the bullets for the rest of us. I didn’t know any personally, though. So when I realized what Allan was telling me, my jaw dropped. Then I grinned. “Oh my gosh,” I remember saying. “You are amazing.”
He was shy and pleased at that. I’d known him for a long time, but this was the first time he really ever told me anything about himself. He sat down at his mirror and showed me some of his wigs, and other photos, as he told me about he’d started doing drag in his teens. I’ve forgotten his drag name, unfortunately, but it was something sharp and clever.
And I remember standing there beside Allan that afternoon, watching him fiddle with all these accoutrements of femininity that I’d never associated with him before, and thinking that it felt exactly like living in a house for so long that one is familiar with every knot in the pine paneling and scrape on the wainscot, only find an entire unexplored secret room one never knew existed. It was fascinating, and sweet, and felt like a breath of fresh air in that fusty little bungalow.
In performance, his persona was just as assertive. I saw him exactly once, on a birthday of mine, at a club on the city’s east side. He worked his way through the crowd, reading people up and down. When he spied me, I thought I was in for some sharp-tongued remarks. Instead, Allan sat down on my lap, put one of his spangled arms around my neck, and proceeded to do most of the rest of his show facing the audience, but with his ass firmly seated on me. My friends thought it was hilarious that I’d attracted the exclusive attentions of a drag queen. I hadn’t told them I knew the man behind the woman.
Right before he left my lap for the night, Allan made the crowd laugh and applaud by planting an enormous kiss on my lips that left his lipstick smudged for the rest of the night. I loved him for that.
We never talked about his side career as a drag performer, while we fucked—any more than we talked about my job, or my life outside the home. But I was both touched and pleased that he’d let me in on that confidence. I got the impression he didn’t talk about it to many people.
I was really fond of Allan, in fact, but we ended up seeing each other for only two years, around the turn of the century. My biggest gripe with him was that he was a big pothead. When we’d fuck, it was always hot sex—but we were having it while he was constantly rolling a joint, smoking it, helping himself to a Chiclet, smoking a cigarette, then having another Chiclet, then rolling a joint. . . . He had the capacity to pleasure himself atop me, but he was never really there. That part was tiresome to me.
Sometime in our second year of fucking he started making drug deals at the house, through the mail slot. The boy who’d only climb off my dick when he’d gotten four or five loads from it suddenly was clambering off me and scampering to his front door in the nude. People would shove money through his mail slot and he’d slip them little dime bags of pot. When these transactions started happening, it was pretty much the last straw for me. Good as the sex was, I didn’t need to be caught up in some drug bust.
I simply ceased going over, and stopped calling.
I didn’t see Allan again. Not at the tubs, not at his home. From time to time I’d run across someone who knew him from the baths, but I thought about him less and less.
Until I ran across him again, almost eight years later.
(To be continued, and concluded, in another entry.)
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Allan, Part 1
I tuned into RuPaul’s Drag Race, Monday night, with great anticipation. It’s simultaneously one of the sharpest and silliest programs on television, and I’ve loved it since the first season. My favorite of all the seasons was its third, though, and that’s because it’s the season I watched with Spencer.
When I was on my own for all those months and Spencer had basically taken up residence in my bed, refrigerator, and house, Drag Race night was the evening we most looked forward to. We’d make dinner, make love, and then cuddle up on the sofa to watch our favorite show. During the commercial breaks we’d argue about our favorites (we both loved Raja), and hiss at the villains (Mimi Imfurst!), and pick out our drag names (his would change every week, but mine has always been and will always be Pansy Potts, because I saw them advertised at a garden store once and said, "That would be my perfect drag name.").
Last night I turned on the show, was excited for about the first three minutes, and then I was so overcome with longing for Spencer and those long winter nights that I developed an enormous lump in my throat and had to excuse myself from the room for a few minutes in order to compose myself.
But Drag Race reminds me not only of Spencer, but of another lost boy, Allan, whom I knew many years ago, and with whom by chance I reconnected again years later. It’s Allan that I’d like to talk about in the next couple of entries.
In the Detroit area there were two bathhouses I’d visit. One was newer, but because it had been put into an old auto body shop, it was grungier and grittier. The steam room was large and capacious, but the private rooms seemed like an afterthought, the carpets were always frayed and dirty, and in a good rain, the entire place became wet and marshy underfoot. There was a hot tub, but it always gave the impression of being a bacterial stew . . . when it was working. The staff cleaned the place in a perfunctory manner if at all. On the other hand, it was close to the freeway, it attracted an infinitely more sizable crowd, and the guys generally tended to skew younger.
The other bathhouse was in a much older building. It had taken over a Jewish health club and had a really solid, good facility—an Olympic-sized pool, a tiled in-ground hot tub, a screened outdoor nude tanning deck, massage rooms, a dry sauna in addition to the steam room, and two comfortable-ish movie rooms. Despite its age, and despite the fact that it attracted an older and sparser crowd, I actually liked this facility better for many years. The men were friendlier, the sex was wilder, and the place was infinitely cleaner than its rival. I sponsored many a member there.
In the mid-2000s, though, the club’s owner got into the habit of commandeering the public address system for fifteen minutes to a half-hour at a time so that he could go on what sounded like meth-fueled rants about the local gay and lesbian organizations and how they were full of Nazis and assholes. And the last thing one really needs when one’s trying to sink one’s dick into a hot young buck is some addled, slurring idiot shouting obscenities into a microphone at the top of his voice. You know?
The final straw for me with the older bathhouse was one afternoon when I’d spent several hours there. I’d turned in my bedclothes, checked out my key, and gotten back my lifetime membership card. The clerk had buzzed me out the door, and I’d exited into the foyer. I was heading to the door out and, because my breath needed a minty boost, I’d withdrawn from the back pocket of my jeans a stick of Orbit gum.
Well. I hadn't unwrapped it. I wasn't going to put it into my mouth until I'd reached my car. But you’d have thought that instead of an inch-long sugar-free mojito-flavored chewing gum, I’d pulled out a loaded gun. The clerk and owner started screaming at me at the top of their lungs, through the bullet-proof plexiglass through which one had to check in. Gum was forbidden on the premises! What did I think they were, made out of money? What was my name again? They were going to take my membership and put a black mark on it! No! I was going to come right back in and they were going to give me a scraper and I was going to have to scrape every seat in the movie theater, bed in the rooms, and gum mark off the floor, right then and there!
They were serious. I stared at them in amazement, said, “Fuck you,” and walked out. I never ever went back. I told everyone I knew who was thinking of joining to keep away. (And I recommend you do the same.)
When I first joined that particular bathhouse, it was a few years after it had been more or less gutted in a fire. A cigarette left burning in one of the rooms had cleared out three-quarters of the bathhouse, so that it had no private changing rooms (they’re euphemistically called)—only a vast, dark, warehouse-like area hung with drapes. During the years before the rooms were rebuilt, the big empty space was called ‘tent city’ because the owner had put down a couple of dozen pup tents on the floor for men to fuck in.
I loved the arrangement better than the private rooms that later supplanted them, to be honest. No one could really vanish into a room with a locked door, in that arrangement. All the sex was public, or at least semi-; you could hear everything through the thin material of the pup tents, listen to entire conversations, hear every grunt and thrust and slickness. There was always a chance that you’d be leading a man into a pup tent and get down on your knees and crawl in, only to find some fucker already waiting inside with his legs up, or another couple screwing. Sometimes they’d invite you to stay, anyway.
I met Allan in one of the tents. He was one of those sluts who would spend an entire afternoon on his back on those cement floors, legs in the air, taking dick after dick. We fucked once and enjoyed each other. I recognized him another day by the taste of his kisses—he was addicted to a certain strong mint, between fucks—and the glowing red tip of his cigarette in the dark. I always sought him out after that.
When I first met him right around the century mark, Allan was no more than twenty-five. He was tall, and lean, blue-eyed, and had the blondest natural shock of hair. He was so fair-skinned that as he got fucked, a flush would form first over his face and then would spread down his neck and chest, until all those areas were a bright red. And he had a much-used ass with a natural rosebud from so much fucking.
One of the reasons I liked Allan so much was that he was up for anything. I could take him to one of the public areas and fuck him while men watched, and he’d put on as much of a show as I. He’d arch his back, and groan, and make it look as if I was giving him the fuck of his life. When I was in him, his eyes would be half-closed, but they’d be fully-focused on my own. He’d kiss me passionately, and ride my dick for as long as I cared to give it to him. He’d never get enough.
After a few encounters, he made it clear that I was his special territory. He’d fight off other, lesser bottoms to get to my cock, then work hard to keep my attention focused on him. I’d shoot a load in him, then he’d squat over one of the floor mats, squirt it out of his ass, and lick it up—all for my voyeuristic pleasure. Then, while I’d lean back against the wall and relax, he’d pick another man out of the crowd, put his ass into the air, and take the anonymous fuck while I watched. The minute the guy had dumped a load inside him, Allan would scramble off him, crawl to me, and then slide his cum-filled chute down and over my dick, so I could fuck him in the stranger’s load.
He worked as a waiter nights, I knew, so the only time I saw Allan at the baths was during the day. Every time I saw him, he’d collect loads for me to fuck in. Then when I told him I’d have to be going soon, he’d give me the most determined, aggressive sex I’d had to that point. His hole was on my dick, but from the way he went at it—straddling me, grinding at me and snatching my dick with his cunt, his jaw jutted out and a snarl on his face until he got the load he needed from me—it was more as if he was fucking me than the reverse.
I loved sex with Allan. So when he suggested we save our money and just start fucking at his place, I didn’t hesitate. Hell yes, I wanted to see him. And for a good year, I did.
(To be continued.)
When I was on my own for all those months and Spencer had basically taken up residence in my bed, refrigerator, and house, Drag Race night was the evening we most looked forward to. We’d make dinner, make love, and then cuddle up on the sofa to watch our favorite show. During the commercial breaks we’d argue about our favorites (we both loved Raja), and hiss at the villains (Mimi Imfurst!), and pick out our drag names (his would change every week, but mine has always been and will always be Pansy Potts, because I saw them advertised at a garden store once and said, "That would be my perfect drag name.").
Last night I turned on the show, was excited for about the first three minutes, and then I was so overcome with longing for Spencer and those long winter nights that I developed an enormous lump in my throat and had to excuse myself from the room for a few minutes in order to compose myself.
But Drag Race reminds me not only of Spencer, but of another lost boy, Allan, whom I knew many years ago, and with whom by chance I reconnected again years later. It’s Allan that I’d like to talk about in the next couple of entries.
In the Detroit area there were two bathhouses I’d visit. One was newer, but because it had been put into an old auto body shop, it was grungier and grittier. The steam room was large and capacious, but the private rooms seemed like an afterthought, the carpets were always frayed and dirty, and in a good rain, the entire place became wet and marshy underfoot. There was a hot tub, but it always gave the impression of being a bacterial stew . . . when it was working. The staff cleaned the place in a perfunctory manner if at all. On the other hand, it was close to the freeway, it attracted an infinitely more sizable crowd, and the guys generally tended to skew younger.
The other bathhouse was in a much older building. It had taken over a Jewish health club and had a really solid, good facility—an Olympic-sized pool, a tiled in-ground hot tub, a screened outdoor nude tanning deck, massage rooms, a dry sauna in addition to the steam room, and two comfortable-ish movie rooms. Despite its age, and despite the fact that it attracted an older and sparser crowd, I actually liked this facility better for many years. The men were friendlier, the sex was wilder, and the place was infinitely cleaner than its rival. I sponsored many a member there.
In the mid-2000s, though, the club’s owner got into the habit of commandeering the public address system for fifteen minutes to a half-hour at a time so that he could go on what sounded like meth-fueled rants about the local gay and lesbian organizations and how they were full of Nazis and assholes. And the last thing one really needs when one’s trying to sink one’s dick into a hot young buck is some addled, slurring idiot shouting obscenities into a microphone at the top of his voice. You know?
The final straw for me with the older bathhouse was one afternoon when I’d spent several hours there. I’d turned in my bedclothes, checked out my key, and gotten back my lifetime membership card. The clerk had buzzed me out the door, and I’d exited into the foyer. I was heading to the door out and, because my breath needed a minty boost, I’d withdrawn from the back pocket of my jeans a stick of Orbit gum.
Well. I hadn't unwrapped it. I wasn't going to put it into my mouth until I'd reached my car. But you’d have thought that instead of an inch-long sugar-free mojito-flavored chewing gum, I’d pulled out a loaded gun. The clerk and owner started screaming at me at the top of their lungs, through the bullet-proof plexiglass through which one had to check in. Gum was forbidden on the premises! What did I think they were, made out of money? What was my name again? They were going to take my membership and put a black mark on it! No! I was going to come right back in and they were going to give me a scraper and I was going to have to scrape every seat in the movie theater, bed in the rooms, and gum mark off the floor, right then and there!
They were serious. I stared at them in amazement, said, “Fuck you,” and walked out. I never ever went back. I told everyone I knew who was thinking of joining to keep away. (And I recommend you do the same.)
When I first joined that particular bathhouse, it was a few years after it had been more or less gutted in a fire. A cigarette left burning in one of the rooms had cleared out three-quarters of the bathhouse, so that it had no private changing rooms (they’re euphemistically called)—only a vast, dark, warehouse-like area hung with drapes. During the years before the rooms were rebuilt, the big empty space was called ‘tent city’ because the owner had put down a couple of dozen pup tents on the floor for men to fuck in.
I loved the arrangement better than the private rooms that later supplanted them, to be honest. No one could really vanish into a room with a locked door, in that arrangement. All the sex was public, or at least semi-; you could hear everything through the thin material of the pup tents, listen to entire conversations, hear every grunt and thrust and slickness. There was always a chance that you’d be leading a man into a pup tent and get down on your knees and crawl in, only to find some fucker already waiting inside with his legs up, or another couple screwing. Sometimes they’d invite you to stay, anyway.
I met Allan in one of the tents. He was one of those sluts who would spend an entire afternoon on his back on those cement floors, legs in the air, taking dick after dick. We fucked once and enjoyed each other. I recognized him another day by the taste of his kisses—he was addicted to a certain strong mint, between fucks—and the glowing red tip of his cigarette in the dark. I always sought him out after that.
When I first met him right around the century mark, Allan was no more than twenty-five. He was tall, and lean, blue-eyed, and had the blondest natural shock of hair. He was so fair-skinned that as he got fucked, a flush would form first over his face and then would spread down his neck and chest, until all those areas were a bright red. And he had a much-used ass with a natural rosebud from so much fucking.
One of the reasons I liked Allan so much was that he was up for anything. I could take him to one of the public areas and fuck him while men watched, and he’d put on as much of a show as I. He’d arch his back, and groan, and make it look as if I was giving him the fuck of his life. When I was in him, his eyes would be half-closed, but they’d be fully-focused on my own. He’d kiss me passionately, and ride my dick for as long as I cared to give it to him. He’d never get enough.
After a few encounters, he made it clear that I was his special territory. He’d fight off other, lesser bottoms to get to my cock, then work hard to keep my attention focused on him. I’d shoot a load in him, then he’d squat over one of the floor mats, squirt it out of his ass, and lick it up—all for my voyeuristic pleasure. Then, while I’d lean back against the wall and relax, he’d pick another man out of the crowd, put his ass into the air, and take the anonymous fuck while I watched. The minute the guy had dumped a load inside him, Allan would scramble off him, crawl to me, and then slide his cum-filled chute down and over my dick, so I could fuck him in the stranger’s load.
He worked as a waiter nights, I knew, so the only time I saw Allan at the baths was during the day. Every time I saw him, he’d collect loads for me to fuck in. Then when I told him I’d have to be going soon, he’d give me the most determined, aggressive sex I’d had to that point. His hole was on my dick, but from the way he went at it—straddling me, grinding at me and snatching my dick with his cunt, his jaw jutted out and a snarl on his face until he got the load he needed from me—it was more as if he was fucking me than the reverse.
I loved sex with Allan. So when he suggested we save our money and just start fucking at his place, I didn’t hesitate. Hell yes, I wanted to see him. And for a good year, I did.
(To be continued.)
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