Cock-Eyed

One of my Sunday-morning questions yesterday reminded me of a story that took place in Toronto, years ago.

It was during the late nineteen-nineties that I discovered the city of Toronto as a good sex vacation destination. The U.S. economy was so strong then that one could get almost two Canadian dollars to the U.S. dollar, even at the crappiest exchange spots. It was a cheap, cheap vacation. And in Detroit, I lived all of ten minutes from the Canadian border. I knew plenty of people who thought absolutely nothing of popping across the river for a dinner in a foreign country.

I wasn’t one of them. Even before 9/11, when crossing from one country to another was still a simple matter of presenting your driver’s license, answering a couple of vague questions, and being waved blithely through, I would get the flop sweats whenever I’d go through Customs. Maybe it was the way the Canadians would peer at me when I rolled down my window and would ask if I was carrying any firearms. Maybe it was the way the U.S. officers would peer around in all four corners of the interior of my Malibu as if I was harboring Canadian wetbacks scheming to enter the country and take all of the red-blooded American jobs in the logging and donut shop industry, eh.

Or it might have been that until that point, the only reason I had for going to Canada was for drug smuggling. Oh yes. I was a drug smuggler. I needed the stuff I could get only over the border. I needed it bad. Especially in the spring and autumn. I’m talking about, Claritin, here. Yes, the allergy drug.

In my country at the time, it was a prescription-only pharmaceutical. You had to jump through hoops and go into the doctor regularly to get a regular supply. In Canada, you could just walk into any drugstore and cheaply (so cheaply!) buy as much of the stuff as you liked. I’m not at all convinced it was illegal to bring back Claritin from Canada into the States, but I was reluctant to declare it at the border, and paranoid about being busted with the stuff, so I’d shove it under the seat (I didn’t say I was a very good drug smuggler) and flop-sweat through the interrogation I was sure to face at the border. Then somehow I discovered the world of Toronto and its gay district, and the trips there made having to be grilled by men and women in uniform all worthwhile.

Toronto had a very concentrated gay district back then—several blocks up and down Church Street that was nothing but gay bars and baths and gay-owned restaurants. It’s still there, but it’s not as long a stretch, and it’s not as gay. My favorite bathhouse was The Barracks, a leather and wild-side-oriented establishment (since closed) that was a bit like a bathhouse opened up in a couple of old downtown brownstones. It was so far from Church Street, though, that I’d have to plan my visits to that side of town. When I wanted a spontaneously, late-night whoring session, I’d choose the Bijou, which was near the gay district and my hotel.

I’ve written before about my other favorite spot, the old Toronto Bijou. When I started visiting, it was still calling itself a bar—though basically it was a clothes-on basement bathhouse that served alcohol. There were booths down there with peepholes and gloryholes carved in every surface, including the doors; there were labyrinths of hallways that led to dark corners where men fucked and sucked. There was a large, open pitch-black room that could only be accessed through a series of increasingly-darker rooms leading to its interior. And between bellyfuls of semen, men could hit the bar for drinks. (Later, after the place was raided, the bar was removed and the place was officially classified as a bathhouse.)

My favorite room in the Bijou, though—and I’ve written about this before, too—was the slurp ramp. The slurp ramp was a walled platform accessible by stairs, around all sides of which were holes right at cock height. Men standing below the slurp ramp would find these holes were right at mouth height.

Well. You can imagine what went on. As much as I love fucking—and my readers know I love fucking—I also love sucking cock, and the slurp ramp afforded me the opportunity to exercise that side of my personality. I loved standing in the darkness behind the ramp for hours, claiming my gloryhole, and sucking off anybody who stepped up to it. Sometimes at the end of the night I’d exit the Bijou and find my shirt covered with dried semen. Caked with it, really. And that would’ve been just a small portion of the stuff I’d actually swallowed.

One night I was working the ramp from the suck side when a total stallion of a man climbed up on top. He wasn’t tall, but he was built like crazy. His biceps were roughly the size of my neck; his hands, as they clutched the top of the slurp ramp wall, were enormous and meaty. He looked like a living Tom of Finland illustration, all overblown muscles and hyper-exaggerated masculinity. The only light in that room came from a TV screen in the room’s front. It was possible to see how fucking handsome this guy was in its dim bluish light. He had a shaved head and the dark, thick eyebrows of a Greek native. He regarded the throngs of hungry cocksuckers below with a critical eye. Like the many guys around me who wanted a piece of him, I looked up at him with adoration and prayed that he’d pick me.

He didn’t. He picked the guy at the hole next to mine, a good-looking boy in a tank top. I watched as the guy’s cock disappeared down my neighbor’s throat, envious. I wasn’t envious for long, though, because the Greek saw me watching. He put his free hand on my head—his other hand was on the boy’s crown. He riffled my hair, holding me still and indicating through his body language that I shouldn’t go anywhere. Then he pulled out of the boy’s mouth, put his dick through my hole, and fed me.

His dick wasn’t long, but it was thick and uncut and hard as stone. I could taste the other boy’s spit on it, but I didn’t care. I just wanted that meat. I sucked him all the way down and gave it my best effort, and was rewarded when I heard him grunt with pleasure. He withdrew again, and fed the boy some more.

Back and forth between the two holes he went. The boy and I were his chosen mouths, and he liked us both. Eventually the boy came over to my hole and we slobbered over the Greek’s dick together, making out and letting our tongues flick against the other’s. The boy was into me, too. His hands thrust down my shorts to haul out my dick; he was well-hung himself. When the Greek would take one of our heads and thrust it down on his tool, the other would go down to our knees. I’d suck the boy hard and deep while he was on the Greek, and he gave me some of the same treatment when it was my turn to service.

We all lasted like that for a very long time, while around us men pushed by and lingered and watched and tried to get in on the action. Eventually, though, I could tell the Greek was picking up the pace. His grunting increased, until he sounded like a pig rutting; the amount of precum flowing from his dick went from rivulet to gushing stream. And his thrusts got more and more violent. At one point he was holding the back of my head while he powered his dick down my throat, before releasing me as I started to gag and doing the same to the other boy. “I’m gettin’ close,” he said. When he spoke, it was with a thick and unexpected accent.

He grabbed the back of my head, and pulled it down, hard, onto his cock. He’d been aiming for my mouth, of course. But whether I’d turned the wrong way on my trip up from between the other boy’s legs, or whether he was just too hasty in his thrusting, all I know is that I felt—rather suddenly and inexplicably—the jarring sensation of bone (his) against bone (my skull), a blinding flash of purple light, and a hell of a lot of pain from my left eye socket. The pain was so awful for a moment that for a moment I wasn’t even sure that my eyeball was still there. Clutching my face, I staggered backward into a wall of bodies, the men who’d been surrounded the pair of us as we’d been servicing the Greek. Neither of my partners seemed to notice I’d left.

Cursing and panicking, I managed to make my way to the men’s room. It was the only place inside the Bijou that was lit. My eye was streaming with tears and I panicked to see a lot of fluid on my chest. For some reason I was convinced it was squishy eyeball juice. Reason eventually took over and I figured out it was just a mixture of cum, precum, and general slobber. It seemed to be taking forever for my left eye to come back into focus, however. After a moment and some hunting along the surface of my eyeball (once I could open my lids), I realized that I’d lost my contact lens. It didn’t seem to have been pushed elsewhere on my eye (other contact lens wearers will know what I’m talking about, here). I didn’t want to get all dramatic at two a.m., but there I was in a foreign country, with only one contact lens and a difference in vision between left and right that was eye-watering at best and maddening at worst. I didn’t have my spectacles back at the hotel—they were sitting on my bedside table at home. And I had to drive back to Detroit the day after.

So I did what any sensible faggot did. I sighed, shrugged my shoulders, figured I’d work it out in the morning, and went back to a sucking dick, cock-eyed, for another two hours. I stumbled back to the hotel at roughly four-thirty in the morning, smelling like the inside of someone’s jock.

Yeah. Good times.

What I learned from that experience, though: seriously, don’t let someone fuck you in the eye socket. It hurts like hell and bursts a few blood vessels. Also, carry your eyeglasses with you in case of emergency, when you travel, as well as a pair of spare contact lenses. And finally, if you do lose your contact lens, head to the nearest optometrist. They’ll call your doctor, get a confirmation of your prescription, and give you a sample lens, gratis.

Whether or not you make up some fictional story about losing it while drinking, or tell them that you lost it at the Bijou’s slurp ramp . . . that’s up to you.

The Cellar

Part of the reason my recent trip to Toronto wasn’t an outright fuckfest is that I was traveling with a few other people—friends who were also there for Toronto Pride. My propensity to flirt with both sexes and pick up guys isn’t exactly unknown to them. When I would announce that I was going to take the evening to myself, it was a bit like watching an old VH-1 Pop-up Video bit in which over each of their would appear a little thought balloon with the word Slut! in the middle.

I’m not the kind of guy who throws his sexual conquests in the faces of others, however. (I just blog about them for thousands worldwide to read.) So even if I’m not as completely on the down-low as I’d like to believe, I’m also not the sort who stands at the dinner table and announces, “Well, chums, I beg your pardon, but I’ve got some boyhole to split.”

One of the friends I’ve mentioned before in here, whom I’ll call Matt, is a little more aware of my sexual adventures than the others. Early on in the vacation he asked if I’d take him with me to one of Toronto’s bathhouses. On our last night, I took him aside after dinner and said, “You know, if you want to do the baths still, tonight’s got to be the night. Are you in?”

He was. He wanted to do Steamworks, where I generally have a good time and thought that he would enjoy himself. After dinner and dessert, when we finally separated ourselves from our other two friends, he began to chicken out. “Steamworks is going to be filled with muscle guys who won’t want to pay attention to me,” he said. “Plus we’ll have to buy a membership. That adds up.”

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s do The Cellar instead. It’s cheaper, and there’s no membership.”

“I don’t think I’ll like the Cellar,” he said.

“You liked the last time you were here.”

“I’ve never been there.”

I almost stopped in the street to stare. “You went to it twice,” I reminded him. “You went once by yourself, and then went back the next night with me because you liked it so much.”

“No I didn’t.”

I could have argued it with him, because I knew I was one hundred percent right, but I didn’t. Instead we opened the almost invisible black door on Wellesley (honestly, you’d never know it was there unless you were aiming for it—it’s like searching for Platform 9 3/4 for the train to Hogwarts) and clomped down to the basement, where the guy behind the cage asked Matt if he’d ever visited there before.

“No,” said Matt.

“Yes, he has,” I assured him.

The poor guy didn’t know who to believe, so he went through his whole spiel about the facilities. Then he buzzed us in.

“Oh,” said Matt, the moment we were through the door and standing in a dark hallway lined with lockers. “Now I remember.”

Doofus.

The night’s encounters can be summed up in roughly three acts.



Act I: The Free-for-All

After I’d removed my clothing and changed into some cheap flip-flops from my bag (Matt: “It’s like you came prepared or something!” Me: “Um, yes.”), I made a circuit around the bathhouse. The Cellar is known not for its amenities, exactly, but for the dimness of the lights within. Save for the showers, everything is dark. The rooms are murky pits where it’s hard to see anything more than vague and indefinite shapes. The hallways can be almost completely black. In the center of the facility is a small set of gloryhole booths in which it’s possible to slip into the darkness and seem little more than a shadow yourself. I noticed there were several guys watching the film in the movie theater, a few more in various rooms, sprawled on their beds, and several milling around just as I was.

I also noticed, after a few minutes, that I’d developed something of a trail of men behind me. I was like the Pied Piper of The Cellar, playing the skin flute and beckoning all the men within hearing to follow my path into the darkness. I paused in the darkest of the hallways, completely enveloped in the darkness, and leaned against the walls.

I didn’t have long to wait. I felt an invisible hand on my face, and a pair of lips on mine. Someone with a goatee and a shaved head was kissing me softly, and gently, and with a lot of passion. He moved slightly as someone else knelt down on the floor to remove my towel and take my dick in his mouth.

Within a few seconds I had more men crowding in on me. A few were handling my dick while the unseen cocksucker continued to service it; someone played with my hole. There was a mouth on one nipple, and then another mouth on the other. I was being attacked by hungry carnivores. I saw Matt turn the corner and see me at the center of it all, then adjust his towel and walk away.

Conceited as it sounds, the phenomenon of being beset upon in a bathhouse like this isn’t novel to me. It’s not because I’m particularly attractive or have the best body. I have no illusions of being a stud. It was simply because I was the fresh meat, and because I let myself be approachable. So many guys in the baths spend a lot of time stalking around, arms crossed, not doing anything. I tend to walk in and let possibilities happen. When the action starts, it cascades. Men cluster up and join in. All it takes is one person for all that to happen. I’m absolutely willing to be that person.

All during the free-for-all, guys were coming and going, joining in. Men took turns on my dick, but I was too given over to the pleasure of it all to keep track of how many, or who. The guy I was most into was the bald guy; eventually I pulled my dick out of some cocksucker’s mouth and knelt down on the ground to suck the man who’d been kissing me so passionately and well. He groaned with delight as he face-fucked me with his uncut dick. I stroked the sides of his balls and tickled his asshole until he came, long and hard, in my mouth. Then he pulled me up to my feet, shoved me against the wall, and plunged his tongue in my mouth, sharing the last traces of his own sperm with me.

Afterward, he did something unexpected. He turned me around, pressed me against the wall again, and covered my neck and shoulders with the lightest of kisses. Then he did the same to my chest, my chin, the front of my neck and shoulders, my cheeks, my forehead, and my nose. The little touches of his lips against my skin were so soft and sweet that I shivered in delight. It was ironic, I thought, that I’d visited one of the sleazier baths in Toronto simply for the pleasure of butterfly kisses on my skin. But it was the nicest moment of all the sex I had while I was there.



After that liberating experience, though, I had a frustrating encounter with Matt. I walked out of the dark hallway to find him putting on his clothes in the locker room. “Are you going?” I asked.

“There’s no reason for me to stay here.” He slammed his locker shut and tossed his shoes on the floor. “Not if you’re going to take all the guys.”

There wasn’t a lot I could really do to counter the pissy mood. I tried pointing out that the only reason I’d had ‘all the guys’ on me was because I’d been receptive to playing. I also pointed out that if he’d, oh, stood beside me instead of walking away in a huff, he could’ve shared in the bounty. In the end, though, he walked out somewhat angry at me, and I let him go. It’s not my job to babysit and handhold.



Act II: The Asian Bottom

I’d noticed the Asian bottom in his room when I’d passed earlier in the evening. He was short, and lean, and lightly muscular. His left arm was completely covered with a sleeve of tattoos, and hung over the side of the bed where he lay face down, pointing at the door. Even in the dark I could tell he was good looking. I paused in the opening of his room. He beckoned me in, and I removed my towel.

Almost instantly his mouth was on my dick. He sucked badly, and with too much teeth, but it wasn’t bad enough to make me pull out. Besides, it wasn’t his mouth I intended to stay in for very long. Within moments, he was on his knees, pointing his boy-like ass at my dick. I slid in.

“I love your big white dick in me,” he gasped with a little bit of an accent. I’d barely touched bottom, though, when suddenly his body began to quiver. Little droplets of cum sprayed against the wall as he shot without warning. “Fuck yes,” he said, immediately hopping off me and handing me my towel.

The total amount of time I was in him: maybe all of thirty seconds. At least he had fun.



Act III: The Man from Montreal

He could have been French, actually. All I knew is that he was a fucking hot little slab of manflesh covered in muscle, sporting a bald head and a tattoo shaped like a barcode imprinted at the back of his neck. Unlike everyone else in the facility, he’d shunned a towel and walked and lounged around completely naked, save for a metal cockring, a pair of heavy black workboots, and some thick brown socks poking out of their tops.

The Man from Montreal been part of the group play in the back hallway, and was probably the hottest guy in the entire bathhouse, but I hadn’t gotten a chance to get any one-on-one time with him until later in the evening. I saw him stare at me as I passed through the movie room on the way back from the showers; he followed me to the warren of gloryholes. Once I’d slipped into the shadows, he sank down to his knees and began sucking my dick.

He was one of the noisiest suckers I’ve ever encountered. Every time my knob reached the back of his throat, he’d gag and choke and sputter, spraying spit all over my pubes and nuts. When I reached down to play with his eraser-like nipples, he groaned and began beating furiously at his cock. And when I squeezed his nipples and simultaneously began to fuck his mouth, he was in heaven. “Harder!” he said, in a heavy French accent. I savaged his nips, squeezing them so hard I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d burst, much less bruised. “Harder!”

He didn’t last long under the nipple torture. When he came, it was so violently that he fell against me and pushed me into the opposite partition, hard; the entire gloryhole booth structure shuddered from the impact. He remained on all fours for a moment, then struggled up to his feet. His sweaty arms clasped around my neck for the briefest of moments as he clung to me, his smooth head on my chest. Then he said, “Messy!” and vanished.

I thought it was to clean up. Then I realized he’d actually been thanking me, in French.

Even though I hadn’t shot the entire time I was at The Cellar, it was late enough that I decided to head back to my hotel. I’d put back on my polo shirt and shorts when the Man from Montreal joined me at his own locker, almost right next to mine. In his baggy athletic clothing he looked even more Frenchified than he had naked. The little pair of rectangular black glasses he stuck on his face gave the impression that I could find him eating croissants and reading French literary theory at some outdoor cafe, during the daylight hours.

He followed me up the stairs, out of The Cellar, and into the muggy Toronto summer night. At the Wellesley stop light, he stood beside me with his hands in his pocket, looking somewhat sheepish. It seemed we were both headed in the same direction, and I thought he was perhaps a little embarrassed to be seen with me in the street’s lights.

At the subway stop I paused when he did. We faced each other a little awkwardly for a moment. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it, shook his head, and smiled. I smiled back at him. “Thanks. And have a nice night,” I told him in benediction, before entering the station, with its rush of noise and air from the speeding train below.

Then I watched him turn, wave, and continue his walk down the street.

Mr. Dangerous

There’s a certain breed of guy who lurks on the online hookup sites. His profile contains several carefully-chosen photos of himself—face, torso, ass, whatever—and a minimum of information. He’ll engage in conversation, particularly if you tell him he has a beautiful face, torso, ass, or whatever, and make the vaguest of noises about meeting sometime. Enough noises to keep hope alive, or keep you on the hook, but not enough ever actually to commit.

He’s the kind of guy, in other words, who seems to be online looking for some kind of validation from others. Validation that he’s pretty enough, sexy enough, fuckable enough. He enjoys hearing the compliments, especially from the guys he finds attractive. He rarely hooks up, though. I’m not fond of those men, myself. They’re the styrofoam peanuts you have to dig through in order to find the elusive delivery inside. Like the peanuts, they’re messy and clingy and all over the place. But you know, my philosophy is that someone else can tell me what I can and can’t do with one of my online profiles when they’re playing my monthly fee to belong to that site. And since they ain’t, nay-sayers should keep their mouth shut. So I mostly do.

My second night in Toronto, though, was full of those guys. I had some downtime after an early dinner in which I was cruising BBRT and coming up absolutely dry. None of the men who’d promised they’d be around and available that evening was online. One guy whom I found extraordinarily attractive talked to me for a good fifteen minutes about how he was close by and wanted me to come over, and was I interested? Heck yes, I was interested. Sounds like I could be there in five minutes, I wrote him. Give me your address.

Then nothing. He'd been responding within seconds to every other note we'd swapped, but though his profile said he was still online, he didn't communicate at all.

It was over an hour before I got a response back. During that time I went from a mindset of Oh, he’ll be writing back soon to Maybe he’s in the shower, getting ready, to Fucker. When finally he did get back to me, he told me that he had to clean up and get ready, and that it would be maybe an hour and fifteen minutes more, would that be okay?

It was not okay. Sorry, but no. Good luck, I replied.

During that long waiting time, I discovered that my BBRT profile had shot up to the most-viewed profile of the day. It’s happened to me enough times that it’s not a novelty—usually when I’m traveling and I’m the ‘fresh meat’ in a new big city—but it’s always a pleasant surprise when it does. The site displays your photo on its front page, and my experience has been that your mailbox simply explodes with people telling you how hot you are. Not just the local guys, but men all over the world.

On one level it’s kind of gratifying to know that at this point in the site’s history, just about as many people have looked at my profile as have looked at porn star Brad McGuire’s. On another level, when you’re alone by yourself in a hotel room, having extricated yourself from your travel companions in order to do a little screwing, having over two hundred guys singing your praises without actually offering to take your dick gets to be frustrating to the point of actual comedy.

Then finally a local guy messaged me. His profile photos were hot to the point of intimidation—they showed a starkly handsome thirty-five year old with pronounced, angular features. His intense eyes seemed to bore out of the computer screen. The soul patch beneath his lower lip was the only hair on his shaved head. His body was buff and muscular and made him look like an adult industry model. He could have been, for all I knew, the way he posed in his photos in nothing but boots and skin covered in ink. He looked hard. Like a bad boy. Dangerous.

Come fuck me, he said, naming the cross-streets to which he was closest. Now.

The frightened part of me that comes to life whenever I’m intimidated by a man’s good looks wrote my reply. You realize I’m not built like you, right?

You’re hot, he wrote back. Come over. When he gave me his address, I realized that if I didn’t follow through on this one, I would be one of those men who hung around on the site looking for validation, instead of action. So I obeyed.

His apartment was expensive and furnished similarly. It looked as if a decorator had swept through only moments before, adjusting the glass vases of flowers and wiping the last fingerprints from the glass dining table. And there was Mr. Dangerous on the living room sofa, on his knees with his ass in the air. There was enough light for me to see one of his hands playing with his sizeable dick, while the other rubbed his hole. “Come in,” he said in a brusque, deep voice. “Get comfortable.”

I kicked off my sneakers on my walk over to him. I almost expected him to be in a druggy haze, but he was lucid and clear-headed. “You like what you see?”

“Oh hell yeah,” I said into the quiet.

“It’s all yours. You rim?”

I didn’t have to be asked twice. I went down on my knees and separated those beautiful butt cheeks with my hands so I could bury my face inside. He grunted and shifted his weight from knee to knee as I sucked away at his hole. His hairy balls and the base of his dick kept banging against my chin as he gyrated away.

“Fuck,” he said. “I fucking needed this. Guys always want me to top. I love topping, but sometimes I really need to be stretched out and bred by a big one. You know?”

I couldn’t honestly say I did. It didn’t matter, though, because suddenly he wheeled around on the sofa. We were face to face, both of us on our knees. Without warning, he pulled my face to his and began making out with me.

The guy wasn’t the greatest of kissers, but the shock of finding my fuzzy beard pressed against his handsome face made it hot. “You rim great,” he growled at me. “Now let’s see how you fuck.”

I tend to get rock-hard when I eat ass, especially for an extended period of time. When I stood up to let him slather my dick with the lube he had on the coffee table, I was dripping with precum. “Stick it in there,” he said, leaping around to present his ass once more. “Rip it up. Make me feel it.” He was still talking like that when I pushed against his hole and began to slide in. “Yeah, fucking big dick. Rape this tiny hole. Make me fucking feel it stretching my pussy.”

When I reached the base, he let out a long, almost unending sigh, like a balloon deflating slowly. “Yes,” he hissed. “That’s what I needed.”

“Feel good?” I asked. It did to me. The guy’s hole was warm and tight and inviting. I could have stayed in there a long time.

He shook his head as if clearing stars from his eyes. “Fuck yeah. Feels great, man.”

Mr. Dangerous held himself upright and craned his neck over his shoulder so we could kiss again. Then I pushed him down so I could fuck him on all fours. For a good ten minutes I slid in and out of his hole, figuring out what he liked best. He responded the most whenever I pull out all the way and plunge in again, or tease him by moving only the first two inches in and out of his hole. “I can feel that big head stretching my boypussy wide open, fucker,” he groaned. “Give it to me, daddy.”

It might have been that he was figuring out what buttons of mine to push as well, because the daddy-talk got more pronounced and nastier the longer I fucked. I felt like my skin was flushed and prickly; every hair on my arms and neck seemed to be standing on edge the closer I got to climax. “Big daddy dick invading my little hole,” he muttered, with his head hanging low to the sofa. “Fucking me like a real man fucks. Giving his boy what he needs. Fuck. Give it to me, Please give it all to me, daddy. I need it. I want it. Give it to me.”

It was to that muttered supplication that I unloaded inside him, grunting noisily and letting almost-painful rasps of air from deep within my lungs. He urged me on through the last spurt. Then he said, “Stay inside—please don’t pull out. Don’t pull out. I gotta feel that load inside me. I love your daddy dick stretch me—oh fuck . . . fuck . . . .”

He came like a bronco, bucking and jerking and thrashing around so violently that not only did my dick flop out of him, but a rope of my cum squirted out of his hole and onto the floor as well. He managed to catch his own load before it hit the expensive upholstery, though, and knelt there for a moment, panting.

Still out of breath, he hopped onto his feet, grabbed a hand towel from the coffee table, and offered it to me. Then he took another for himself and wiped off his face and bald skull with it. “Fuck. That’s what I’m talking about,” he said, laughing. “I needed that bad. You ever get the feeling that you need a good fuck to sort you out, but you can’t find one to save your life?”

My mouth wrinkled in wry agreement. I knew that feeling well. I did indeed.

Piggy-Minded

In his profile he described himself as muscular, piggy-minded, handsome, versatile, and a great attitude. His photos portrayed a well-built guy with a round bubble butt posing in tight underwear, or standing in front of his sling in a casual posed, arms clutching onto the frame in a way that showed off his guns. But photos sometimes lie, you know. Or they might have been true at one point, but when you show up to the guy’s place, you find out he’s aged a good fifteen years and fifty pounds since.

The hotel where I was staying in Toronto this last weekend was a little bit off the beaten track; it was downtown, but not in the direct epicenter of gay nightlife. I was convinced I’d hate the location, but I actually didn’t. A subway stop lay nearby, so all I had to do to get anywhere was step out of the hotel’s leaded-glass front door, walk across the street and a half-block north, and I could get where I needed to be within ten or fifteen minutes. When I walked to the muscle guy’s address from the College station stop, crowds were streaming to and from Church Street, where the Friday night Pride parties had begun. Although the soundstage was several blocks away, the bass pounded my ribcage so loudly that it made me feel a little breathless.

I made it past Church Street and the piano bar to the guy’s high-rise, where he buzzed me in and gave me his apartment number. To my relief, when he answered the door, he was exactly as he’d appeared in his ad. Beefy, handsome, bald, and beaming at the sight of me. “Wow, you’re tall,” were his first words. “Handsome, too.”

My first words, logically, should’ve been man, you’re short! His photos hadn’t given much indication as to his height, but my first Toronto trick was a short little dude. Well-proportioned, certainly, and handsome as well, but he still topped out only at about five-foot-five. I couldn’t believe the muscles on him, though, or the perfect shininess of his bald head. He grabbed my hand in his and gave it a mighty squeeze. “Nice to meet you,” I said. I leaned down, and brought my mouth to his. His lips parted slightly to accommodate mine, and we kissed. It was a good kiss—wet and soft, with enough tongue to make me respond with passion.

He fell back against his hallway wall with a thud, craning his neck to make out with me for a moment. “Wow,” he said softly. Then, “Come on in.”

The apartment was tiny—despite a closed bedroom door, it was barely a step above an efficiency. The view of Church Street directly below couldn’t be rivaled, though. Music and the sounds of the crowd drifted up a dozen stories over his balcony rails and into the dark living room, where my new friend was removing his muscle-T and stripping down to a black jock. Before I’d arrived he’d laid out several towels on his futon. Now he hopped up on top of them and beckoned me over. “Let me see that big dick,” he said.

I obliged. My hands pulled at the denim of my jeans and popped open first the button, and then lowered the zipper. My friend licked his lips a little in anticipation. “Fuck,” he said, when it flopped out. “That’s way bigger than eight.”

I shrugged. I didn’t think so. I’d shaved my nuts and trimmed my pubes before I’d left for Toronto, though, so that might have contributed to the impression. I’m not over-concerned with my size in general. I’m bigger than most, smaller than a lot, and fortunate to have a piece that attracts attention wherever I go. That’s really all the inches I need.

What did matter to me was his mouth, which was wet, warm, and more than willing. He gobbled at my dick like a starving man, slobbering over it, fighting with his own inhibitions and throat to take all of it down. I let my camo shorts fall to my ankles, then stepped out of them while he sucked and slurped. He didn’t notice when I removed my T-shirt and shivered slightly in the breeze of the room fan.

“God.” His eyes were glazed with lust and desire when he looked up at me. “That dick is fucking amazing.”

“It will be,” I promised. I lowered myself onto the sofa on top of him, grinding my meat against his pecs as the two of us made out some more. The man was really a very good kisser. I could have lain atop him and enjoyed the taste of his lips for hours. I had other plans, though, and limited time before the man’s boyfriend arrived home. With my hands I indicated that he should flip over. Without hesitation he presented his ass to me. I ran my palms over the perfect globes. He let out a sigh and rested his forehead against the sofa cushions, anticipating my lips against his hole. I didn’t deny him the pleasure for long. His ass tasted of soap and clean, natural sweat; the light hairs growing around it lingered on my tongue as I sucked on it. Whenever I blew a column of cool air on the wet skin, he gasped and arched his back.

Soon he was ready to fuck. “I’m going to need a lot of lube,” he gasped out. “I’m always very tight—aaaahh.” I’d already lubed him plenty with my mouth. A bit more spit on my dick was all I needed. “Oh fuck . . . fuck . . . yes. Maybe I was wrong about the lube,” he breathed.

I know how to judge when a man needs more lube, and when he doesn’t. I know when he’s ready to be fucked, and when he’s had enough. That’s why I get paid the big bucks. I helped the guy’s tight and muscled body down onto the futon and mounted him with my knees on either side of his, and began to glide in and out.

All through the first fuck he was extremely vocal. “Oh my god,” he kept saying, in a voice of wonder. “Oh my god. I haven’t . . . it's been too long. . . .” Gradually, as my pace and vigor increased, he was reduced to little whimperings. His hands reached for a pillow high above his head. “Please,” he whispered. “Please. Please. Please.”

For a good twenty-five minutes I fucked him. I made him squat on it, so that I could sit upright with him and make out as I ground my dick in his hole while we made out. I perched him at the sofa’s edge and drove in from behind. I even took him out on the balcony and made him clutch the rail while we fucked in the darkness outside. We were on the sofa, fucking doggie-style, when I realized how close I was. I leaned down and nipped at his ear, and then whispered into it, “You know I’m going to breed you.”

“Yes,” he said, his breath catching.

“Ask for it,” I told him.

“Please breed me.”

“Ask me nicely.”

“Please. Please breed me.” His voice had been weak and submissive, but suddenly grew steely and demanding. “Mark me,” he commanded.

That was what I needed to hear. My dick unleashed, flooding cum in his guts. I almost accidentally fell out before I was done, and had to shove deep inside to deposit the rest of the load there.

He twitched, and shuddered, just as I did during the last throes of the orgasm. “Oh fuck,” he said, when I pulled out. There was something in the tone of his voice that made me ask what was wrong. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “I’m just rock hard. I never get hard when I’m being fucked. I mean, absolutely never.”

I sat down and pulled one leg beneath me, and settled him so that he was lying down with his head on my chest. I reached down and stroked his dick, which was small, but hard and dripping with precum. “Why not?”

“Because I—I just don’t,” he said. “Most guys with big dicks like yours just pound away but leave me feeling dead. You—fuck.” His eyes were wet with tears. He bit his lip. “Thank you.”

“What’s the matter?” I asked, moved by his obvious emotion.

“That was fucking transformative,” he said. “I haven’t had anyone fuck me like that in a long, long time. Seriously. Believe me.”

He was still on the point of tears, and turned his head so that I wouldn’t see his embarrassment. With my hand I turned his handsome bald head back to face mine, and then covered his lips with mine. “It’s okay,” I told him, still squeezing his leaking meat.

“Do you mind if I shoot?” he asked. “When I don’t get hard with other guys. . . .”

“Of course I don’t mind,” I assured him.

And that’s how he shot that night, lying in my arms while I made out with him and squeezed his nipples. His orgasm was violent and noisy, blocking out the sounds of thousands of people and the heaviest of bass beats with his own shouting and buckling and expletives, when finally he shot. Most men stop kissing, once they’ve cum. My little muscle stud grew hungrier, relaxing into me completely as we continued to make out for long, long minutes in the sticky summer night.

“I’ve got one observation, and one question,” he said, when at last our mouths separated.

“What’s that?”

He looked up at me. “Your dick is still hard.” I nodded, and assumed that was the observation. “Do you still have enough left in you to go again?”

If that was the question, it was a question I could answer readily. “Absolutely.”

Then I showed him.