The week I vacation in Provincetown is one of transition. When I arrive, the boys flocking to the daily Tea Dance are the twinks, the party boys, the thin little things with curly locks and tight clothes and disdain for anything much beyond the tips of their pretty little turned-up noses and their designer drinks. The Saturday I leave, however, is the official start of Bear Week. Thursday is really when the town’s population starts to get heavier. Furrier. The tight Capri pants give way to bulky cargo shorts, the dainty flip-flops to athletic socks and combat boots. By week’s end there are fewer smooth pecs and a lot of hairy expanses of chest. More nipple rings. More tattoos. More testosterone.
Under the dock on my last night, I can already tell the difference by who’s cruising. The silhouettes against the lit beach are broad-shouldered, taller, stockier. I’m seeing fewer chins and a lot more beards.
But there are a few hold-ons among the twinks. One of them starts following immediately when I reach the bottom of the steps down to the sand and turn the sharp corner to duck under the dock above. It’s almost as if he’s waiting for me. Our eyes meet. I take in his slightly scruffy chin, the blond hair, his open dress shirt, the moonlike luminescence of his pale chest. He nods, ever so slightly, then simply falls into step with me. We pass a half-dozen men lurking the shadows, slouched against the pillars supporting the wood planks above. The sand sides through my sandals and cools my toes as we shuffle through it to a quiet place past the clusters of men huddled together. I lean back against a girder, and turn to him.
He stares me in the eyes. I feel his palm cup my shorts. They’re soccer shorts, made of a synthetic material. I’ve worn them around town all day with no underwear beneath. Nothing but a cock ring, to show off the bounce of my package and the outline of my head beneath the sleazy fabric. He seems surprised at the warmth of me. I feel his fingers travel the length of my hardening meat, then the release of elastic as he pulls the shorts away from my hips and down to my knees.
“Yes,” I sigh into the night. The kid grasps my cock firmly in one hand. The other he curls around the back of my neck, pulling me into a kiss. He’s a good kisser, this one. Young, eager, and hungry for attention. Our lips wrestle for dominance; he seems determined to prove to me how good a kisser he is, however, so I let him take control as he sucks my tongue deep into the recesses of his mouth.
Finally he pulls away. Our eyes lock once more. The kid must be something spectacular in the light. Pity I’ll never see him again. One by one, he takes my nipples into his mouth, suckling at them until they’re tingling with blood and desire. Then he drops to his knees.
I hear him unzip his own slacks. I can see a flash of white briefs before he yanks them beneath his balls. The white dress shirt he’s wearing falls from his shoulders and dangles halfway down his back, suspended where the sleeves are folded at his elbows. Is he a waiter just off work, I wonder? He needed cock so badly that he couldn’t wait to change out of the clean formal shirt and dark slacks and good shoes? It’s a moot question. He pushes me firmly back against the wood and steel and wraps those soft lips of his around my cock.
He’s eager to prove himself here, too. I can tell by the way he looks up at me that he’s begging for my encouragement and praise. I run my hands through his sandy blond hair and let it ruffle between my fingers, and nod. He closes his eyes in gratitude and deep-throats the rod before him for long moments before looking up at me again to measure my enjoyment. He doesn’t need to look. He should be able to tell by the sounds I’m making, the guttural Christs! and the growled Good boys!
My grunts are attracting a crowd, yet again. They’re keeping their distance for now, which I appreciate. I want this boy to myself for a while. I can see his fist furiously beating up and down at his waist. A second later, I hear him breathing heavily and choking, as if my dick’s too much for him.
Then he’s up on his feet, scrambling to wipe the sand from his knees and shins.
“Suck me,” I urge.
“I just came. Sorry,” he says, zipping up. He does a half-assed job of trying to yank his dress shirt up and over his shoulders again. “You’ve got a great cock, though.”
“You’re through?” I ask, a little astonished. The kid hadn’t been sucking for more than a couple of minutes.
“I’m done,” he says, loudly enough for the crowd around him to hear. “Sorry, dude.”
There’s been a large bear standing in the little group around me. The second he hears the kid make his apology, he elbows him out of the way. No—he basically tackles the kid to the ground to take his place.
It’s almost cartoon-like in execution. A few years ago, I took one of my cats out into the back garden of my old house. She saw a squirrel that had climbed to the top of the wooden fence that surrounded the yard. The cat took off running, launched herself five feet into the air, and body-slammed the squirrel so thoroughly with one shoulder that both animals fell down to the ground. The fence shuddered from the impact. The squirrel was unharmed, but stunned; the cat had knocked the wind out of herself and seemed a little surprised to have connected with her target. Eventually the animals slunk their separate ways with an unspoken agreement not to mention the incident again.
That backyard encounter is what this reminds me of; the kid goes sprawling into the beach with an audible Oof! while the bear’s knees hit the dirt and send up a spray of sand I can feel on the underside of my balls. The bear’s huge. He’s so tall he couldn’t stand up straight underneath the dock, and broad as a linebacker.
“This cock is mine,” he announces in a deep bass.
Nobody contradicts the guy, least of all me. Even if I hadn’t been turned on, I would’ve been afraid to. The kid who’d been sucking me picked himself up and dusted himself off as he vanished toward the light and the street. Meanwhile, I can feel the new mouth kissing my balls and the shaft of my dick.
“Fucking beautiful,” the bear announces. He’s not shy, this one. “Mine.” He sounds proud of himself, like a five-year-old bully who’s claimed the prize toy on the playground.
“So get to work,” I tell him.
Instead of obeying immediately, there’s a long pause. I’m not sure what he’s doing at first, but then I hear wetness, followed by what sounds like his teeth clacking together. Combined, the auditory input leads me to only one inevitable conclusion. Oh Christ, I think to myself. He’s taking his dentures out.
For years now I’ve had guys offer me gum jobs, as they call them. They’ve always promised me they’re the ultimate in pleasure, but somehow I’ve never been enticed enough to give them a try. I’m kind of a captive audience now, though, and what the hell. It’s my last night in town. Why the fuck not?
I’m almost dreading what it’s going to feel like when I feel his mouth clamp down around me. But you know what? It’s not that bad. After a minute or so of him slowly sucking up and down my shaft, I can’t really even tell the difference between the gum job and a regular blow job. Which makes sense, really; most guys don’t use their teeth on my cock, anyway. (The ones who do get sent home immediately.) The best wrap their lips around their incisors. The sensation between a pair of gums and a pair of lip-wrapped teeth isn’t all that dissimilar. So after a very short period I forget it’s a gum job at all, and relax into it.
The bear is a better cocksucker than the boy had been. No contest. The boy might’ve been hungry and eager, but the bear just knows what the fuck to do. He’s stroking the sides of my nuts, tickling my hole with his knuckle, going deep and then dragging his lips up the shaft to make his mouth into a warm and sloppy pussy for my cock. “I want that load,” he announces loudly, the words made indistinct by the wet inches and the lack of his dentures. “You’re gonna give me that load.”
“Yeah,” I moan, pushing down at my hips so he can suck as much of me as possible. “I’m gonna give you my load.”
It doesn’t take long. It’s one of those lengthy, gradual orgasms that seems to begin as a humming, crescendos into a chorus, and ends with my body shrieking its own wild aria. I bang my head against the steel girder behind it, but I don’t care. With so much pleasure, I’m not going to feel the hurt.
The bear swallows every drop of it, then nurses my dick to get the remnants. “Now that’s how you suck cock,” I announce.
He’s fishing into his pocket again, under cover of the night. It’s a moment before he can say, “Fucking A, dude.”
I pull up my shorts. They barely restrain my still-hard cock, but it’ll be a minute or two before I’m back on the street at the public sees me. It’ll subside.
Twink week to bear week. I feel like I’ve had it all in the course of a single blow job. At least I’m ending the vacation on a good note . . . with my first gum job, to boot.
Showing posts with label bears. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bears. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 4, 2015
Sunday, July 28, 2013
Sunday Morning Questions: Bear Week Aftermath Edition
My recent sojourn to Cape Cod didn’t coincide with Bear Week in Provincetown . . . though we overlapped a little. The last couple of days of my beach resort town vacation, mixed in among the tourist families and the twinkish gay boys with a weekly rental to their names were men of a decidedly more hefty and hirsute sort. By the time I left on Saturday morning, the patio of Joe’s Coffee on Commercial Street was overflowing with bearded men whose chest hair was bursting out of their XXL tank tops.
And I certainly heard about Bear Week, the entire time I was there. You should see this place during Bear Week!, every merchant told me, with a knowing shake of the head. They would whip up visions of streets packed from side to side by partying bears, and of two-hour waits at the more popular restaurants, and of entire supermarkets gutted of everything, even health food, after swarms of hairy men descended upon them like ravenous vacationing locusts.
I’m not crazy about crowds, personally, so getting out before all that happened was fine with me. Also, why attend Bear Week when it was all I heard about from my real-life friends when it happened?
Not to mention the delicious and nearly constant stream of drama I get to witness on social media, afterward. The big saga I got to witness this year involved a very active and body-conscious muscle bear and his circle of friends blocking and defriending anyone who dared to suggest that Bear Week in Provincetown can be clique-ish and exclusionary. Not in MY experience, they sniffed as they clicked on the delete buttons, and then proceeded to gripe about the offenders in their various social media feeds. “Tedious insecure people!” said one of them. “Extreme introverts!” said another. “Obviously they have body insecurities that border on mental illness,” said another, dismissively.
Now, if you think about it, a bunch of similar people of the same social circles blocking others and then agreeing among themselves they were right to do so is pretty much the dictionary definition of being clique-ish and exclusionary. Somehow the irony is escaping them, however. I’ve commented several times that for a group that had its roots in pushing for an acceptance of more body types, ages, and types of masculinity than were popular in gay iconography twenty-five to thirty-five years ago, its self-identifying members can sometimes be even more clannish and restrictive than twinks and circuit boys. The extreme intolerance of dissent within their own ranks that I sometimes witness just kind of reinforces that.
And what is achieved, exactly, by vilifying those who dare to express an opinion they don’t wish to hear? Does feeling excluded automatically make someone an extreme introvert or someone with borderline mental illness? Can’t someone simply be disgruntled—and maybe even somewhat right to feel so—without being classified under some DSM-5 diagnosis?
There are people out there, certainly, who hang back and don’t make an effort, then crab about it afterward. There are many people who achieve self-fulfilling prophecy by telling themselves (or others) repeatedly that they’re going to have a miserable time at a social event, that no one is going to like them or look at them, and who then give off such a negative vibe that everyone stays clear. The person in question gets the easy vindication of being right, but at the cost of making himself (and everyone else) pretty miserable.
In big gatherings there are often a number of very closed-off, cliquey bears. (There are also cliquey muscle boys, and cliquey twinks, and cliquey nudists, and cliquey orgy hounds. Just depends on the group.) There are also a number of people who are so insecure that they refuse to have anything other than a terrible time. When the latter set up a hue and cry after an event, they’re pooping on the good times everyone else had—and it’s understandable to feel confused or even hostile about it. When the former badmouth and block anyone who dares dissent, though, it not only feeds into the negativity, but reinforces it.
Your experience is not everyone else’s. Your good time is not everyone’s good time, nor is your week of feeling lonely and miserable what everyone else shared. Talk about your experience, certainly. Share it. But do so thoughtfully, and without painting everyone else to be the bad guy. Do it in a way that encourages communication—not shuts it down entirely.
But enough about Bear Week. Let’s get to some questions from my readers. Feel free to ask me yours either via email (there’s an address in the sidebar on my blog), or via formspring.me.
Do you find when composing your blog that the language just flows and it is perfect as written? Or do you find yourself going back and recomposing whole sentences and paragraphs?
I don’t spend a whole ton of time on my journal entries. Although I do take my entries from my personal journal and post them publicly, they are at heart written for my eyes. I have a busy enough life that spending hours and hours on a blog post doesn’t seem like a great investment of time.
So mostly my journal stuff tends to be what I would think of as first draft material. There have been a couple of occasions in which I’ve taken old journal entries and repurposed them as essays; in those cases I’ve had to do some considerable revision.
My general rule of thumb is that I don’t like spending more than an hour writing an entry. Certainly the writing shouldn’t take any longer than the actual sex acts described therein. Since I do a chunk of the writing work in my head beforehand, generally I can stick to this goal. I’ll take a considerable amount of time deciding what approach I want to take to a piece, what the focus should be, and how narrow I intend to keep the aperture of my mental camera (I don’t know how to describe it in any other way), so that when I sit down to write, I know what I want to do.
Adding to the last question—as your write do you discover things about yourself—that is, coming to realizations that you were not fully conscious of?
Absolutely. This is why I keep a journal.
I’ve always joked that journal-keeping is a lot cheaper than therapy would be. Since I know a lot of people who have seen therapists—and I know a lot of therapists, too—I know that I’m not far from the truth. Sitting down on a consistent basis and attempting to face truths about my behavior is exactly what I would want to achieve through therapy. I simply choose to do it through writing instead.
I don’t always come to an epiphany every time I sit down to write. Sometimes I learn things about myself only over the long course of time, or when I examine old entries about similar topics, or individual lovers. As I learn to see the patterns of my life, though, I get more insight into what makes me tick. If I seek change, knowing myself makes it easier.
What I do know is that as I live my life, I leave behind a trail of words. They don’t describe me in uniformly glowing terms, or as some idealized version of myself. If I wanted to be a role model, or leave the impression that I was a better and nobler person than I actually am, I wouldn’t dwell so much on my failures, or my insecurities, or be so frank about my sex life. What those words do is paint a picture of who I’ve been and who I am now, warts and erections and all. Because of my 35-year habit of keeping a journal, I’m not ashamed of that person in the least.
Manual or electric toothbrush?
I couldn't live without my Sonic toothbrush. That thing disintegrates plaque on contact and leaves my gums feeling like they've been massaged by a thousand tiny fingers.
Given the ratio of fakes and flakes on hook-up sites, do you have recommendations or a recommended strategy for bottoms seeking to get laid?
First of all, I have to concede that I'm not usually advertising on hook-up sites as a bottom. A real and successful bottom might be a better person to ask.
There are legions of bottoms on Manhunt and Gaydar and other hook-up sites, however, and they're all competing for a limited number of tops. A bottom needs to stand out in several ways.
At bare minimum, I ask that the bottom:
--Respect my privacy
--Refrain from being a psycho stalker
--Refrain from behaving as if he's entitled to my dick, and
--Not be a pest.
If you can convey your sanity in both your profile and your subsequent communications with the top you want, then he really should respond politely.
But you still have to stand out as a likely prospect, which to me (other tops might have other standards!) means conveying:
--A genuine desire to meet
--A means to make a meeting happen, sooner rather than later
--The promise of a rinsed-out hole
--That you're someone who'll be focused on my cock first, and his own orgasm second, and
--That you're someone who will not allow substances to interfere with the sex.
Then and only then do tops look for the most personal things they want from a bottom. These are even more highly individual traits. For me, they include:
--A hunger for sperm, especially mine
--Guys who share my enjoyment of sub/dom, dad/son, and non-vanilla play
--A great kisser, and
--A very tactile approach to lovemaking.
But that's just me. Other tops are going to have other specific interests.
You've got a limited amount of time to impress a top. The more quickly you can communicate your stability, genuine interest, and specific ways that you suit an individual top's needs, the more likely you are to get his cock. Typing " 'Sup?' " or "Looking?" isn't going to do it.
A couple of other things: With so many bottoms showing ass photos online, no top wants to have to beg and plead to see your photos. If they're locked, unlock them up front. If you don't have them posted in your profile, for the love of god post them—or offer in your initial note to send them through email. And please don’t lock them again immediately. Chances are you’re not running for Congress. You can leave them open for the top to peruse at his leisure.
Show yourself to your best advantage in your profile, your photos, and in your interaction with the top. Make him feel as if he's the one top who can satisfy your needs—definitely don't act as if he's a dildo attached to a pair of hips. Don't make outrageous claims you can't back up. And keep hunting, even when you've been rejected a few times.
And I certainly heard about Bear Week, the entire time I was there. You should see this place during Bear Week!, every merchant told me, with a knowing shake of the head. They would whip up visions of streets packed from side to side by partying bears, and of two-hour waits at the more popular restaurants, and of entire supermarkets gutted of everything, even health food, after swarms of hairy men descended upon them like ravenous vacationing locusts.
I’m not crazy about crowds, personally, so getting out before all that happened was fine with me. Also, why attend Bear Week when it was all I heard about from my real-life friends when it happened?
Not to mention the delicious and nearly constant stream of drama I get to witness on social media, afterward. The big saga I got to witness this year involved a very active and body-conscious muscle bear and his circle of friends blocking and defriending anyone who dared to suggest that Bear Week in Provincetown can be clique-ish and exclusionary. Not in MY experience, they sniffed as they clicked on the delete buttons, and then proceeded to gripe about the offenders in their various social media feeds. “Tedious insecure people!” said one of them. “Extreme introverts!” said another. “Obviously they have body insecurities that border on mental illness,” said another, dismissively.
Now, if you think about it, a bunch of similar people of the same social circles blocking others and then agreeing among themselves they were right to do so is pretty much the dictionary definition of being clique-ish and exclusionary. Somehow the irony is escaping them, however. I’ve commented several times that for a group that had its roots in pushing for an acceptance of more body types, ages, and types of masculinity than were popular in gay iconography twenty-five to thirty-five years ago, its self-identifying members can sometimes be even more clannish and restrictive than twinks and circuit boys. The extreme intolerance of dissent within their own ranks that I sometimes witness just kind of reinforces that.
And what is achieved, exactly, by vilifying those who dare to express an opinion they don’t wish to hear? Does feeling excluded automatically make someone an extreme introvert or someone with borderline mental illness? Can’t someone simply be disgruntled—and maybe even somewhat right to feel so—without being classified under some DSM-5 diagnosis?
There are people out there, certainly, who hang back and don’t make an effort, then crab about it afterward. There are many people who achieve self-fulfilling prophecy by telling themselves (or others) repeatedly that they’re going to have a miserable time at a social event, that no one is going to like them or look at them, and who then give off such a negative vibe that everyone stays clear. The person in question gets the easy vindication of being right, but at the cost of making himself (and everyone else) pretty miserable.
In big gatherings there are often a number of very closed-off, cliquey bears. (There are also cliquey muscle boys, and cliquey twinks, and cliquey nudists, and cliquey orgy hounds. Just depends on the group.) There are also a number of people who are so insecure that they refuse to have anything other than a terrible time. When the latter set up a hue and cry after an event, they’re pooping on the good times everyone else had—and it’s understandable to feel confused or even hostile about it. When the former badmouth and block anyone who dares dissent, though, it not only feeds into the negativity, but reinforces it.
Your experience is not everyone else’s. Your good time is not everyone’s good time, nor is your week of feeling lonely and miserable what everyone else shared. Talk about your experience, certainly. Share it. But do so thoughtfully, and without painting everyone else to be the bad guy. Do it in a way that encourages communication—not shuts it down entirely.
But enough about Bear Week. Let’s get to some questions from my readers. Feel free to ask me yours either via email (there’s an address in the sidebar on my blog), or via formspring.me.
Do you find when composing your blog that the language just flows and it is perfect as written? Or do you find yourself going back and recomposing whole sentences and paragraphs?
I don’t spend a whole ton of time on my journal entries. Although I do take my entries from my personal journal and post them publicly, they are at heart written for my eyes. I have a busy enough life that spending hours and hours on a blog post doesn’t seem like a great investment of time.
So mostly my journal stuff tends to be what I would think of as first draft material. There have been a couple of occasions in which I’ve taken old journal entries and repurposed them as essays; in those cases I’ve had to do some considerable revision.
My general rule of thumb is that I don’t like spending more than an hour writing an entry. Certainly the writing shouldn’t take any longer than the actual sex acts described therein. Since I do a chunk of the writing work in my head beforehand, generally I can stick to this goal. I’ll take a considerable amount of time deciding what approach I want to take to a piece, what the focus should be, and how narrow I intend to keep the aperture of my mental camera (I don’t know how to describe it in any other way), so that when I sit down to write, I know what I want to do.
Adding to the last question—as your write do you discover things about yourself—that is, coming to realizations that you were not fully conscious of?
Absolutely. This is why I keep a journal.
I’ve always joked that journal-keeping is a lot cheaper than therapy would be. Since I know a lot of people who have seen therapists—and I know a lot of therapists, too—I know that I’m not far from the truth. Sitting down on a consistent basis and attempting to face truths about my behavior is exactly what I would want to achieve through therapy. I simply choose to do it through writing instead.
I don’t always come to an epiphany every time I sit down to write. Sometimes I learn things about myself only over the long course of time, or when I examine old entries about similar topics, or individual lovers. As I learn to see the patterns of my life, though, I get more insight into what makes me tick. If I seek change, knowing myself makes it easier.
What I do know is that as I live my life, I leave behind a trail of words. They don’t describe me in uniformly glowing terms, or as some idealized version of myself. If I wanted to be a role model, or leave the impression that I was a better and nobler person than I actually am, I wouldn’t dwell so much on my failures, or my insecurities, or be so frank about my sex life. What those words do is paint a picture of who I’ve been and who I am now, warts and erections and all. Because of my 35-year habit of keeping a journal, I’m not ashamed of that person in the least.
Manual or electric toothbrush?
I couldn't live without my Sonic toothbrush. That thing disintegrates plaque on contact and leaves my gums feeling like they've been massaged by a thousand tiny fingers.
Given the ratio of fakes and flakes on hook-up sites, do you have recommendations or a recommended strategy for bottoms seeking to get laid?
First of all, I have to concede that I'm not usually advertising on hook-up sites as a bottom. A real and successful bottom might be a better person to ask.
There are legions of bottoms on Manhunt and Gaydar and other hook-up sites, however, and they're all competing for a limited number of tops. A bottom needs to stand out in several ways.
At bare minimum, I ask that the bottom:
--Respect my privacy
--Refrain from being a psycho stalker
--Refrain from behaving as if he's entitled to my dick, and
--Not be a pest.
If you can convey your sanity in both your profile and your subsequent communications with the top you want, then he really should respond politely.
But you still have to stand out as a likely prospect, which to me (other tops might have other standards!) means conveying:
--A genuine desire to meet
--A means to make a meeting happen, sooner rather than later
--The promise of a rinsed-out hole
--That you're someone who'll be focused on my cock first, and his own orgasm second, and
--That you're someone who will not allow substances to interfere with the sex.
Then and only then do tops look for the most personal things they want from a bottom. These are even more highly individual traits. For me, they include:
--A hunger for sperm, especially mine
--Guys who share my enjoyment of sub/dom, dad/son, and non-vanilla play
--A great kisser, and
--A very tactile approach to lovemaking.
But that's just me. Other tops are going to have other specific interests.
You've got a limited amount of time to impress a top. The more quickly you can communicate your stability, genuine interest, and specific ways that you suit an individual top's needs, the more likely you are to get his cock. Typing " 'Sup?' " or "Looking?" isn't going to do it.
A couple of other things: With so many bottoms showing ass photos online, no top wants to have to beg and plead to see your photos. If they're locked, unlock them up front. If you don't have them posted in your profile, for the love of god post them—or offer in your initial note to send them through email. And please don’t lock them again immediately. Chances are you’re not running for Congress. You can leave them open for the top to peruse at his leisure.
Show yourself to your best advantage in your profile, your photos, and in your interaction with the top. Make him feel as if he's the one top who can satisfy your needs—definitely don't act as if he's a dildo attached to a pair of hips. Don't make outrageous claims you can't back up. And keep hunting, even when you've been rejected a few times.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Open Forum Friday: Da Bears
I’ve gotten to the point whenever I start working on one of my open forum pieces that I start off by saying that I don’t like massive generalizations . . . and then I apologize for making one. I’m not even going to go through that pretense this time. I’ll just come out and say what’s on my mind. I like the bears. The bears, however, don’t seem to like me.
We all know what I’m talking about when I talk about bears, right? In the gay world, it refers to men of a certain size (large) and hirsuteness (furry, especially on the face). I’m not ashamed to say that as a broad type, I like me some bear. I like big guys. I like the feeling of all that weight on top of me. I like them round and cuddly. I like them furry and bearded. I know there are a lot of prissy queens out there who see a bear with a size forty waist who will roll their eyes and shudder dramatically. Screw them. I look at men like that and my mind very well may wander in the direction of what I’d have to do to get their pants down around their ankles.
(As a point of clarification, my mind’s usually heading off in that direction sooner or later, anyway.)
Now, before some of my readers pout in pique, I’d like to point out that bears aren’t the only men I like. Far from it. I like the skinny twinks, too, and the little Latin boys who call me ‘pa,’ and the sexy older gentlemen who call me ‘son.’ I like the average guys, and the preppies, and every other type you can think of, chances are. But I’ve always had a special fondness for bears—and it’s long been unrequited.
My understanding, from every bear site and every bear I’ve ever known, is that the bears like to think of themselves as open-minded individuals who have rejected the typical standards of gay beauty. That is, they see the most typical object of gay desire as a smooth, shaved, gym-sculpted twenty-three-year-old with perfect hair, like some figure of fantasy from an early nineteen-nineties Falcon video. Therefore the bears tend to shun shaving and the gym (unless they’re striving to be classified in the sub-category of muscle bears), or diets, or clothes fancier than the regular old shirts and 501s hanging from a nail in their closets.
They’re just being who they are, they say. They’re bucking the conformist gay stereotype. Except—and this is admittedly where I get into trouble with most of the bears I know—that they’re all so determined to have the same close-cropped haircuts or shaved heads, the same beards, the same bellies, the same wardrobe of flannel, and the same externally gruff appearance, that they look even more clone-like than the gay archetype they’ve rejected. And in my experience, woe betide the interested guy who doesn’t look exactly like them.
I’m not a bear. I’m too long and way too lean. I’ve had a beard for years now, but it’s cropped short and my hair’s long. If there were a gay subgroup called 'Homeless Chic' or ‘Vagrants Nouveau’ or ‘Scooby’s buddy Shaggy Lookalikes,’ I’d totally be on the A-list of those, but when it comes to the bears, I’m practically invisible. At the bars, where groups of chubby guys with beards congregate in groups and talk to each other while they stab at their smartphones with their thumbs with machine-gun rapidity, I’ll introduce myself and try to engage in some light conversation with the bears and find myself gradually shut out of their circle quite literally as they close ranks and flannel-shirted shoulders and leave me standing on the outside. I’ve been to bear events where despite my best efforts to be friendly, I’ll find myself sitting alone and ignored, because I don’t fit the standard body and hair specification.
It’s not as if I walk into a group of bears with the attitude of Here I am, furry men! The skinniest among you, your manna from heaven! Fight for the scraps, boys! Not in the least. Nor am I the kind of guy who sits and waits on the sidelines, not approaching anyone, then getting miffy about how stuck-up everyone is after an evening of being unapproachable. I get in there and meet people. But you know, you’d think that if I can make friends in a public situation with everyone from muscle-boy porn stars, young students, and funny old men who just want someone to listen to them, that it wouldn’t be that difficult to have a conversation with the bears. Despite all their talk about their heightened tolerance for men outside the gay stereotype, though, my experience is often that if you aren’t of a certain rotundity and don’t have a minimum amount of fur on your face, you might as well be invisible.
Even online I run into difficulties. The biggest bear social website rejected my profile a few years back because I wasn't 'bear enough.' I was on another, but more or less dropped it because people kept asking me, Why are you here?
Here’s the part where I apologize: not all bears are exclusionist, of course. I’ve had sex and relationships with many bear-type men who have been happy to bounce around on top of me, and who appreciate the attention I pay them. I’ve had bear friends who’ve included me in their circles and never mentioned a word about how different I looked physically from the rest of them.
On the other hand, I’ve also had bear friends who have rubbed me on the stomach and told me I’d be a lot cuter if I gained fifty pounds (which is oddly reminiscent, and just as condescending, as the men who used to tell me when I was heavier that I’d be almost cute if I lost some weight). And I’ve been in group situations in which guys made plans to go to bear events with each other to which the only person not invited was me.
I’ve always suspected—and a couple of guys have told me—that sometimes some bears will stick together in packs and not look outside them because they’re so used to rejection from the non-bears. I can understand that. Makes total sense. Except when, that is, the chasers (I dislike the word, but it’s a means to an end) are being ignored and even a little bit ostracized from the bear groups.
When that happens, I also suspect that the same kind of peer pressure comes into play that a lot of men experience when they start to date or fuck outside their own demographic. Young guys who are into older men frequently tell me that upon confessing their attractions, or showing them in public, their peers will make icky-poo-poo faces, or chastise them for not having so-called standards. I can believe that in bear packs, the same kind of pressure keeps some of the men from showing any preference for, or attraction to, the non-bears.
I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it.
I’m opening up the comments today to get some feedback from other readers with their experiences not only with bears, but with all kinds of sub-groups of gay men. I’d kind of prefer that we keep our comments away from simplistic I like bears too! or Bears, yuck!, since I don’t want to have to moderate a bunch of comments bashing a group with which I personally enjoy hanging.
However, I would like you guys to discuss this issue: do other subgroups of gay men—whether bears, or young hipsters, or leather men, or whatever packs in which you roam or have observed in the wild—close ranks against outsiders? What do you think causes the divisions? And where, if anyplace, have you seen those artificial distinctions between physical types break down and become irrelevant?
Will we ever move to a ‘post-bear’ kind of world, where the big and the skinny mingle? Or are the groups originally formed to expand stereotypes and expectations now as hidebound as the groups they rejected?
Have at it, friends. I’m interested in your responses. And bears, remember: I love you guys! (Call me!)
We all know what I’m talking about when I talk about bears, right? In the gay world, it refers to men of a certain size (large) and hirsuteness (furry, especially on the face). I’m not ashamed to say that as a broad type, I like me some bear. I like big guys. I like the feeling of all that weight on top of me. I like them round and cuddly. I like them furry and bearded. I know there are a lot of prissy queens out there who see a bear with a size forty waist who will roll their eyes and shudder dramatically. Screw them. I look at men like that and my mind very well may wander in the direction of what I’d have to do to get their pants down around their ankles.
(As a point of clarification, my mind’s usually heading off in that direction sooner or later, anyway.)
Now, before some of my readers pout in pique, I’d like to point out that bears aren’t the only men I like. Far from it. I like the skinny twinks, too, and the little Latin boys who call me ‘pa,’ and the sexy older gentlemen who call me ‘son.’ I like the average guys, and the preppies, and every other type you can think of, chances are. But I’ve always had a special fondness for bears—and it’s long been unrequited.
My understanding, from every bear site and every bear I’ve ever known, is that the bears like to think of themselves as open-minded individuals who have rejected the typical standards of gay beauty. That is, they see the most typical object of gay desire as a smooth, shaved, gym-sculpted twenty-three-year-old with perfect hair, like some figure of fantasy from an early nineteen-nineties Falcon video. Therefore the bears tend to shun shaving and the gym (unless they’re striving to be classified in the sub-category of muscle bears), or diets, or clothes fancier than the regular old shirts and 501s hanging from a nail in their closets.
They’re just being who they are, they say. They’re bucking the conformist gay stereotype. Except—and this is admittedly where I get into trouble with most of the bears I know—that they’re all so determined to have the same close-cropped haircuts or shaved heads, the same beards, the same bellies, the same wardrobe of flannel, and the same externally gruff appearance, that they look even more clone-like than the gay archetype they’ve rejected. And in my experience, woe betide the interested guy who doesn’t look exactly like them.
I’m not a bear. I’m too long and way too lean. I’ve had a beard for years now, but it’s cropped short and my hair’s long. If there were a gay subgroup called 'Homeless Chic' or ‘Vagrants Nouveau’ or ‘Scooby’s buddy Shaggy Lookalikes,’ I’d totally be on the A-list of those, but when it comes to the bears, I’m practically invisible. At the bars, where groups of chubby guys with beards congregate in groups and talk to each other while they stab at their smartphones with their thumbs with machine-gun rapidity, I’ll introduce myself and try to engage in some light conversation with the bears and find myself gradually shut out of their circle quite literally as they close ranks and flannel-shirted shoulders and leave me standing on the outside. I’ve been to bear events where despite my best efforts to be friendly, I’ll find myself sitting alone and ignored, because I don’t fit the standard body and hair specification.
It’s not as if I walk into a group of bears with the attitude of Here I am, furry men! The skinniest among you, your manna from heaven! Fight for the scraps, boys! Not in the least. Nor am I the kind of guy who sits and waits on the sidelines, not approaching anyone, then getting miffy about how stuck-up everyone is after an evening of being unapproachable. I get in there and meet people. But you know, you’d think that if I can make friends in a public situation with everyone from muscle-boy porn stars, young students, and funny old men who just want someone to listen to them, that it wouldn’t be that difficult to have a conversation with the bears. Despite all their talk about their heightened tolerance for men outside the gay stereotype, though, my experience is often that if you aren’t of a certain rotundity and don’t have a minimum amount of fur on your face, you might as well be invisible.
Even online I run into difficulties. The biggest bear social website rejected my profile a few years back because I wasn't 'bear enough.' I was on another, but more or less dropped it because people kept asking me, Why are you here?
Here’s the part where I apologize: not all bears are exclusionist, of course. I’ve had sex and relationships with many bear-type men who have been happy to bounce around on top of me, and who appreciate the attention I pay them. I’ve had bear friends who’ve included me in their circles and never mentioned a word about how different I looked physically from the rest of them.
On the other hand, I’ve also had bear friends who have rubbed me on the stomach and told me I’d be a lot cuter if I gained fifty pounds (which is oddly reminiscent, and just as condescending, as the men who used to tell me when I was heavier that I’d be almost cute if I lost some weight). And I’ve been in group situations in which guys made plans to go to bear events with each other to which the only person not invited was me.
I’ve always suspected—and a couple of guys have told me—that sometimes some bears will stick together in packs and not look outside them because they’re so used to rejection from the non-bears. I can understand that. Makes total sense. Except when, that is, the chasers (I dislike the word, but it’s a means to an end) are being ignored and even a little bit ostracized from the bear groups.
When that happens, I also suspect that the same kind of peer pressure comes into play that a lot of men experience when they start to date or fuck outside their own demographic. Young guys who are into older men frequently tell me that upon confessing their attractions, or showing them in public, their peers will make icky-poo-poo faces, or chastise them for not having so-called standards. I can believe that in bear packs, the same kind of pressure keeps some of the men from showing any preference for, or attraction to, the non-bears.
I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it.
I’m opening up the comments today to get some feedback from other readers with their experiences not only with bears, but with all kinds of sub-groups of gay men. I’d kind of prefer that we keep our comments away from simplistic I like bears too! or Bears, yuck!, since I don’t want to have to moderate a bunch of comments bashing a group with which I personally enjoy hanging.
However, I would like you guys to discuss this issue: do other subgroups of gay men—whether bears, or young hipsters, or leather men, or whatever packs in which you roam or have observed in the wild—close ranks against outsiders? What do you think causes the divisions? And where, if anyplace, have you seen those artificial distinctions between physical types break down and become irrelevant?
Will we ever move to a ‘post-bear’ kind of world, where the big and the skinny mingle? Or are the groups originally formed to expand stereotypes and expectations now as hidebound as the groups they rejected?
Have at it, friends. I’m interested in your responses. And bears, remember: I love you guys! (Call me!)
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Return of the Steam Room Bear
When I met the steam room bear at the baths a few weeks ago, we’d spent such an intense few hours making out, fucking, and grinding against each other that there was no chance in hell I wasn’t slipping him my number and email at the conclusion of the afternoon. I give out my number in these situations with absolutely no expectation that the men will call me. They usually don’t. I’m too old and jaded to mope by the phone with my chin on my chubby fist, while Vikki Carr’s “It Must Be Him” plays in the background.
The steam room bear had called, however. He’d sent me a quick text message to confirm the phone number before he’d gotten back to his house an entire state away, that afternoon. Within a few days, we’d exchanged emails to thank each other for a great time together. Then last week we had a flurry of emails when he told me he was making an overnight business trip to Ann Arbor, Saturday.
He had a huge grin on his face when I stepped through his door. He’d trimmed his hair since I’d last seen him; the short cut made him look more professorial and even more handsome than I remembered. He let me know what he thought of me, in the first sentence. “Gawd,” he gushed in his deep voice, as his arms opened for me. “You look just like a teenager. Seriously. I was watching you walk through the parking lot.” Embarrassed and flustered, I gabbled out some kind of denial. “No, seriously, you in no way look forty-seven.”
Nearsighted and burly. That’s how I like ‘em.
Sometimes when I meet a man for the second time, it’s impossible to recreate the chemistry that made the first so memorable. With the steam room bear, that was not an issue. We were at each other immediately in the dark hotel room, stripping off our clothes and attacking each other’s mouths and nipples and necks with our lips and and incisors. Almost immediately I pushed open his tree-trunk legs and lowered myself between them so I could suck on his rock-hard, curved dick. He responded by groaning, grabbing a pillow to support his head, and by running his hand through my hair as he guided me where he most wanted me to work. I licked at his balls and nibbled at the sensitive area just below his crown. At his direction, I ran the flat of my tongue and my beard over the sensitive skin where his leg met his hipbone. He shuddered and jerked when I twisted his nipples from below.
It didn’t take long before I had flipped him over to gobble greedily at his hole. It smelled sweet, like soap and the faintest trace of aftershave. “All I’ve been thinking about is you fucking me,” he said into the pillow, half-muffled and half-dreaming. “How good it felt to have your bare dick in me. I need it.”
“Yeah?” I asked, trying to sound surprised, as if fucking hadn’t really been on my agenda, but that I might possibly somehow be amenable, under the right circumstances. Maybe.
“Yes. Please. Please fuck me.”
“Well. . . .” I drawled, pulling back the flesh of his beefy, sexy ass.
“Ram it in,” he begged. “Just fucking rape it.”
I was already rock-hard just from seeing the guy again, and having spent a good fifteen minutes rimming his hole had caused me to leak a puddle of precum on the hotel bedspread. I didn’t really need to be talked into it. I rubbed a little spit in his already-slick pucker, and slapped more on my dick. Then I teased him with the head right at his entrance. “You sure about this?”
“Pl—!”
He’d planned some spur in his head, I’m sure, but before he’d gotten out the first syllable, I plunged in. He roared. From the way his hole opened, though, I knew it wasn’t from pain. My suspicion was confirmed when the roar turned into a shouted “YES!” that could have rattled the paintings on the hotel walls. “Ohhhh, yes!” he groaned, clutching the pillows and turning them into support for his chest. “Yes, I needed that big dick in me, exactly like that. Fuck yes!”
His hole had opened for me immediately, with no resistance whatsoever. If my entry had been too rough for him, it was the kind of rough he obviously liked. “I want your sperm, buddy,” he begged. “I’ve gotta have your swimmers in me.”
I was fucking steadily, by then. “Not yet,” I breathed. “I’m not shooting yet, stud.”
“I’m ready for it when you do,” he promised. “You don’t know how hot it was, driving home to my boyfriend last time, with your loads sliming up my guts. I had you leaking out of me all night, man. I loved it.” He willingly let me pull him to a kneeling position. “I want more. Fuck. I wish I had a camera so I could see what it looked like with your big fuckin’ dick goin’ in and out of me.”
“Hang on,” I said, and I pulled out of him to grab my jacket. A moment later I had my phone in hand. I snapped a photo for him as I shoved back in, and then threw the phone down on the bed. Its screen illuminated his face. I saw his eyes open wide, then narrow again as I went down to the hilt. “Fuck,” was his only comment.
He looked at the photo until the screen blinked out. I fucked him on his knees, and then on his side, and finally on his back, his big legs on my chest and shoulders as I heaved into him. When I came, our mouths were already enmeshed. He grunted from his chest as my hips pounded against him once, twice, three times, and my dick swelled to release the flood of seed from my nuts. His hands grabbed for my hips and pulled me into him; he squeezed my cheeks so hard that I thought there might be handprints for days.
Then, once my dick stopped throbbing, he turned me over. We clambered into a position in which I was on my back while he straddled me, my dick still plugging him. I loved the sheer weight of him on me, all two hundred and eighty-five pounds of the guy. I loved being crushed by him, of being pressed flat against the strange mattress by so much warm, furry flesh. We lay like that for a long time, kissing and letting need ebb away and consciousness return.
Then he laughed. “I promised you a massage,” he said.
“Oh gosh,” I laughed in return. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” he whispered.
He spread body lotion into his palm, warming it there so that it wouldn’t be chilly against my skin. And then he’d rub it into my weary, grateful muscles, pressing them into submission. He was good at what he did, too. I wanted it never to end. Down my torso he went, his hands smoothing over my hips and my thighs, squeezing my calves, slicking up my feet and soothing my heels. He turned me onto my stomach and instructed me to rest my shoulders, face, and arms on a pillow, as he rubbed my upper and lower back. When he reached my butt, his hands squeezed the cheeks, then warmed them with the lotion and the flats of his palms. “So beautiful,” he whispered. Then, “So fuckable.”
I took a little breath. One of the first things he’d emailed me in the weeks before had been: I want to flip you. I dream about flipping you. What do you think about that?
The thought had made me hard, that’s what. I’d written back and said, I would be a liar if I hadn’t thought about it myself. But I just want to warn you that as much as I fantasize about it, I get terrified when it comes to doing it. And I’d left it at that. But before I’d left that evening, I’d taken a shower with an enema bulb, just in case.
His fingers probed my hole, dropping silky lotion just within. “Do you think about getting fucked?”
“Yes,” I breathed, trying not to clench.
“Do you think about me fucking you?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“You said you get nervous. What makes you nervous?” he wanted to know.
I don’t think it’s right to saddle a guy with my entire psycho-history. I mean, jeez. Who wants to listen to all that, when the dick is hard and wants a home? So, very briefly, I told him what had happened to make me shut down on bottoming, and that how having to explain and justify my reactions to it simply made not-bottoming easier, thus leading to many years of inactivity.
He listened through it and held me. “It’s not that uncommon, I’m afraid.”
“I know.”
He paused, then said, “Something similar happened to me, once.” He took a few moments to explain. And yes, he did understand. For a few moments after he shared, we held each other very tightly. Then, when it was very quiet, I said, “Fuck me.”
They were still a very difficult two words to say. But I spoke them anyway.
“I don’t want you doing it because you feel you have to,” he started to say.
I put a finger to his mouth. “Put it in me.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Fuck me,” I told him.
I heard him fumbling for something in the dark, and heard the sound of tearing metallic wrap, followed by the sound of a condom unfurling. “I think this will make you feel more relaxed about it,” he whispered. When I reached down, I felt his cock covered with latex. He covered it with lube, and then said, “Why don’t you sit on it?”
That was a position I could never manage to enjoy even when I was a total bottom. “Do it from behind,” I asked. It had always been the position in which I took it best.
I turned onto my stomach. Again, the weight of him comforted me. I felt his head against my hole. “This is very special for me,” he whispered into my ear. The pressure against my hole increased and multiplied exponentially. I felt as if I were unravelling, down there, flying apart into pieces. “I hope it is for you.”
“I want it from you,” I said, simply. It was the truth, even though I doubted I could do it.
But it didn’t hurt, as much as I expected. The pressure was intense, yet then came a moment in which the pressure gave way to something more. Every nerve that had been jangling seemed to sing; the strings of some invisible out-of-tune guitar that had been jarring my teeth rang out with a glorious major chord. Then, just as quickly as it had gotten in tune, it stopped.
“My dick’s not cooperating,” he said, pulling out. “I’m going limp. Fuck.”
Without a word, I reached down and yanked off the condom. “Fuck me,” I told him.
He slid back in, hard once more.
It wasn’t glorious. I didn’t experience that high I used to get as a teen, when I had dick after dick stretching me wide. But it didn’t hurt. Much. That is, I didn’t want to push him off me and beg him to stop. I didn’t want to crawl out from under him and run for my car. I liked the warmth of him on me, and atop me. I liked the fullness of it, though it left me gasping. And I loved the grunts and tiny noises of pleasure he made as he pushed in and out. “How much of it is in there?” I wanted to know.
“All of it, baby.” His voice was more a pant, a huff of excitement, than a whisper. “All of it.”
He didn’t last long. That’s not to say he shot quickly. Rather, he ran into erection problems shortly thereafter again, which merely left me confused—am I that lousy a bottom now that guys lose their erections once they’re in me? If I’d been more experienced and able to endure more, I might have felt a little short-changed. But how could I really complain? I hadn’t really been penetrated in almost a decade. Certainly not as deeply as he went. And me made me enjoy it.
I still haven’t been successfully fucked, I guess—that is, a fuck all the way to completion—but I liked it from him. Somehow he made it feel more like a triumph. Afterward, assuring me I hadn’t been dirty or awful, he held me and nursed me back to hardness, then urged me to mount him again. And that’s how we spent the rest of that long evening, with me pumping in more of the loads he craved.
The steam room bear had called, however. He’d sent me a quick text message to confirm the phone number before he’d gotten back to his house an entire state away, that afternoon. Within a few days, we’d exchanged emails to thank each other for a great time together. Then last week we had a flurry of emails when he told me he was making an overnight business trip to Ann Arbor, Saturday.
He had a huge grin on his face when I stepped through his door. He’d trimmed his hair since I’d last seen him; the short cut made him look more professorial and even more handsome than I remembered. He let me know what he thought of me, in the first sentence. “Gawd,” he gushed in his deep voice, as his arms opened for me. “You look just like a teenager. Seriously. I was watching you walk through the parking lot.” Embarrassed and flustered, I gabbled out some kind of denial. “No, seriously, you in no way look forty-seven.”
Nearsighted and burly. That’s how I like ‘em.
Sometimes when I meet a man for the second time, it’s impossible to recreate the chemistry that made the first so memorable. With the steam room bear, that was not an issue. We were at each other immediately in the dark hotel room, stripping off our clothes and attacking each other’s mouths and nipples and necks with our lips and and incisors. Almost immediately I pushed open his tree-trunk legs and lowered myself between them so I could suck on his rock-hard, curved dick. He responded by groaning, grabbing a pillow to support his head, and by running his hand through my hair as he guided me where he most wanted me to work. I licked at his balls and nibbled at the sensitive area just below his crown. At his direction, I ran the flat of my tongue and my beard over the sensitive skin where his leg met his hipbone. He shuddered and jerked when I twisted his nipples from below.
It didn’t take long before I had flipped him over to gobble greedily at his hole. It smelled sweet, like soap and the faintest trace of aftershave. “All I’ve been thinking about is you fucking me,” he said into the pillow, half-muffled and half-dreaming. “How good it felt to have your bare dick in me. I need it.”
“Yeah?” I asked, trying to sound surprised, as if fucking hadn’t really been on my agenda, but that I might possibly somehow be amenable, under the right circumstances. Maybe.
“Yes. Please. Please fuck me.”
“Well. . . .” I drawled, pulling back the flesh of his beefy, sexy ass.
“Ram it in,” he begged. “Just fucking rape it.”
I was already rock-hard just from seeing the guy again, and having spent a good fifteen minutes rimming his hole had caused me to leak a puddle of precum on the hotel bedspread. I didn’t really need to be talked into it. I rubbed a little spit in his already-slick pucker, and slapped more on my dick. Then I teased him with the head right at his entrance. “You sure about this?”
“Pl—!”
He’d planned some spur in his head, I’m sure, but before he’d gotten out the first syllable, I plunged in. He roared. From the way his hole opened, though, I knew it wasn’t from pain. My suspicion was confirmed when the roar turned into a shouted “YES!” that could have rattled the paintings on the hotel walls. “Ohhhh, yes!” he groaned, clutching the pillows and turning them into support for his chest. “Yes, I needed that big dick in me, exactly like that. Fuck yes!”
His hole had opened for me immediately, with no resistance whatsoever. If my entry had been too rough for him, it was the kind of rough he obviously liked. “I want your sperm, buddy,” he begged. “I’ve gotta have your swimmers in me.”
I was fucking steadily, by then. “Not yet,” I breathed. “I’m not shooting yet, stud.”
“I’m ready for it when you do,” he promised. “You don’t know how hot it was, driving home to my boyfriend last time, with your loads sliming up my guts. I had you leaking out of me all night, man. I loved it.” He willingly let me pull him to a kneeling position. “I want more. Fuck. I wish I had a camera so I could see what it looked like with your big fuckin’ dick goin’ in and out of me.”
“Hang on,” I said, and I pulled out of him to grab my jacket. A moment later I had my phone in hand. I snapped a photo for him as I shoved back in, and then threw the phone down on the bed. Its screen illuminated his face. I saw his eyes open wide, then narrow again as I went down to the hilt. “Fuck,” was his only comment.
He looked at the photo until the screen blinked out. I fucked him on his knees, and then on his side, and finally on his back, his big legs on my chest and shoulders as I heaved into him. When I came, our mouths were already enmeshed. He grunted from his chest as my hips pounded against him once, twice, three times, and my dick swelled to release the flood of seed from my nuts. His hands grabbed for my hips and pulled me into him; he squeezed my cheeks so hard that I thought there might be handprints for days.
Then, once my dick stopped throbbing, he turned me over. We clambered into a position in which I was on my back while he straddled me, my dick still plugging him. I loved the sheer weight of him on me, all two hundred and eighty-five pounds of the guy. I loved being crushed by him, of being pressed flat against the strange mattress by so much warm, furry flesh. We lay like that for a long time, kissing and letting need ebb away and consciousness return.
Then he laughed. “I promised you a massage,” he said.
“Oh gosh,” I laughed in return. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” he whispered.
He spread body lotion into his palm, warming it there so that it wouldn’t be chilly against my skin. And then he’d rub it into my weary, grateful muscles, pressing them into submission. He was good at what he did, too. I wanted it never to end. Down my torso he went, his hands smoothing over my hips and my thighs, squeezing my calves, slicking up my feet and soothing my heels. He turned me onto my stomach and instructed me to rest my shoulders, face, and arms on a pillow, as he rubbed my upper and lower back. When he reached my butt, his hands squeezed the cheeks, then warmed them with the lotion and the flats of his palms. “So beautiful,” he whispered. Then, “So fuckable.”
I took a little breath. One of the first things he’d emailed me in the weeks before had been: I want to flip you. I dream about flipping you. What do you think about that?
The thought had made me hard, that’s what. I’d written back and said, I would be a liar if I hadn’t thought about it myself. But I just want to warn you that as much as I fantasize about it, I get terrified when it comes to doing it. And I’d left it at that. But before I’d left that evening, I’d taken a shower with an enema bulb, just in case.
His fingers probed my hole, dropping silky lotion just within. “Do you think about getting fucked?”
“Yes,” I breathed, trying not to clench.
“Do you think about me fucking you?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“You said you get nervous. What makes you nervous?” he wanted to know.
I don’t think it’s right to saddle a guy with my entire psycho-history. I mean, jeez. Who wants to listen to all that, when the dick is hard and wants a home? So, very briefly, I told him what had happened to make me shut down on bottoming, and that how having to explain and justify my reactions to it simply made not-bottoming easier, thus leading to many years of inactivity.
He listened through it and held me. “It’s not that uncommon, I’m afraid.”
“I know.”
He paused, then said, “Something similar happened to me, once.” He took a few moments to explain. And yes, he did understand. For a few moments after he shared, we held each other very tightly. Then, when it was very quiet, I said, “Fuck me.”
They were still a very difficult two words to say. But I spoke them anyway.
“I don’t want you doing it because you feel you have to,” he started to say.
I put a finger to his mouth. “Put it in me.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Fuck me,” I told him.
I heard him fumbling for something in the dark, and heard the sound of tearing metallic wrap, followed by the sound of a condom unfurling. “I think this will make you feel more relaxed about it,” he whispered. When I reached down, I felt his cock covered with latex. He covered it with lube, and then said, “Why don’t you sit on it?”
That was a position I could never manage to enjoy even when I was a total bottom. “Do it from behind,” I asked. It had always been the position in which I took it best.
I turned onto my stomach. Again, the weight of him comforted me. I felt his head against my hole. “This is very special for me,” he whispered into my ear. The pressure against my hole increased and multiplied exponentially. I felt as if I were unravelling, down there, flying apart into pieces. “I hope it is for you.”
“I want it from you,” I said, simply. It was the truth, even though I doubted I could do it.
But it didn’t hurt, as much as I expected. The pressure was intense, yet then came a moment in which the pressure gave way to something more. Every nerve that had been jangling seemed to sing; the strings of some invisible out-of-tune guitar that had been jarring my teeth rang out with a glorious major chord. Then, just as quickly as it had gotten in tune, it stopped.
“My dick’s not cooperating,” he said, pulling out. “I’m going limp. Fuck.”
Without a word, I reached down and yanked off the condom. “Fuck me,” I told him.
He slid back in, hard once more.
It wasn’t glorious. I didn’t experience that high I used to get as a teen, when I had dick after dick stretching me wide. But it didn’t hurt. Much. That is, I didn’t want to push him off me and beg him to stop. I didn’t want to crawl out from under him and run for my car. I liked the warmth of him on me, and atop me. I liked the fullness of it, though it left me gasping. And I loved the grunts and tiny noises of pleasure he made as he pushed in and out. “How much of it is in there?” I wanted to know.
“All of it, baby.” His voice was more a pant, a huff of excitement, than a whisper. “All of it.”
He didn’t last long. That’s not to say he shot quickly. Rather, he ran into erection problems shortly thereafter again, which merely left me confused—am I that lousy a bottom now that guys lose their erections once they’re in me? If I’d been more experienced and able to endure more, I might have felt a little short-changed. But how could I really complain? I hadn’t really been penetrated in almost a decade. Certainly not as deeply as he went. And me made me enjoy it.
I still haven’t been successfully fucked, I guess—that is, a fuck all the way to completion—but I liked it from him. Somehow he made it feel more like a triumph. Afterward, assuring me I hadn’t been dirty or awful, he held me and nursed me back to hardness, then urged me to mount him again. And that’s how we spent the rest of that long evening, with me pumping in more of the loads he craved.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Friday at the Baths: Steam Room Bear
I usually judge the prospective activity of the local bathhouse by the number of cars I see parked in its two lots. It's not unusual for the back lot to be more empty. There’s a bit of a trek to the door from around the back of the building, in that industrial neighborhood. If the lot closest to the front door is abandoned, however, I'll usually make the U-turn that would take me around to the bathhouse's fenced enclosure, and continue on back to the highway.
Friday, the lot was packed. I pulled in, parked my car, grabbed my flip-flops and the bottle of lube I keep in the glove compartment, and headed inside.
I don't hit the baths all that often. When was the last time? Eight months ago? But the guy who works the daytime shift at the counter recognized me. From behind his glasses he stared at me, then nodded. "Hey," I grinned at him, and then slipped my twenty beneath the glass for a regular room. He handed me a paper to sign, took my membership card, and buzzed me in. Only once I was inside the darkness, waiting at the counter for him to pass me my room key and towel, did he open his thickly-goateed mouth. "Enjoy yourself, now," he growled in a deep bass. Then he chuckled. "I know they'll enjoy you."
He's a flirt, that desk clerk. But he always gives me a choice room—this time, at the intersection of three heavily-trafficked hallways.
The baths are a hit-or-miss affair. So much depends on the crowd, and the mixture of the crowd is always a matter of timing, chance, and the whims of the locals. If it's a miserable day of rain or snow or ice, it could swing either way—people might be looking for a refuge from the weather and come for a day of sex with strangers, or they might equally be tempted to stay at home, warm and dry and alone. Fine weather might draw people out of their homes, but they could be inclined to head to the mall or the riverfront, as to the bathhouse. National holidays tend to be good—even Thanksgiving. Guys are off work, and guys get bored and mischievous, then. I was hoping that Friday, right around lunchtime, might attract a certain mature crowd looking to play before the start of the weekend. Or at least some hot unemployed men.
But still, it's always tough to tell what you'll get on any particular day at the bathhouse. You could have the time of your life. Or you could sit around for hours, diddling yourself and wondering why you came, when it's PERFECTLY OBVIOUS that everyone finds you OUTRAGEOUSLY UGLY and GROSSLY OBESE and RUNS at the sight of you.
Luckily, Friday was one of the former.
After laying out the sheet on my mattress in my room, then disrobing and slipping on my rubber cock rings and wrapping my threadbare towel around my midsection, I slipped out of the door and clopped down the hall in my flip-flops to the steam room. The steam room at this particular bath is large, and tiled from floor to ceiling, and divided into two roughly enclosures. I moved into the room's foggy far side, and climbed onto the upper shelf to wait. An older gentleman sat nearby; he didn't look at me when I took my place upon the tiles, removed my towel, and settled into a position with my legs spread and my forearms balanced upon the knees. I'd passed several guys in the hallway who'd given me the eyeball when I'd walked by. Several of them trailed in after me.
One was an older guy in his sixties with an enviably athletic build and a shaved head. Without asking, and without any resistance from me, he removed his towel and set it on the lower shelf, then knelt upon it and began to suck my dick. I hardened between his lips, then let him move his mouth up and down the shaft as he got it wetter and more rigid. The two men who had trailed in after him watched from nearby. One was another senior whose features I couldn't make out through the dense fog that was ramping up as the steamer pumped out clouds of vapor. He was tall, though, and definitely as old, or older than the man working on my dick. The other was a big, burly bear. Five-foot-nine and two-hundred-and-eighty pounds of very furry, masculine, bearded bear.
I found the bear instantly attractive in a god I want that one! kind of way. However much I find many of them attractive, though, bears don't tend to go for me. Or if they do, they certainly don't act upon it in person. As a matter of fact, when in my presence they manage to hide any interest pretty damned well. I kept trying to give this one the eye, and to invite him to come over and join in, but he sat down at a fair distance and watched, just like everyone else.
The older gent who'd been present in the room when I'd entered gathered his towel and left. My cocksucker rose, gave me a deep kiss, then grabbed his towel and did the same. By way of apology, he comically mimed wiping sweat off his forehead. It was getting warm in there; the boiler was at its peak, and I couldn't see more than two or three feet in front of me. Still rock hard and wanting a mouth on my meat, I pulled myself to the edge of the upper ledge and positioned myself so that I was sitting directly above the bear. He watched as I played with my nipples and masturbated myself lasciviously for him.
Finally, when I spread my legs invitingly as wide as they could possibly go, he stood up and positioned himself between them. Now that I could see him more clearly, I could tell how fucking cute the guy really was. He had to me about my age, but he had the impish eyes and cherry cheeks of a little boy. His beard was bushy, full, and dark. His chest was furry, though his round belly was perfectly smooth. From the bush of his pubes rose a stubby penis, fat, full, hard, and short.
I grabbed him by the dick and pulled him in. His mouth landed on mine; I found my lips surrounded by his mouth. His beard scratched my face, pleasantly. I inhaled his sweet scent of mouthwash and coffee traces as the breath from our lungs mingled. He groaned when I pinched and pulled at his nipples. Then I ran my right hand through his curly hair and pushed him down so that his face was at his dick. He opened his mouth, and engulfed it.
The older gentleman had done a really good job of sucking me. He was nothing, however, compared to the bear. My hips buckled at the feel of his mouth as he took me to the root. His mouth was so wide open that I thought he'd slurp in my balls, as well. When finally he backed off, the combination of the heat and the blow job left my head spinning. "You wanna fuck me?" he wanted to know.
Did I! "Yeah," I grunted. "Want to go back to my room?"
I didn't have to ask twice. I was streaming water when we left the steam room. I didn't even bother to wait to get back; I removed my town and walked, hard-on bouncing painfully, down the hallway as I dried off my shoulders and back. Several men watched as we disappeared into the darkness of the little cubicle with the number 50 on its door.
"Gawd," said the bear. "You’ve got the perfect dick, fucker." He sat heavily on the bed and grabbed it, pulling me to him. "The perfect dick. It's fucking big, too. How long is it?" I told him, and he shook his head. "I want it in me."
I leaned down for another of his kisses. I loved the feel of his beard against mine. "I was hoping I would get with you," I told him, quite honestly. "I saw you walk in that room, and I thought to myself, I've gotta get some of that."
"No shit? I'm just a furry fat dude." He seemed incredulous, despite my assertion that he was far more than a furry fat dude. "You clean?" I told him I was. ""Because I'm thinking I want you to sperm me up."
"You want it bareback?" I asked.
"Only done it that way with one other buddy," he said. "But yeah. I don't wanna pass up this shot. You wanna bareback me?"
Again, he didn't have to ask twice. I had been turning him onto his knees as he spoke. He lay face down on the bed, clutched the pauper's pillow between his arms to prop up his chin, and groaned as I fingered some lube into his butt. When I pushed between those big, furry cheeks, he grabbed for his bottle of poppers and inhaled deeply. I could feel his muscles relax to admit me as I slid deeper. "Oh fuck," he said, over and over again. "Oh fuck. I've never had one this big. Fucking amazing."
I was all the way in. As he told me how rarely he'd been fucked—apparently the last time had been eight months prior—I was a little surprised how elastic and smooth he was. He didn't clench down, or resist my thrusts, or betray any discomfort when I increased the depth with which I'd pull out and shove back in. He didn't seem to feel pain when I would hold myself in him at the deepest point, and swell my dick by clamping down on the floor of my pelvis. All he did was hold one of my hands like a lifeline, breath heavily, and moan with pleasure.
"You like it, don't you, stud?" I growled in his ear.
"Yes," he cried. "You don't know how long I've needed this, buddy. You don't know how bad. Where are you from?" he asked, suddenly. I told him, still keeping up the rhythm of my thrusting, and asked where he lived. He was from Ohio, he told me. An hour and a half away. "But if you could ever host, or meet me here, I would totally drive up for more of this—anytime. An-y-time," he repeated, drawing out each syllable. He sounded, quite honestly, so happy at the way my dick was making him feel that he was close to tears.
"Then I'll have to give you my number," I told him. "Because I find you so fucking attractive that I'd love to see more of you."
The news pleased him. It pleased him so much that he clamped down on my meat like a pair of hands and began to milk it. I wasn't going to last much longer. "Let me sit on it," he suggested.
Anything to extend the pleasure. I got on my back. He mounted me, putting his considerable weight on my midsection as his hole grabbed onto my dick. I like a guy's weight on me. I particularly love a bear's weight on me—it makes me feel tiny, and compact, which is something that an ungainly, long-limbed fellow like me rarely gets to experience. His fat dick rubbed against my stomach as he rode me. I could tell that the feelings for him were even more intense in this position than they had been when I'd been ramming into him. "I'm going to shoot," he warned me.
"Do it," I commanded.
He continued to ride back and forth and up and down, more and more vigorously. His excitement tickled mine. I found myself very much on the edge as he rode closer and closer to orgasm. When he came, it was without having touched himself once; he shot a blast of cum squarely into my face. That alone pushed me over. I began to unload into him, loudly, as he continued to groan and squirm on top of me. Finally, wary of opening my eyes while his copious sperm was still dripping down my face, I let him wipe me off before I looked at him. "Holy fuck," he said.
"Holy fuck," I agreed. "Shit!"
He didn't stay on me long. When he stood up, I lay on my stomach on the mattress and took his still-hard cock in my mouth, cleaning off the rest of the sperm that was lingering there. His back slammed against the cubicle door. He rested there for long minutes while I nursed at his dick, enjoying the way it filled my mouth. Like most big men, he was actually much bigger than he appeared. I felt guilty for thinking of him as stubby and short, when it was obvious that he had a good seven inches on him.
When I pulled off his dick, finally, he pushed me back and ran his hand through my steam-wet, long hair. “I didn’t expect to come here and rob the cradle today,” he said, pulling my face against his extended, rotund belly in a way that made my dick sit up and take notice. “You don’t mind being with an older guy? How old are you, son? Thirty-one? Thirty-two?”
I might’ve thought he was teasing, or attempting to flatter me, but his tone was completely serious. I was flattered, though. Very flattered. Still, I snorted. “I’m forty-seven.”
He seemed genuinely stunned. Once again he rattled the door in its frame as he leaned back against it. “Holy shit. Are you serious? I’m forty-eight. You look like, twenty years younger than me. Are you really that old?”
I admitted I was, but that I certainly didn’t mind him calling me son. Blushing prettily, I opened the door for him and we stepped outside. The half-dozen men who’d been hanging around, listening to the fucking and waiting to see who eventually emerged, scattered into the darkness like rats.
Usually at the baths I'm there for variety; I don't like to be pinned down to one guy, or feel as if I'm being monopolized. Likewise, I'm wary about taking up any guy's afternoon by keeping him in my company when he might want to be out and about, sampling other meat. With the bear, though, we formed a companionable partnership that afternoon. After we toweled off the sperm that seemed to be everywhere, we stuck together for a couple of more hours. While he showered, I filled out a slip of paper with my name and my email and phone number.
We then made out and sucked each other in the shower room while guys drifted in and out. I let him piss on my head there, in front of a crowd of a half-dozen, and then let him soap me up and lather me clean under the running shower head. He invited me back to his larger room, where we talked for a while, and made out, and fucked again. He placed me on my stomach and gave me an amazing and skilled deep-tissue massage that left me (literally, and embarrassingly) drooling.
And more importantly, we made some tentative plans to connect again when he gets back from a business trip.
Ah, the bears. Usually they tend to ignore me, like I said. But when I trap one, I'm a very happy man.
Friday, the lot was packed. I pulled in, parked my car, grabbed my flip-flops and the bottle of lube I keep in the glove compartment, and headed inside.
I don't hit the baths all that often. When was the last time? Eight months ago? But the guy who works the daytime shift at the counter recognized me. From behind his glasses he stared at me, then nodded. "Hey," I grinned at him, and then slipped my twenty beneath the glass for a regular room. He handed me a paper to sign, took my membership card, and buzzed me in. Only once I was inside the darkness, waiting at the counter for him to pass me my room key and towel, did he open his thickly-goateed mouth. "Enjoy yourself, now," he growled in a deep bass. Then he chuckled. "I know they'll enjoy you."
He's a flirt, that desk clerk. But he always gives me a choice room—this time, at the intersection of three heavily-trafficked hallways.
The baths are a hit-or-miss affair. So much depends on the crowd, and the mixture of the crowd is always a matter of timing, chance, and the whims of the locals. If it's a miserable day of rain or snow or ice, it could swing either way—people might be looking for a refuge from the weather and come for a day of sex with strangers, or they might equally be tempted to stay at home, warm and dry and alone. Fine weather might draw people out of their homes, but they could be inclined to head to the mall or the riverfront, as to the bathhouse. National holidays tend to be good—even Thanksgiving. Guys are off work, and guys get bored and mischievous, then. I was hoping that Friday, right around lunchtime, might attract a certain mature crowd looking to play before the start of the weekend. Or at least some hot unemployed men.
But still, it's always tough to tell what you'll get on any particular day at the bathhouse. You could have the time of your life. Or you could sit around for hours, diddling yourself and wondering why you came, when it's PERFECTLY OBVIOUS that everyone finds you OUTRAGEOUSLY UGLY and GROSSLY OBESE and RUNS at the sight of you.
Luckily, Friday was one of the former.
After laying out the sheet on my mattress in my room, then disrobing and slipping on my rubber cock rings and wrapping my threadbare towel around my midsection, I slipped out of the door and clopped down the hall in my flip-flops to the steam room. The steam room at this particular bath is large, and tiled from floor to ceiling, and divided into two roughly enclosures. I moved into the room's foggy far side, and climbed onto the upper shelf to wait. An older gentleman sat nearby; he didn't look at me when I took my place upon the tiles, removed my towel, and settled into a position with my legs spread and my forearms balanced upon the knees. I'd passed several guys in the hallway who'd given me the eyeball when I'd walked by. Several of them trailed in after me.
One was an older guy in his sixties with an enviably athletic build and a shaved head. Without asking, and without any resistance from me, he removed his towel and set it on the lower shelf, then knelt upon it and began to suck my dick. I hardened between his lips, then let him move his mouth up and down the shaft as he got it wetter and more rigid. The two men who had trailed in after him watched from nearby. One was another senior whose features I couldn't make out through the dense fog that was ramping up as the steamer pumped out clouds of vapor. He was tall, though, and definitely as old, or older than the man working on my dick. The other was a big, burly bear. Five-foot-nine and two-hundred-and-eighty pounds of very furry, masculine, bearded bear.
I found the bear instantly attractive in a god I want that one! kind of way. However much I find many of them attractive, though, bears don't tend to go for me. Or if they do, they certainly don't act upon it in person. As a matter of fact, when in my presence they manage to hide any interest pretty damned well. I kept trying to give this one the eye, and to invite him to come over and join in, but he sat down at a fair distance and watched, just like everyone else.
The older gent who'd been present in the room when I'd entered gathered his towel and left. My cocksucker rose, gave me a deep kiss, then grabbed his towel and did the same. By way of apology, he comically mimed wiping sweat off his forehead. It was getting warm in there; the boiler was at its peak, and I couldn't see more than two or three feet in front of me. Still rock hard and wanting a mouth on my meat, I pulled myself to the edge of the upper ledge and positioned myself so that I was sitting directly above the bear. He watched as I played with my nipples and masturbated myself lasciviously for him.
Finally, when I spread my legs invitingly as wide as they could possibly go, he stood up and positioned himself between them. Now that I could see him more clearly, I could tell how fucking cute the guy really was. He had to me about my age, but he had the impish eyes and cherry cheeks of a little boy. His beard was bushy, full, and dark. His chest was furry, though his round belly was perfectly smooth. From the bush of his pubes rose a stubby penis, fat, full, hard, and short.
I grabbed him by the dick and pulled him in. His mouth landed on mine; I found my lips surrounded by his mouth. His beard scratched my face, pleasantly. I inhaled his sweet scent of mouthwash and coffee traces as the breath from our lungs mingled. He groaned when I pinched and pulled at his nipples. Then I ran my right hand through his curly hair and pushed him down so that his face was at his dick. He opened his mouth, and engulfed it.
The older gentleman had done a really good job of sucking me. He was nothing, however, compared to the bear. My hips buckled at the feel of his mouth as he took me to the root. His mouth was so wide open that I thought he'd slurp in my balls, as well. When finally he backed off, the combination of the heat and the blow job left my head spinning. "You wanna fuck me?" he wanted to know.
Did I! "Yeah," I grunted. "Want to go back to my room?"
I didn't have to ask twice. I was streaming water when we left the steam room. I didn't even bother to wait to get back; I removed my town and walked, hard-on bouncing painfully, down the hallway as I dried off my shoulders and back. Several men watched as we disappeared into the darkness of the little cubicle with the number 50 on its door.
"Gawd," said the bear. "You’ve got the perfect dick, fucker." He sat heavily on the bed and grabbed it, pulling me to him. "The perfect dick. It's fucking big, too. How long is it?" I told him, and he shook his head. "I want it in me."
I leaned down for another of his kisses. I loved the feel of his beard against mine. "I was hoping I would get with you," I told him, quite honestly. "I saw you walk in that room, and I thought to myself, I've gotta get some of that."
"No shit? I'm just a furry fat dude." He seemed incredulous, despite my assertion that he was far more than a furry fat dude. "You clean?" I told him I was. ""Because I'm thinking I want you to sperm me up."
"You want it bareback?" I asked.
"Only done it that way with one other buddy," he said. "But yeah. I don't wanna pass up this shot. You wanna bareback me?"
Again, he didn't have to ask twice. I had been turning him onto his knees as he spoke. He lay face down on the bed, clutched the pauper's pillow between his arms to prop up his chin, and groaned as I fingered some lube into his butt. When I pushed between those big, furry cheeks, he grabbed for his bottle of poppers and inhaled deeply. I could feel his muscles relax to admit me as I slid deeper. "Oh fuck," he said, over and over again. "Oh fuck. I've never had one this big. Fucking amazing."
I was all the way in. As he told me how rarely he'd been fucked—apparently the last time had been eight months prior—I was a little surprised how elastic and smooth he was. He didn't clench down, or resist my thrusts, or betray any discomfort when I increased the depth with which I'd pull out and shove back in. He didn't seem to feel pain when I would hold myself in him at the deepest point, and swell my dick by clamping down on the floor of my pelvis. All he did was hold one of my hands like a lifeline, breath heavily, and moan with pleasure.
"You like it, don't you, stud?" I growled in his ear.
"Yes," he cried. "You don't know how long I've needed this, buddy. You don't know how bad. Where are you from?" he asked, suddenly. I told him, still keeping up the rhythm of my thrusting, and asked where he lived. He was from Ohio, he told me. An hour and a half away. "But if you could ever host, or meet me here, I would totally drive up for more of this—anytime. An-y-time," he repeated, drawing out each syllable. He sounded, quite honestly, so happy at the way my dick was making him feel that he was close to tears.
"Then I'll have to give you my number," I told him. "Because I find you so fucking attractive that I'd love to see more of you."
The news pleased him. It pleased him so much that he clamped down on my meat like a pair of hands and began to milk it. I wasn't going to last much longer. "Let me sit on it," he suggested.
Anything to extend the pleasure. I got on my back. He mounted me, putting his considerable weight on my midsection as his hole grabbed onto my dick. I like a guy's weight on me. I particularly love a bear's weight on me—it makes me feel tiny, and compact, which is something that an ungainly, long-limbed fellow like me rarely gets to experience. His fat dick rubbed against my stomach as he rode me. I could tell that the feelings for him were even more intense in this position than they had been when I'd been ramming into him. "I'm going to shoot," he warned me.
"Do it," I commanded.
He continued to ride back and forth and up and down, more and more vigorously. His excitement tickled mine. I found myself very much on the edge as he rode closer and closer to orgasm. When he came, it was without having touched himself once; he shot a blast of cum squarely into my face. That alone pushed me over. I began to unload into him, loudly, as he continued to groan and squirm on top of me. Finally, wary of opening my eyes while his copious sperm was still dripping down my face, I let him wipe me off before I looked at him. "Holy fuck," he said.
"Holy fuck," I agreed. "Shit!"
He didn't stay on me long. When he stood up, I lay on my stomach on the mattress and took his still-hard cock in my mouth, cleaning off the rest of the sperm that was lingering there. His back slammed against the cubicle door. He rested there for long minutes while I nursed at his dick, enjoying the way it filled my mouth. Like most big men, he was actually much bigger than he appeared. I felt guilty for thinking of him as stubby and short, when it was obvious that he had a good seven inches on him.
When I pulled off his dick, finally, he pushed me back and ran his hand through my steam-wet, long hair. “I didn’t expect to come here and rob the cradle today,” he said, pulling my face against his extended, rotund belly in a way that made my dick sit up and take notice. “You don’t mind being with an older guy? How old are you, son? Thirty-one? Thirty-two?”
I might’ve thought he was teasing, or attempting to flatter me, but his tone was completely serious. I was flattered, though. Very flattered. Still, I snorted. “I’m forty-seven.”
He seemed genuinely stunned. Once again he rattled the door in its frame as he leaned back against it. “Holy shit. Are you serious? I’m forty-eight. You look like, twenty years younger than me. Are you really that old?”
I admitted I was, but that I certainly didn’t mind him calling me son. Blushing prettily, I opened the door for him and we stepped outside. The half-dozen men who’d been hanging around, listening to the fucking and waiting to see who eventually emerged, scattered into the darkness like rats.
Usually at the baths I'm there for variety; I don't like to be pinned down to one guy, or feel as if I'm being monopolized. Likewise, I'm wary about taking up any guy's afternoon by keeping him in my company when he might want to be out and about, sampling other meat. With the bear, though, we formed a companionable partnership that afternoon. After we toweled off the sperm that seemed to be everywhere, we stuck together for a couple of more hours. While he showered, I filled out a slip of paper with my name and my email and phone number.
We then made out and sucked each other in the shower room while guys drifted in and out. I let him piss on my head there, in front of a crowd of a half-dozen, and then let him soap me up and lather me clean under the running shower head. He invited me back to his larger room, where we talked for a while, and made out, and fucked again. He placed me on my stomach and gave me an amazing and skilled deep-tissue massage that left me (literally, and embarrassingly) drooling.
And more importantly, we made some tentative plans to connect again when he gets back from a business trip.
Ah, the bears. Usually they tend to ignore me, like I said. But when I trap one, I'm a very happy man.
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