In a three-way, you always enjoy one of the guys more than the other.
It’s a rule.
I met Chase in the driveway of the hotel. I’m about to head up to your room, I was texting him, as I made the cold trek from the car to the warmth of the building.
I’m in the parking lot heading in, he texted back almost immediately. I had to go to the drugstore.
He caught up with me thirty seconds later. I looked him over in the warm glow of the lobby’s lights as they spilled out onto the portico. A handsome man in his fifties. Silver hair. Short, athletic frame. He licked his lips when he saw me. “Your photos don’t do you justice,” were his gallant opening words.
I liked him already.
We made small talk in the elevator on the way up to his room. His friend was in the shower when we reached our destination. “Well,” said Chase, shutting the door behind us. “Aren’t you handsome.” He removed my coat, then knelt down on the floor to unlace my boots. I allowed him to slip them from my feet, and was rewarded by the warmth and strength of his hands gripping the undersides of my arches. His fingers snaked beneath my pants cuffs, and deeply rubbed the calves of my legs. “I’m going to enjoy serving you,” he murmured, as he looked right into my eyes.
I knew right then he was going to be the one I liked more.
We kissed. His touch was gentle on my neck as he held my mouth to his. Then we looked into each other’s eyes again, blue against blue. He pressed with the heel of his hand against my hard dick, splayed sideways in my pants. My fingers sought out the hard nubs of his nipples beneath his shirt. His eyes squinted with pleasure as I squeezed them. They could take abuse, I could tell by their density. I squeezed harder, and made him moan.
This was definitely the one. I could tell. The buddy would be an anticlimax.
Chase retired into the bathroom to slip into the shower. I heard him talking to his buddy—lover? Boyfriend? Husband? I didn’t know—through the door. A moment later and another man padded out, wearing nothing but a hotel robe. He was tall—as tall as I, perhaps a little more. Handsome, in that way well-heeled urban men often are, when they reach their fifties. Well-groomed, with short silver hair and an Alex Trebek mustache. He was broad and long where Chase was short and athletic, but he was none the less attractive for it. “Hi,” I greeted him, from where I sat on the bed.
He stared at me as if hypnotized, but didn’t say a word. I beckoned him over.
My hand gently undid the tie of his robe. I watched as it swung and brushed the floor. His hands remained at his side. When his robe fell open, his cock twitched and hardened as if either the room’s air or my gaze made it erect. He was hung. Very hung. He looked larger than I, and thicker, though the general proportions were about the same. I reached out and took his hardening pole in my mouth.
While I moved my lips slowly up and down its length, he finally reached out and ran his fingers through my hair, along the back of my neck, under my chin. He ended by cupping my jaw in his palm, removing his cock from my mouth, and tilting my head up so that I was staring in his eyes.
“Do you like to kiss?” he asked, in a soft voice.
I showed him how much I liked to kiss. I pulled him down to me so that he was kneeling between my legs on the mattress, and joined my mouth to his. He almost collapsed on me, he was so aroused; his hands reached beneath my clothed body and pulled me to him. Our hips connected. He ground into me, hard. “I’m Art,” he growled into my ear.
“Hi Art,” I replied in a whisper, sinking deep into the soft hotel pillows as he unfastened my shirt one slow button at a time. I gave him my name.
When my shirt was open, he stared at me. There was almost a look of unabashed love in his eyes. “You’re not an asshole after all,” he said.
“Thanks?” was my puzzled reply. It was tough to hold anything against him, though, because he scooped me up into another passionate kiss. If this was what he did to people he thought were assholes, I couldn’t wait to see how he treated the guys he liked.
“I told Chase when he messaged you online that you wouldn’t agree to come up here,” he finally said, his face only inches from mine. “Then when you did, I told him you wouldn’t show. Then when you showed, I decided you wouldn’t look like your pics. When you looked like your pics, I figured you’d turn out to be an asshole who wouldn’t be into me.”
“Why wouldn’t I be into you?” I questioned. The man was handsome. He had a big dick. Anyone with a head screwed on right would be into him.
He shrugged. “Because you’re so . . .” His tongue searched for words.
“So are you.” My tongue had better things to do, after that simple reassurance. I pushed him down and engulfed his cock, slurping down to the root and pushing whatever he’d been about to say clean out of his head. He gasped, and pushed me down, aggressively spearing my throat with his meat.
No, I thought to myself. This was the one. This was going to be the one I ended up more.
Chase found us like that when he came out of the bathroom, trailing a cloud of vapor and sweet-smelling steam behind him. “My two beautiful men,” he whispered, watching us. Then he joined us on the mattress. He pulled me off Art’s cock and settled me back into the pillows. I looked up at the two faces hovering over me. Chase was handsome, gentle, smiling at what he saw. Art was no less attractive, aggressive, and his eyes were full of lust. “Suck me,” I pleaded with them.
Together they pulled down my pants. Art opened his mouth and took my cock inside; Chase pulled my legs into the air, positioned himself down between them, and began very softly and quietly to lick out my hole. Almost immediately I was overwhelmed by the intensity of the sensations they created between them—Chase’s insistent, soft tongue and lips nibbling on my ass, and Chase’s rock-solid hold on my meat with his throat muscles and lips, not to mention the relentless raking of his bristle-brush mustache against my shaved nuts. I cried out, and tried to make them stop, but they pushed me back into the pillows and made me take it. Made me endure the treatment they’d decided I needed . . . and deserved. I twitched and jerked and moaned like a madman, lost and overwhelmed as my nerves overloaded with sensation.
“Do his nipples,” Chase suggested, when Art came up for air. They eyed each other, then rearranged themselves so that I had one of them on either side, both of them reaching for my nipples with their lips. Art bit down and made me gasp, and made my dick swell even harder; Chase licked out and put his soft lips around the little mound of flesh in such a sweet way that I wanted to cry.
“Just relax, son,” Chase told me.
“The two of us are in no hurry,” said Art. They both smiled at me and, as if they’d choreographed it, went back to chewing and licking on my nipples at the same moment.
Awash in pleasure, I looked from one man to the other, unable to focus clearly on either, and definitely unable to choose a superior.
In a three-way, you always enjoy one of the guys more than the other. It’s a rule.
But sometimes rules are made to be broken.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Sunday Morning Questions: Virgins, Dragons, and Glory Holes Edition
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Thursday, December 6, 2012
Supermarket Suck-Off
He comments here fairly frequently. I know he’ll read this entry.
But it’s all good. I’ve got absolutely nothing bad to say about the guy. Quite the contrary. He’s a stud.
There’s a reader of mine who lives fairly close to me. I know this because we’ve exchanged messages on Scruff late at night, when we’re both at home.The GPS locator puts us at a little over a half-mile apart. We’ve talked on a couple of other sites as well. His pics show a handsome, muscular top man. The two of us have traded tips on some of the area bottoms from time to time. Since we live in the same neighborhood, more or less, we’ve talked about some of the local cuties as well—I know about the sexy young guy working the local party store because of his tip, for example. (And he is cute!)
He’s read my blog before I moved here, I think. But we hadn’t gotten together ever, though we’ve known about each other for months and months.
That changed this week.
We were on a website, Monday. I wasn’t planning to stick around indefinitely—I had a few errands I had to run. He said hello, though, so we exchanged a few pleasantries via the site’s messaging system. I’m heading up to the Buy-More, I told him, naming one of the local supermarket chains. Then, semi-jokingly, I added, Come up and find me and I’ll blow you in the parking lot.
As I said, I typed it only semi-jokingly.
So there I was at the market, halfway through my weekly shopping, resting my forearms on my cart in the middle of the dried pasta aisle as I consulted my list to see what else I needed. I looked up, and there was an attractive guy making his way toward me. Wow, I thought to myself, grinning inside. This guy really called my bluff. I like that in a man. “Hey,” I said with a grin, when he came in speaking distance.
“Hey,” he replied. He smiled as well, but kept walking. It was almost as if he didn’t expect me to acknowledge him in public—as if I might say something online like Track me down at the Buy-More and I’ll blow you, but in the flesh I’d just be one of those assholes that only nods and lets him pass by.
I’m not that kind of guy, though.
“I’m glad you came out,” I told him. “It’s great finally to meet you.” We shook hands, and chatted for a minute in the aisle. He said that he’d been between running errands himself when he got my message online, and basically had a reaction of what the hell, let me see if I can find him. I was where I said I’d be, and I look like my online photos, so it wasn’t difficult to track me down.
He was parked at the far end of the lot, he told me. His car was between a line of hedges and a truck. Out of the way, out of sight. I looked at my list. “Give me five or ten minutes,” I told him. “Let me finish getting my groceries and checking out. I’ll meet you down there.”
Easy enough. Ten minutes later I dumped my groceries in my car, drove down to the other end of the lot, and walked around the parked, empty truck to find the guy in his car. We climbed into his back seat and looked at each other. Then my hand went out for his crotch. His dick was hardening beneath the denim. I looked him in the eye. “Take it out,” I told him.
His fingers raced to unbutton his jeans. He tugged them down beneath his nuts, and lifted up his shirt to show me his flat abs and his undeniably sexy body. “Damn,” I said in a whisper. “That is a beautiful dick.”
It was a beauty. I hadn’t seen it clearly erect in his profile photos. In person, though, it was the kind of dick that made me want to suck. His balls eased out and separated as I leaned down to wrap my mouth around the shaft. He sighed softly as my lips made contact. The guy tasted good. He smelled like soap, from the tip of his stiff and dripping prick down to his shaved nuts. He was a lot like me in that he started to pump out the precum almost as soon as his dick started to get attention. Every time he rewarded me with a taste, I’d grunt instinctively, rooting for more like a French pig after truffles.
He had moved the driver’s seat up to give himself leg room. It was broad daylight—just after lunchtime, in fact. While he kept an eye out on the parking lot, I knelt with one leg down on the floor and angled myself so that I was a little more squarely in front of him, and went to work on the dick. I circled it with a couple of fingers and my thumb and let the tight circle slide up and down, following the slickness my spit left behind as I slowly bobbed up and down on his meat. He grunted, and sighed; his fingers riffled through my hair. Then his hand cupped my head and gently pushed me down in a steady rhythm. He wanted it faster. I obliged.
My grip on his dick tightened as I picked up the past. Glob after glob of salty fluid oozed from his dick’s tip as I increased the sensation. Whether or not he realized it, his knees spread further apart to give me more access. “I’m going to come soon,” he told me.
I knew. The man was basically shooting already, with the sheer amount of precum his dick was producing. It only took a few determined strokes of my tight mouth and hand to bring him off, and then he was shooting, pressing down on my skull so that I took him to the base. He held me there as he pumped his load in my mouth. I let it accumulate on my tongue. Then I backed off and swallowed.
And damn. I’ve got to say—that was the best-tasting load I have had in months. The stuff tasted so good that I went down and sucked the remains still dripping out of his slit. Then I kissed his flat stomach, just because it was so pretty.
He laughed, like he couldn’t believe what just happened. “Wow,” he said.
“Was it okay?” I asked.
“More than okay!” he responded, still laughing and recuperating.
“That’s a beautiful dick,” I told him. I watched as he put it away, and wiped off my mouth with the back of my forearm. “I’m hoping you’ll give me more of it, now we’ve formally met.”
He agreed that there’d be more in the future. I adjusted my hard dick in my pants so that it wasn’t quite as visible, and waited as he finished snapping and buckling and getting back to normal. We sat there for a half-second of silence when he was done, then grinned at each other.
“You know I’m going to write about this,” I told him, as we both got out of the back seat.
He knew.
This is exactly how it should be—two guys connect, go at it, and enjoy each other. If nothing else, now my reader knows one thing about me: I don’t bluff. I show up where I say I’m going to show up, and I follow through.
This time with delicious results. And my gallon of ice cream didn’t even have time to melt.
But it’s all good. I’ve got absolutely nothing bad to say about the guy. Quite the contrary. He’s a stud.
There’s a reader of mine who lives fairly close to me. I know this because we’ve exchanged messages on Scruff late at night, when we’re both at home.The GPS locator puts us at a little over a half-mile apart. We’ve talked on a couple of other sites as well. His pics show a handsome, muscular top man. The two of us have traded tips on some of the area bottoms from time to time. Since we live in the same neighborhood, more or less, we’ve talked about some of the local cuties as well—I know about the sexy young guy working the local party store because of his tip, for example. (And he is cute!)
He’s read my blog before I moved here, I think. But we hadn’t gotten together ever, though we’ve known about each other for months and months.
That changed this week.
We were on a website, Monday. I wasn’t planning to stick around indefinitely—I had a few errands I had to run. He said hello, though, so we exchanged a few pleasantries via the site’s messaging system. I’m heading up to the Buy-More, I told him, naming one of the local supermarket chains. Then, semi-jokingly, I added, Come up and find me and I’ll blow you in the parking lot.
As I said, I typed it only semi-jokingly.
So there I was at the market, halfway through my weekly shopping, resting my forearms on my cart in the middle of the dried pasta aisle as I consulted my list to see what else I needed. I looked up, and there was an attractive guy making his way toward me. Wow, I thought to myself, grinning inside. This guy really called my bluff. I like that in a man. “Hey,” I said with a grin, when he came in speaking distance.
“Hey,” he replied. He smiled as well, but kept walking. It was almost as if he didn’t expect me to acknowledge him in public—as if I might say something online like Track me down at the Buy-More and I’ll blow you, but in the flesh I’d just be one of those assholes that only nods and lets him pass by.
I’m not that kind of guy, though.
“I’m glad you came out,” I told him. “It’s great finally to meet you.” We shook hands, and chatted for a minute in the aisle. He said that he’d been between running errands himself when he got my message online, and basically had a reaction of what the hell, let me see if I can find him. I was where I said I’d be, and I look like my online photos, so it wasn’t difficult to track me down.
He was parked at the far end of the lot, he told me. His car was between a line of hedges and a truck. Out of the way, out of sight. I looked at my list. “Give me five or ten minutes,” I told him. “Let me finish getting my groceries and checking out. I’ll meet you down there.”
Easy enough. Ten minutes later I dumped my groceries in my car, drove down to the other end of the lot, and walked around the parked, empty truck to find the guy in his car. We climbed into his back seat and looked at each other. Then my hand went out for his crotch. His dick was hardening beneath the denim. I looked him in the eye. “Take it out,” I told him.
His fingers raced to unbutton his jeans. He tugged them down beneath his nuts, and lifted up his shirt to show me his flat abs and his undeniably sexy body. “Damn,” I said in a whisper. “That is a beautiful dick.”
It was a beauty. I hadn’t seen it clearly erect in his profile photos. In person, though, it was the kind of dick that made me want to suck. His balls eased out and separated as I leaned down to wrap my mouth around the shaft. He sighed softly as my lips made contact. The guy tasted good. He smelled like soap, from the tip of his stiff and dripping prick down to his shaved nuts. He was a lot like me in that he started to pump out the precum almost as soon as his dick started to get attention. Every time he rewarded me with a taste, I’d grunt instinctively, rooting for more like a French pig after truffles.
He had moved the driver’s seat up to give himself leg room. It was broad daylight—just after lunchtime, in fact. While he kept an eye out on the parking lot, I knelt with one leg down on the floor and angled myself so that I was a little more squarely in front of him, and went to work on the dick. I circled it with a couple of fingers and my thumb and let the tight circle slide up and down, following the slickness my spit left behind as I slowly bobbed up and down on his meat. He grunted, and sighed; his fingers riffled through my hair. Then his hand cupped my head and gently pushed me down in a steady rhythm. He wanted it faster. I obliged.
My grip on his dick tightened as I picked up the past. Glob after glob of salty fluid oozed from his dick’s tip as I increased the sensation. Whether or not he realized it, his knees spread further apart to give me more access. “I’m going to come soon,” he told me.
I knew. The man was basically shooting already, with the sheer amount of precum his dick was producing. It only took a few determined strokes of my tight mouth and hand to bring him off, and then he was shooting, pressing down on my skull so that I took him to the base. He held me there as he pumped his load in my mouth. I let it accumulate on my tongue. Then I backed off and swallowed.
And damn. I’ve got to say—that was the best-tasting load I have had in months. The stuff tasted so good that I went down and sucked the remains still dripping out of his slit. Then I kissed his flat stomach, just because it was so pretty.
He laughed, like he couldn’t believe what just happened. “Wow,” he said.
“Was it okay?” I asked.
“More than okay!” he responded, still laughing and recuperating.
“That’s a beautiful dick,” I told him. I watched as he put it away, and wiped off my mouth with the back of my forearm. “I’m hoping you’ll give me more of it, now we’ve formally met.”
He agreed that there’d be more in the future. I adjusted my hard dick in my pants so that it wasn’t quite as visible, and waited as he finished snapping and buckling and getting back to normal. We sat there for a half-second of silence when he was done, then grinned at each other.
“You know I’m going to write about this,” I told him, as we both got out of the back seat.
He knew.
This is exactly how it should be—two guys connect, go at it, and enjoy each other. If nothing else, now my reader knows one thing about me: I don’t bluff. I show up where I say I’m going to show up, and I follow through.
This time with delicious results. And my gallon of ice cream didn’t even have time to melt.
Monday, December 3, 2012
M. J., Part Three
(This entry is a continuation of M.J., Part Two.)
Over the several months I was seeing M. J. , the professor I’d picked up in the campus restrooms during my sophomore year, it wasn’t the presents that kept me going back. Good lord, certainly not. His offerings of clothing were so poorly-chosen that they inadvertently bordered on being calculated insults in a cardboard gift box.
It wasn’t for the sex, either, those grandmotherly fumblings beneath the covers that left me feeling dirtier and a lot less satisfied than when they began. It wasn’t for the company, which mostly was stiff and formal and slightly uncomfortable.
It wasn’t exactly because he was a professor and I was a student and we were each other’s forbidden fruit. I’d slept with a lot of faculty at that point (and would continue to do so all through college and graduate school), so our relationship wasn’t exactly a novelty.
No, mostly I kept going back because I’d never had anyone before who took me on actual dates. The men I saw tended to skip the dinner and the wooing and skip straight to taking me home and fucking the daylights out of me. Though instead of ‘home’ we’d usually use a toilet stall or a dark space behind a park tree.
Although the sex M. J. and I had wasn’t good, or even really competent, I liked being able to think of myself as dating someone. I liked being able to say, without divulging many details, that I was in a relationship. M. J. and I had never professed any affection for each other beyond “I like you in that sweater” (him) or “Thanks for dinner. I’ve never had Beef Wellington before” (me, and I never would again), but technically we were dating. I clung to that for a little while in my youth as a badge of honor.
I also liked the fact that I was whoring around with one of my dad’s old classmates. I had nothing against my dad, but at eighteen I was still adolescent enough that putting out for someone he’d once known—and who didn’t like him for some mysterious reason—tickled my rebellious underbelly a little. It was a private defiance, and not the kind of thing he’d ever find out about. But in a juvenile way, I thought I was Sticking It To the Old Man, and it gave me a little thrill.
By and large, though, M. J. and I stuck for a good three months to a repetitive cycle of Friday night gifts, dinners, and then a night at his apartment. And then one warmer day, he asked if I wanted to go on an outing with him.
It was cold enough that I remember wearing one of his gift sweaters—a white cotton turtleneck with a neck hole so small that pulling it over my face exfoliated more cells than a strong acid peel, and left me red and raw for the rest of the day. But it was also warm enough that the sweater was all I really needed in the weak sunshine of the late winter. I would guess that it was about March. And M. J. suggested we visit a plantation that was only a couple of dozen miles from Williamsburg.
That sounds lovely and romantic!, a good number of you are thinking. I was definitely not. I spent most of my childhood years visiting every damned plantation and Civil War battlefield within a five-state radius of home, and when you consider that I grew up in the former capital of the Confederate States of America, that’s a lot of damned plantations and battlefields. Nor did I trespass on these sacred grounds with an awestruck face and a sense of wonder at the scope of history I was privileged to relive thanks to the preservation efforts of historians like my parents. No, I had stomped around with a constipated look on my face and many long sighs of suffering. So when M. J. suggested we have a jolly afternoon’s outing to a plantation, my reaction was more like, Oh, fuck.
But I knew how to swallow my dislike of American historical sites by then. I told him that sounded dandy, and together we drove off in his car on a sunny Saturday afternoon to our destination.
If you’ve never seen a Virginia plantation, you’ve probably a picture in mind. A bucolic vision of a genteel country mansion with Palladian columns and classical revival proportions, facade whitewashed and gleaming, set back in a verdant paradise of greenery, where in times past gentleman farmers sipped mint juleps with their hoop-skirted wives on the verandah beneath the bougainvillea. Let me disabuse you of the notion. This place was no fucking Tara.
It was a two-room shanty on a rolling bank of weeds and dead waist-high grass, located along a particularly smelly turn of the James River, where raw sewage from the Hopewell wastewater plant seemed to be collecting and stagnating. There was no bougainvillea. There were snarled black cherry trees and wild sumacs, both of which I’d always been taught were weeds. And there was a dispirited woman handing out a slip of paper with the plantation’s history printed on it (free) and selling souvenirs (overpriced) on the front porch.
Touring the place didn’t take that long, but we gave our level best to make it last. With low spirits we peered into the plantation house, which had been furnished with chairs that had weathered for decades in someone’s barn and an old spinning wheel. We looked at the gift shop’s collection of corn husk doll kits and homemade lardy soaps and invisible ink books for kids. And finally we decided to walk by the James, where M. J. managed to get burrs all over his pants legs and cursed and threw a child’s tantrum about it. They were his good pants, he kept saying, though how he could tell the difference between them and any other of the countless pairs of ironed khakis he owned, I had no idea.
Still, for late winter, the weather was nice. I’ve always enjoyed being outdoors. And burrs or no, it was still a welcome change from the usual routine into which we’d fallen.
Then came the fateful trip home.
I knew something was wrong when M. J. started the car and pulled down the dirt country road that led from the plantation back to civilization. His wheels made a terrible grinding noise, somewhere halfway between an amplified root canal drilling and a banshee’s curse. “What is that?” M. J. asked me.
Like I knew? I didn’t drive then. I didn’t learn to drive until I was twenty-one. My parents were too cheap to let me. (It occurs to me now that M. J. had made some vague noises about teaching me to drive, too—which might have been another reason I kept seeing him until that point. And yes, if you were to call up my father right now and ask him why I wasn’t allowed to drive until I was twenty-one, he will happily admit, “I was too cheap.”) “I think you should stop,” I told him.
He ignored me, and kept driving down the road. Every time he accelerated, the noise would get worse. When he slowed down, its intensity lessened a little, but it still sounded like the kind of thing Ellen Ripley might’ve heard right before the alien queen sawed through the hull of her spaceship. “I think you should stop,” I said.
When M. J. turned onto the two-lane road, the mere act of steering around a corner made the sound triple in intensity. “STOP THE CAR!” I yelled at him, bracing myself against the dashboard as if the whole thing might explode at any second.
We tumbled out of the car when he pulled it over to the side of the road. And there, in the middle of Nowhere, Virginia, we proceeded to have our first fight. “You can’t drive this the way it sounds,” I kept insisting.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said, dubiously. Over ears still ringing by the decibel level of the ‘nothing,’ we argued back and forth for a few more minutes. Finally he said, “What do you want me to do? Call a tow truck? Go to some stranger’s house and call a tow truck? What are they going to say when they see us together?” He was hysterical, almost. It was the most heated I’d ever seen him. He kept pulling at his beard and throwing his hands in the air. “Who am I going to tell them you are?”
He went on and on in this vein for a very long time. I listened to his hysterics in amazement. My mother had a motto that ran a little something like You don’t owe anyone an explanation until you actually owe them an explanation. In other words, some stuff is nobody’s damned business. It’s a stance that’s worked for a lifetime. When he was purple-faced and had worked himself into a tizzy, I turned and stomped off to the closest farm house—a good half-mile away—knocked on the door, and explained that my car had broken down. In return I got the use of their telephone, a good deal of sympathy, and a small bag of sympathy cookies. They’d been baked by Keebler elves, but still.
“Funny, the woman at the house didn’t ask if I was a student fucking my professor,” I announced when I got back to the car much later. “I don’t know how she could’ve missed that.” In a sullen mood, I ate all the cookies and listened to M. J. ’s half-hearted attempts to apologize.
Unsurprisingly, the tow truck driver didn’t grill us on our relationship when he finally arrived, either. He was a hearty, oversized guy who simply tsked at my tale of the strange noise, hooked the car up to his truck, and then agreed to tow us back to Williamsburg. Simple as that. However, I had to do all the talking, down to giving M. J. ’s address. M. J. merely glowered, stood by fretting, and wrung his hands in case I said something accidental like, Did I mention that this elderly homosexual is engaging me for illicit sexual intercourse?
My memory of the driver is of something like Yukon Cornelius. Enormous, red-headed, and bearded. Once the two of us were in his front seat and he was driving us homeward, he kept up a constant stream of chatter. “So you and your dad were out looking at the plantation, huh?” he asked me, fairly quickly on.
I was wedged between Yukon Cornelius and M. J. in the middle of the seat, arms crossed because I was still appalled at M. J. ’s behavior. This question tickled me, though, even though I could hear an appalled sigh from M. J. ’s side of the truck. He could’ve been my dad. They were only a year apart. “We sure were,” I said. “Dad’s not really into old stuff, but I like it.” Well, I thought it was a clever double entendre at the time.
“Well that was real nice of him then,” said the driver. “You know, it’s real nice when a dad and a son do things together. My dad and I weren’t close at all, and time runs out mighty quick. Mighty quick.”
“My dad and I are very, very close,” I said with a straight face.
“That’s real heartwarming,” said the driver. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
“We do a lot of fun stuff together,” I remarked, ignoring the fact that M. J. was hyperventilating beside me.
While the driver and I kept up a friendly conversation about nothing in particular, I did something daring. With my left fingers, which was crossed over my chest and tucked beneath my other arm, I tweaked M. J. ’s nipple. He jumped about three feet out of his seat. The driver couldn’t see anything. It was just some devilish stubbornness in me determined to make M. J. as uncomfortable as possible.
It was a long drive. When minutes passed and the driver didn’t ask any awkward questions, or attempt to nail us on the validity of our supposed father/son relationship, or notice me rubbing my hand up and down M. J. ’s ribcage, M. J. finally relaxed. He even crossed his arms and let his fingertips rub and bob against my own.
It was the tenderest moment of our relationship, honestly. Definitely the most spontaneous.
The whole bad afternoon had an unexpected effect on M. J. . Once we were back in his parking lot and Yukon Cornelius was waving out of the window of his truck, M. J. had to turn to me. “Thank you,” he said.
I shrugged.
“You handled all that by yourself and you shouldn’t have had to,” he said.
I shrugged again.
“It wasn’t even your car. Your were right. I over-thought everything.” At least his apology was hitting all the right notes. I had to give him that.
“It’s all right,” I said, unbending a little.
“Hey,” he said.
“What?”
“I’ve never wanted to fuck you more than I have right now.”
Now, that part was a little bit of a surprise. “What?” I asked.
“I want to take you inside,” he said, close up, his hand on my wrist, “and I want to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked.”
M. J. had always told me that word was too much of an Anglo-Saxonism, but here he was using it three times in rapid succession. “Well, okay,” I agreed, without having to think about it too much.
We ran into his apartment. He shoved me roughly against the wall. I fell onto his carpeted staircase with one hip. We didn’t retire upstairs to the bedroom and hide under the blankets. We didn’t turn off the lights. He wrestled my pants off me right there in the hallway, pushed me roughly down on the staircase, and fucked my ass so hard that my knees got carpet burn. It wasn’t a long fuck, but it was violent, and animal, and the hottest thing I’d ever done with him. When pulled it out, he allowed me to clean him off for the first time with my mouth.
That would have been hot enough, but then he leaned back against the door and crossed his arms. “Jack yourself off,” he ordered. Then, as he nodded to let me know it was all right, he watched while I spread my legs and whacked away at my dick. I came in my hand—I was afraid what he might do if I dared get it on the carpet, amorous mood or not. Barely had I finished when he grabbed my hand. “Get upstairs,” he said. “Get in bed and take off your clothes.”
I did. He joined me shortly thereafter, and we did it all over again. It might have been the first time I was anxious to have sex with M. J. .
But as time proved, it was also one of the last times.
It wasn’t for the sex, either, those grandmotherly fumblings beneath the covers that left me feeling dirtier and a lot less satisfied than when they began. It wasn’t for the company, which mostly was stiff and formal and slightly uncomfortable.
It wasn’t exactly because he was a professor and I was a student and we were each other’s forbidden fruit. I’d slept with a lot of faculty at that point (and would continue to do so all through college and graduate school), so our relationship wasn’t exactly a novelty.
No, mostly I kept going back because I’d never had anyone before who took me on actual dates. The men I saw tended to skip the dinner and the wooing and skip straight to taking me home and fucking the daylights out of me. Though instead of ‘home’ we’d usually use a toilet stall or a dark space behind a park tree.
Although the sex M. J. and I had wasn’t good, or even really competent, I liked being able to think of myself as dating someone. I liked being able to say, without divulging many details, that I was in a relationship. M. J. and I had never professed any affection for each other beyond “I like you in that sweater” (him) or “Thanks for dinner. I’ve never had Beef Wellington before” (me, and I never would again), but technically we were dating. I clung to that for a little while in my youth as a badge of honor.
I also liked the fact that I was whoring around with one of my dad’s old classmates. I had nothing against my dad, but at eighteen I was still adolescent enough that putting out for someone he’d once known—and who didn’t like him for some mysterious reason—tickled my rebellious underbelly a little. It was a private defiance, and not the kind of thing he’d ever find out about. But in a juvenile way, I thought I was Sticking It To the Old Man, and it gave me a little thrill.
By and large, though, M. J. and I stuck for a good three months to a repetitive cycle of Friday night gifts, dinners, and then a night at his apartment. And then one warmer day, he asked if I wanted to go on an outing with him.
It was cold enough that I remember wearing one of his gift sweaters—a white cotton turtleneck with a neck hole so small that pulling it over my face exfoliated more cells than a strong acid peel, and left me red and raw for the rest of the day. But it was also warm enough that the sweater was all I really needed in the weak sunshine of the late winter. I would guess that it was about March. And M. J. suggested we visit a plantation that was only a couple of dozen miles from Williamsburg.
That sounds lovely and romantic!, a good number of you are thinking. I was definitely not. I spent most of my childhood years visiting every damned plantation and Civil War battlefield within a five-state radius of home, and when you consider that I grew up in the former capital of the Confederate States of America, that’s a lot of damned plantations and battlefields. Nor did I trespass on these sacred grounds with an awestruck face and a sense of wonder at the scope of history I was privileged to relive thanks to the preservation efforts of historians like my parents. No, I had stomped around with a constipated look on my face and many long sighs of suffering. So when M. J. suggested we have a jolly afternoon’s outing to a plantation, my reaction was more like, Oh, fuck.
But I knew how to swallow my dislike of American historical sites by then. I told him that sounded dandy, and together we drove off in his car on a sunny Saturday afternoon to our destination.
If you’ve never seen a Virginia plantation, you’ve probably a picture in mind. A bucolic vision of a genteel country mansion with Palladian columns and classical revival proportions, facade whitewashed and gleaming, set back in a verdant paradise of greenery, where in times past gentleman farmers sipped mint juleps with their hoop-skirted wives on the verandah beneath the bougainvillea. Let me disabuse you of the notion. This place was no fucking Tara.
It was a two-room shanty on a rolling bank of weeds and dead waist-high grass, located along a particularly smelly turn of the James River, where raw sewage from the Hopewell wastewater plant seemed to be collecting and stagnating. There was no bougainvillea. There were snarled black cherry trees and wild sumacs, both of which I’d always been taught were weeds. And there was a dispirited woman handing out a slip of paper with the plantation’s history printed on it (free) and selling souvenirs (overpriced) on the front porch.
Touring the place didn’t take that long, but we gave our level best to make it last. With low spirits we peered into the plantation house, which had been furnished with chairs that had weathered for decades in someone’s barn and an old spinning wheel. We looked at the gift shop’s collection of corn husk doll kits and homemade lardy soaps and invisible ink books for kids. And finally we decided to walk by the James, where M. J. managed to get burrs all over his pants legs and cursed and threw a child’s tantrum about it. They were his good pants, he kept saying, though how he could tell the difference between them and any other of the countless pairs of ironed khakis he owned, I had no idea.
Still, for late winter, the weather was nice. I’ve always enjoyed being outdoors. And burrs or no, it was still a welcome change from the usual routine into which we’d fallen.
Then came the fateful trip home.
I knew something was wrong when M. J. started the car and pulled down the dirt country road that led from the plantation back to civilization. His wheels made a terrible grinding noise, somewhere halfway between an amplified root canal drilling and a banshee’s curse. “What is that?” M. J. asked me.
Like I knew? I didn’t drive then. I didn’t learn to drive until I was twenty-one. My parents were too cheap to let me. (It occurs to me now that M. J. had made some vague noises about teaching me to drive, too—which might have been another reason I kept seeing him until that point. And yes, if you were to call up my father right now and ask him why I wasn’t allowed to drive until I was twenty-one, he will happily admit, “I was too cheap.”) “I think you should stop,” I told him.
He ignored me, and kept driving down the road. Every time he accelerated, the noise would get worse. When he slowed down, its intensity lessened a little, but it still sounded like the kind of thing Ellen Ripley might’ve heard right before the alien queen sawed through the hull of her spaceship. “I think you should stop,” I said.
When M. J. turned onto the two-lane road, the mere act of steering around a corner made the sound triple in intensity. “STOP THE CAR!” I yelled at him, bracing myself against the dashboard as if the whole thing might explode at any second.
We tumbled out of the car when he pulled it over to the side of the road. And there, in the middle of Nowhere, Virginia, we proceeded to have our first fight. “You can’t drive this the way it sounds,” I kept insisting.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said, dubiously. Over ears still ringing by the decibel level of the ‘nothing,’ we argued back and forth for a few more minutes. Finally he said, “What do you want me to do? Call a tow truck? Go to some stranger’s house and call a tow truck? What are they going to say when they see us together?” He was hysterical, almost. It was the most heated I’d ever seen him. He kept pulling at his beard and throwing his hands in the air. “Who am I going to tell them you are?”
He went on and on in this vein for a very long time. I listened to his hysterics in amazement. My mother had a motto that ran a little something like You don’t owe anyone an explanation until you actually owe them an explanation. In other words, some stuff is nobody’s damned business. It’s a stance that’s worked for a lifetime. When he was purple-faced and had worked himself into a tizzy, I turned and stomped off to the closest farm house—a good half-mile away—knocked on the door, and explained that my car had broken down. In return I got the use of their telephone, a good deal of sympathy, and a small bag of sympathy cookies. They’d been baked by Keebler elves, but still.
“Funny, the woman at the house didn’t ask if I was a student fucking my professor,” I announced when I got back to the car much later. “I don’t know how she could’ve missed that.” In a sullen mood, I ate all the cookies and listened to M. J. ’s half-hearted attempts to apologize.
Unsurprisingly, the tow truck driver didn’t grill us on our relationship when he finally arrived, either. He was a hearty, oversized guy who simply tsked at my tale of the strange noise, hooked the car up to his truck, and then agreed to tow us back to Williamsburg. Simple as that. However, I had to do all the talking, down to giving M. J. ’s address. M. J. merely glowered, stood by fretting, and wrung his hands in case I said something accidental like, Did I mention that this elderly homosexual is engaging me for illicit sexual intercourse?
My memory of the driver is of something like Yukon Cornelius. Enormous, red-headed, and bearded. Once the two of us were in his front seat and he was driving us homeward, he kept up a constant stream of chatter. “So you and your dad were out looking at the plantation, huh?” he asked me, fairly quickly on.
I was wedged between Yukon Cornelius and M. J. in the middle of the seat, arms crossed because I was still appalled at M. J. ’s behavior. This question tickled me, though, even though I could hear an appalled sigh from M. J. ’s side of the truck. He could’ve been my dad. They were only a year apart. “We sure were,” I said. “Dad’s not really into old stuff, but I like it.” Well, I thought it was a clever double entendre at the time.
“Well that was real nice of him then,” said the driver. “You know, it’s real nice when a dad and a son do things together. My dad and I weren’t close at all, and time runs out mighty quick. Mighty quick.”
“My dad and I are very, very close,” I said with a straight face.
“That’s real heartwarming,” said the driver. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
“We do a lot of fun stuff together,” I remarked, ignoring the fact that M. J. was hyperventilating beside me.
While the driver and I kept up a friendly conversation about nothing in particular, I did something daring. With my left fingers, which was crossed over my chest and tucked beneath my other arm, I tweaked M. J. ’s nipple. He jumped about three feet out of his seat. The driver couldn’t see anything. It was just some devilish stubbornness in me determined to make M. J. as uncomfortable as possible.
It was a long drive. When minutes passed and the driver didn’t ask any awkward questions, or attempt to nail us on the validity of our supposed father/son relationship, or notice me rubbing my hand up and down M. J. ’s ribcage, M. J. finally relaxed. He even crossed his arms and let his fingertips rub and bob against my own.
It was the tenderest moment of our relationship, honestly. Definitely the most spontaneous.
The whole bad afternoon had an unexpected effect on M. J. . Once we were back in his parking lot and Yukon Cornelius was waving out of the window of his truck, M. J. had to turn to me. “Thank you,” he said.
I shrugged.
“You handled all that by yourself and you shouldn’t have had to,” he said.
I shrugged again.
“It wasn’t even your car. Your were right. I over-thought everything.” At least his apology was hitting all the right notes. I had to give him that.
“It’s all right,” I said, unbending a little.
“Hey,” he said.
“What?”
“I’ve never wanted to fuck you more than I have right now.”
Now, that part was a little bit of a surprise. “What?” I asked.
“I want to take you inside,” he said, close up, his hand on my wrist, “and I want to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked.”
M. J. had always told me that word was too much of an Anglo-Saxonism, but here he was using it three times in rapid succession. “Well, okay,” I agreed, without having to think about it too much.
We ran into his apartment. He shoved me roughly against the wall. I fell onto his carpeted staircase with one hip. We didn’t retire upstairs to the bedroom and hide under the blankets. We didn’t turn off the lights. He wrestled my pants off me right there in the hallway, pushed me roughly down on the staircase, and fucked my ass so hard that my knees got carpet burn. It wasn’t a long fuck, but it was violent, and animal, and the hottest thing I’d ever done with him. When pulled it out, he allowed me to clean him off for the first time with my mouth.
That would have been hot enough, but then he leaned back against the door and crossed his arms. “Jack yourself off,” he ordered. Then, as he nodded to let me know it was all right, he watched while I spread my legs and whacked away at my dick. I came in my hand—I was afraid what he might do if I dared get it on the carpet, amorous mood or not. Barely had I finished when he grabbed my hand. “Get upstairs,” he said. “Get in bed and take off your clothes.”
I did. He joined me shortly thereafter, and we did it all over again. It might have been the first time I was anxious to have sex with M. J. .
But as time proved, it was also one of the last times.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Untamed
We laid side by side, afterward. I seemed to slide off his sweat-slick body and to melt, face-down, in a puddle beside him. He lowered his legs and raised his arms above his head, and stared for a long time at the ceiling. Neither of us seemed to feel the need to talk, just for the sake of making noise. Neither of us seemed to have the energy to move.
I was enjoying the half-doze I’d slipped into, beneath this man’s biceps. Then he spoke. “You’re Aslan,” he said.
The shock of sound jolted me to a state resembling alertness. “I’m ass-what?” I murmured.
“Aslan,” he said, after a long pause. I thought about that one for a while, not moving. “Didn’t you ever read those books when you were a kid? The Narnia books?”
“Mmm,” I said. What I was thinking, though, was of third grade, when our teacher read to the class one chapter a week from The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe A certain percentage of the class had been scornful of C. S. Lewis’ mythology of tea-drinking fauns and little girls finding magical worlds in furniture of which none of us had ever heard. Most of us were enjoying it in the bite-sized chunks in which it was being delivered.
Me, I’d been so anxious to find out what happened next that after the third chapter, I’d persuaded my mom to take me to the library so that I could check out the book and finish it in one gulp. It was my first introduction to a genre I’ve loved ever since.
That’s what I was thinking, as I made my noncommittal grunt.
“Or maybe you saw the movies,” he said. “I rented them for my niece not too long ago.”
“I know the series,” I said, though the effort to form words after fucking was almost too much effort.
“You remember what they said about Aslan, right?” I didn’t say anything, because nothing was coming to mind. “He’s basically god, but because he’s a big fluffy lion, everyone wants him to be lovable and cuddly. In the books, all the girls go lovey-dovey whenever he comes around, and riding on his back and making flower wreaths for his hair and shit, I mean, his mane, not his hair—“
“Mmmm,” I said, just becoming drowsy and hypnotized by the sound of his soft, low voice. He shifted to pull me into him, so that my face pressed against his armpit.
“But then he goes and pulls some pretty seriously awful crap, like killing a whole bunch of soldiers or doing something really heavy where it’s all guts and gore after. And the kids are all, Oh, I can’t believe how terrible Aslan can be, and the animals tell them . . . don’t you remember what they tell them?”
In unison, he and I said together, “He’s not a tame lion.” His voice was normal and conversational. Mine was a mere echo.
“That’s you, man.”
“How is that me?” I asked him. This man knows me as well as anyone with whom I fuck around. He knows me from my blog. He reads my adventures. He chats with me regularly and asks questions, gets to hear about the fucks I don’t normally share. He’s heard all kinds of stories about where my dick has been. When I considered that, and I consider his own similar tastes in sexual play—which can be pretty hardcore and demanding—I thought I knew what he wanted to say.
But I wanted to hear him say it.
He sighed. “I think people look at you and because you look so normal in a lot of ways they think, Hot dude, I love that he’s the kind of guy I can take home to momma. I think they see you and think, He’s got a big dick, but I bet he’s sweet and cuddly after he shoots. They want to see the stuffed animal side of you, all Disneyfied and neutered. The side where they think, Aw, ain’t he nice. Putting flowers and shit in your mane and prancing around the fields.”
I snickered. Maybe once I had a mane for flowers, but I cut it all off last year.
“But they’re not seeing the side of you I know,” he continued. I liked the closeness of him, the proximity of our bodies, the warm of our skin. He reached between my legs and rolled me over to the side a little, so that he could wrap his hand around my cock. It was moist and slippery from the combination of lube and spit and his own natural juices. “They don’t think about where this dick has been. Or how angry it gets, doesn’t it? They don’t think about the nasty stuff this nasty cock loooooves to do."
I stared him in the eye. And I listened. I couldn't deny he was right.
"You ain’t no Disney character. You’re an animal.” He pulled out my dick and slapped it in his palm. I was fully hard, then. “You can do bad things to a man with that dick. You can rip up a mess of boys and not care that they limp home crying.”
I was aroused. My lips reached out for his. They connected, and merged together into an soft, wet tunnel between us, where our tongues traveled. He pulled me close to him, hard, so that my cock jutted into his hipbone.
“That’s why you’re like Aslan,” he said. “Just like they say in the books. . . .”
Again we both finished the thought together. “He’s not a tame lion.” An odd incongruity, using such an iconically innocent book to make his provocative point.
My jaw clenched. I positioned myself between his legs. Used my knees to cock them up. Leaned over him and looked him in the eye.
“You're a fucking animal,” he grunted. "Animal."
The words had a direct effect on my meat. I spat in my hand, rubbed it around. Felt down at his hole, where one of my loads was already leaking out. “Let me show you how an animal fucks,” I told him.
“Fucking beast,” he growled, egging me on. “Dangerous fucker. Who's gonna tame you, huh? Who's gonna tame your wild ass?”
“Not you,” I told him, as I drove in, hard. Relentless.
His face contorted face into a rictus as he let out a howl of mixed pain and sheer pleasure. But he couldn't deny my words. He couldn't deny my cock, either.
Not would I have let him. After all, I'm not a tame lion.
I was enjoying the half-doze I’d slipped into, beneath this man’s biceps. Then he spoke. “You’re Aslan,” he said.
The shock of sound jolted me to a state resembling alertness. “I’m ass-what?” I murmured.
“Aslan,” he said, after a long pause. I thought about that one for a while, not moving. “Didn’t you ever read those books when you were a kid? The Narnia books?”
“Mmm,” I said. What I was thinking, though, was of third grade, when our teacher read to the class one chapter a week from The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe A certain percentage of the class had been scornful of C. S. Lewis’ mythology of tea-drinking fauns and little girls finding magical worlds in furniture of which none of us had ever heard. Most of us were enjoying it in the bite-sized chunks in which it was being delivered.
Me, I’d been so anxious to find out what happened next that after the third chapter, I’d persuaded my mom to take me to the library so that I could check out the book and finish it in one gulp. It was my first introduction to a genre I’ve loved ever since.
That’s what I was thinking, as I made my noncommittal grunt.
“Or maybe you saw the movies,” he said. “I rented them for my niece not too long ago.”
“I know the series,” I said, though the effort to form words after fucking was almost too much effort.
“You remember what they said about Aslan, right?” I didn’t say anything, because nothing was coming to mind. “He’s basically god, but because he’s a big fluffy lion, everyone wants him to be lovable and cuddly. In the books, all the girls go lovey-dovey whenever he comes around, and riding on his back and making flower wreaths for his hair and shit, I mean, his mane, not his hair—“
“Mmmm,” I said, just becoming drowsy and hypnotized by the sound of his soft, low voice. He shifted to pull me into him, so that my face pressed against his armpit.
“But then he goes and pulls some pretty seriously awful crap, like killing a whole bunch of soldiers or doing something really heavy where it’s all guts and gore after. And the kids are all, Oh, I can’t believe how terrible Aslan can be, and the animals tell them . . . don’t you remember what they tell them?”
In unison, he and I said together, “He’s not a tame lion.” His voice was normal and conversational. Mine was a mere echo.
“That’s you, man.”
“How is that me?” I asked him. This man knows me as well as anyone with whom I fuck around. He knows me from my blog. He reads my adventures. He chats with me regularly and asks questions, gets to hear about the fucks I don’t normally share. He’s heard all kinds of stories about where my dick has been. When I considered that, and I consider his own similar tastes in sexual play—which can be pretty hardcore and demanding—I thought I knew what he wanted to say.
But I wanted to hear him say it.
He sighed. “I think people look at you and because you look so normal in a lot of ways they think, Hot dude, I love that he’s the kind of guy I can take home to momma. I think they see you and think, He’s got a big dick, but I bet he’s sweet and cuddly after he shoots. They want to see the stuffed animal side of you, all Disneyfied and neutered. The side where they think, Aw, ain’t he nice. Putting flowers and shit in your mane and prancing around the fields.”
I snickered. Maybe once I had a mane for flowers, but I cut it all off last year.
“But they’re not seeing the side of you I know,” he continued. I liked the closeness of him, the proximity of our bodies, the warm of our skin. He reached between my legs and rolled me over to the side a little, so that he could wrap his hand around my cock. It was moist and slippery from the combination of lube and spit and his own natural juices. “They don’t think about where this dick has been. Or how angry it gets, doesn’t it? They don’t think about the nasty stuff this nasty cock loooooves to do."
I stared him in the eye. And I listened. I couldn't deny he was right.
"You ain’t no Disney character. You’re an animal.” He pulled out my dick and slapped it in his palm. I was fully hard, then. “You can do bad things to a man with that dick. You can rip up a mess of boys and not care that they limp home crying.”
I was aroused. My lips reached out for his. They connected, and merged together into an soft, wet tunnel between us, where our tongues traveled. He pulled me close to him, hard, so that my cock jutted into his hipbone.
“That’s why you’re like Aslan,” he said. “Just like they say in the books. . . .”
Again we both finished the thought together. “He’s not a tame lion.” An odd incongruity, using such an iconically innocent book to make his provocative point.
My jaw clenched. I positioned myself between his legs. Used my knees to cock them up. Leaned over him and looked him in the eye.
“You're a fucking animal,” he grunted. "Animal."
The words had a direct effect on my meat. I spat in my hand, rubbed it around. Felt down at his hole, where one of my loads was already leaking out. “Let me show you how an animal fucks,” I told him.
“Fucking beast,” he growled, egging me on. “Dangerous fucker. Who's gonna tame you, huh? Who's gonna tame your wild ass?”
“Not you,” I told him, as I drove in, hard. Relentless.
His face contorted face into a rictus as he let out a howl of mixed pain and sheer pleasure. But he couldn't deny my words. He couldn't deny my cock, either.
Not would I have let him. After all, I'm not a tame lion.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Our Secret
I’ve known something is up. He’s asked to see me four times in the last month—three times during Thanksgiving week. Meet me, he texted on Monday. Then, on Tuesday, Free tonight?
I had to put him off both times.
Dude, I’ve gotta see that dick again, he messaged on Thanksgiving day itself. Can you get away today?
It’s Thanksgiving, I texted him back. I’m surrounded by people.
Sneak out late tonight, lol.
I relented. Hit me up Friday, I told him. I’m not planning on doing any shopping.
Yesssss, he sent back. Let the wives do the shopping while the husbands do their thing.
Over the course of the last year, The Landscaper has contacted me roughly once a month. His interest in mansex seems to ebb and flow over a three-and-a-half-week cycle. He’ll hit me up over a weekend, typically, and we’ll set a date to connect sometime during that week. We’ll meet in a local parking lot somewhere, and I’ll climb into his van. Then I’ll masturbate for him. My pants never descend below my ankles, my shoes rarely come off, my shirt stays on. He’s still under the illusion that I’m one-hundred-percent straight trade that can be bought with his cash.
I don’t disabuse him of the notion. I say precious little to him, in fact, and let him construct his own fantasies around me. When we meet, I wear my most beat-up athletic shoes, my most faded Levis, a baseball cap. I let him watch me jack. I pretend not to notice when he laps at my nuts as I get closer to orgasm. But I don’t do any of that so-called gay shit with him. Nuh-uh. No way, dude.
Our meetings top out at a half hour at most. When we’re done, he’s satisfied for a while. I might get a rushed thanks later that day or the next, but then it’ll be radio silence. I release the internal sexual pressure for him for the better part of a month. Then the steam and the fantasy builds up and he’s texting me again for a meeting.
But three times during Thanksgiving week? Unheard of, from him. Particularly since we’d just met for a session two weeks before.
So we’re in his van after lunch, Friday, parked in a strip mall lot. It’s chilly outside, but he’s blasted the heaters until I arrived, so that the residual warmth lingers. I unbutton the plaid jacket I’m wearing, sit on it. Spread my legs. Kind of rest my hand on my crotch. I don’t like to seem too eager to get going. He likes to think he’s talking me into it. “How you been? You good?” he asks, in that verbless way men do when they’re trying to be bluff and butch with each other.
I nod. Look at him. Look away. He gets more excited when he thinks I don’t entirely want to be there.
Usually at this point he says something sexual. Asks how my big dick has been doing. Asks if I’ve fucked any pussy lately. This time, though, he just blurts out, “You ever . . . talk to a guy?”
The question catches me off-guard, a little. We don’t usually go off-script like this. “I talk to guys all the time,” I say.
“I mean . . . would you ever consider just talking to me a little?”
I look him in the eyes. There’s hope there. He’s more nervous than usual. I’m wondering what’s up. “What about,” I say. The words come out flat, incurious.
“Stuff.”
“Stuff like . . . ?”
“Close your eyes,” he says. I look at him, eyes wide open. “Please? It’ll be easier to talk if your eyes are shut. I won’t do anything weird. I promise.”
I hesitate, then shut my eyes. “Stuff like what,” I want to know.
“Do you kiss your wife?” he asks.
I’m sitting there with my back against the driver’s seat, knees up, forearms resting there. I feel him shift to a spot beside me. “Sure,” I say.
“She’s a hot little bitch? Your wife?” The Landscaper has a vision of my home life in his head that he’s generated out of my wedding band and precious little input from me. I let him have his fantasy. “You make out with her?”
“Sometimes, yeah.” I shrug.
He clears his throat. “You ever made out with a guy?”
“No.” I try not to sound too scornful.
“You like to kiss though?”
“Yeah, sure.” I want to open my eyes and see what he’s doing, how he’s reacting. This corner of the parking lot is quiet, though, and the van is cooling. I’m comfortable where I am. I like the sensation I’m getting up and down my left side, where he sits, as if his proximity is setting the nerves to tingling. So I keep my eyes shut. “It’s cool to make out during a hot fuck. Feels good.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. He pauses for a moment. “My wife says I was a lousy kisser when I met her. She says she taught me everything.” I hear him laugh. “Funny that I didn’t get any complaints before I knew her though.” I don’t say anything. I don’t really know where this is going. “But you never kissed a guy before?”
“Fuck no.”
“Me neither,” he says. “I mean, my dad or an uncle or something, but not. . . .”
I believe him. There’s a note in his voice, though, that clues me in. “Why are you asking me this,” I growl. But I keep my eyes closed.
“You don’t gotta say yes,” he says, shifting his weight beside me. I can feel his sweatshirt against the back of my arm. “I thought maybe . . . .”
There’s such a long silence that it grows awkward. I’m not going to help him out by finishing that sentence, though. It’s a long moment before he continues. “If you thought about your hot wife, or thought about my wife, if you’d let me. . . . You can pretend. . . .”
I sit there motionless. Maybe he thinks I’m considering it. Maybe he thinks I’m stunned. Either way, I’m not too surprised when I feel his warm breath on my skin, and the lightest of touches on my neck. It’s a butterfly of a kiss, the merest graze. In fact, for a moment I’m not even entirely sure it really happened.
Only I am. There’s another light touch, a little higher. Then I feel his lips and breath against my jawline. I want to sink into it. I want to connect to him eagerly, to let our mouths wander where they will. But instead, I turn my head so that my mouth is facing away from him, forcing him to breathe a trail to my ear.”I bet she’s real sexy in bed,” he whispers. “You thinking about her? Thinking about her kissing you?”
Then I feel his nose, his cheek, against my beard. He’s resting his face there. I feel one of his hands between my thighs, where he’s balancing himself. It’s trembling hard. He’s shaking like a leaf. This is the closest we’ve ever been to each other. He might have his own landscaping company, might cultivate a Mike Rowe kind of image, but he smells expensive. Groomed. “Dude,” I say, protesting weakly. “I can’t. . . .”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he says. I’m surprised that he’s the one reassuring me. “Nothing freaky’s going to happen.”
Nothing freaky does. By my usual sexual adventuring standards, what he does for the next couple of minutes is damned tame. He pushes down my leg so that he can straddle it. I keep my face turned away from his, but I let his lips travel up and down along the length of my jaw, from one side to another. He plants kiss after delicate kiss along the bone. They’re sweet kisses. Surprisingly gentle. Surprisingly soft. For a couple of minutes I simply enjoy the pleasure of him touching me with his warm lips, the sensation of them lingering on my skin, the shiver he elicits as his nostrils breathe in and out and create goosebumps. I let him maneuver my head back and forth. I let him touch my own lips with his thumb.
The ball of that digit rests there for a moment. If I wanted, I could lick out and taste its saltiness.
By my standards, it’s nothing. By his . . . it’s a stretch that means everything, then a whole mile more.
“You’re hard?” he asks. I feel him poke with a fingertip at the bulge in my denim.
After a moment, I shrug. Yeah. I’m rock hard.
He moves off me. I open my eyes, look at him. His own jeans are practically tenting. “Show me?” he suggests.
I avoid looking at him as I shuck down the denim, pull down the shorts. I’m sticky and drooling, though. I can’t hide that excitement. I wrap my hand around my meat and beat at it.
“Wasn’t so bad, was it,” he says to me as he watches me stroke. “Letting a dude kiss you. I mean, it wasn't real kisses, not really.”
I say nothing. I beat harder. I’m close to shooting.
“I liked it,” he breathes. “My first time, seriously. Fuck, that dick is amazing, dude. That’s a porn star dick. You should be in porn. You don’t know how amazing that dick is.”
I shrug like I don’t care. But I know.
“You gonna cum for me?” he asks. I can hear the need in his voice.
Yeah. I am gonna cum. It oozes out of the slit and down my dick’s underside, cascades over my clenched fingers, drips from the knuckles to the floor. It’s a fat gush of fluid, a flood of sperm that baptizes his van’s carpet.
“Fuck,” he whispers as I shake and shudder. “Fuuuuuck. So fucking hot. Looks like you needed that, buddy.”
I sit there for a minute, letting my head clear. Then I shake the cum from my hand. It flops onto the carpet. I wipe the rest on my jeans. “Shit,” I say. “I’d better go.”
“Can I do that again?” he already wants to know. “Next time? Can I do it again?” When I don’t answer, and yank up my jeans around my hips, he hastens to assure me, “I won’t tell anyone. It’s our secret, dude. Nobody’s got to know.”
“I don’t know,” I say. But I do. Yeah. I’ll be letting him plant those little-boy butterfly kisses on me again.
I think he knows it too. He watches as I gather my jacket, check for my keys and wallet and phone, my cash. “It’s okay. I’ll text you soon buddy,” he says. When he speaks the words, it’s not in the intimate, soft voice he’s been using for the previous few minutes. It’s not in his sex voice, that voice of need and yearning and intimacy. It’s in the bluff, masculine, hearty way that dudes speak to dudes. Impersonal. Clipped. The voice men use between themselves when they know someone might overhear. Then, in a lower voice, closer to the one he’d been using during our time together, he adds, “If you want.”
I think he’s almost expecting me to disappoint him. I turn in his direction after I’ve climbed between the seats into the front, my knee deep in the passenger-side cushion as I look at him over the headrest.
“When?” I ask.
It only takes one word to make his face light up.
His voice is hoarse with surprise. “Soon,” he promises.
There’s something in the way he says the word that connects with me. I’ve given him a lifeline to cling onto.
For the next three and a half weeks, anyway.
I had to put him off both times.
Dude, I’ve gotta see that dick again, he messaged on Thanksgiving day itself. Can you get away today?
It’s Thanksgiving, I texted him back. I’m surrounded by people.
Sneak out late tonight, lol.
I relented. Hit me up Friday, I told him. I’m not planning on doing any shopping.
Yesssss, he sent back. Let the wives do the shopping while the husbands do their thing.
Over the course of the last year, The Landscaper has contacted me roughly once a month. His interest in mansex seems to ebb and flow over a three-and-a-half-week cycle. He’ll hit me up over a weekend, typically, and we’ll set a date to connect sometime during that week. We’ll meet in a local parking lot somewhere, and I’ll climb into his van. Then I’ll masturbate for him. My pants never descend below my ankles, my shoes rarely come off, my shirt stays on. He’s still under the illusion that I’m one-hundred-percent straight trade that can be bought with his cash.
I don’t disabuse him of the notion. I say precious little to him, in fact, and let him construct his own fantasies around me. When we meet, I wear my most beat-up athletic shoes, my most faded Levis, a baseball cap. I let him watch me jack. I pretend not to notice when he laps at my nuts as I get closer to orgasm. But I don’t do any of that so-called gay shit with him. Nuh-uh. No way, dude.
Our meetings top out at a half hour at most. When we’re done, he’s satisfied for a while. I might get a rushed thanks later that day or the next, but then it’ll be radio silence. I release the internal sexual pressure for him for the better part of a month. Then the steam and the fantasy builds up and he’s texting me again for a meeting.
But three times during Thanksgiving week? Unheard of, from him. Particularly since we’d just met for a session two weeks before.
So we’re in his van after lunch, Friday, parked in a strip mall lot. It’s chilly outside, but he’s blasted the heaters until I arrived, so that the residual warmth lingers. I unbutton the plaid jacket I’m wearing, sit on it. Spread my legs. Kind of rest my hand on my crotch. I don’t like to seem too eager to get going. He likes to think he’s talking me into it. “How you been? You good?” he asks, in that verbless way men do when they’re trying to be bluff and butch with each other.
I nod. Look at him. Look away. He gets more excited when he thinks I don’t entirely want to be there.
Usually at this point he says something sexual. Asks how my big dick has been doing. Asks if I’ve fucked any pussy lately. This time, though, he just blurts out, “You ever . . . talk to a guy?”
The question catches me off-guard, a little. We don’t usually go off-script like this. “I talk to guys all the time,” I say.
“I mean . . . would you ever consider just talking to me a little?”
I look him in the eyes. There’s hope there. He’s more nervous than usual. I’m wondering what’s up. “What about,” I say. The words come out flat, incurious.
“Stuff.”
“Stuff like . . . ?”
“Close your eyes,” he says. I look at him, eyes wide open. “Please? It’ll be easier to talk if your eyes are shut. I won’t do anything weird. I promise.”
I hesitate, then shut my eyes. “Stuff like what,” I want to know.
“Do you kiss your wife?” he asks.
I’m sitting there with my back against the driver’s seat, knees up, forearms resting there. I feel him shift to a spot beside me. “Sure,” I say.
“She’s a hot little bitch? Your wife?” The Landscaper has a vision of my home life in his head that he’s generated out of my wedding band and precious little input from me. I let him have his fantasy. “You make out with her?”
“Sometimes, yeah.” I shrug.
He clears his throat. “You ever made out with a guy?”
“No.” I try not to sound too scornful.
“You like to kiss though?”
“Yeah, sure.” I want to open my eyes and see what he’s doing, how he’s reacting. This corner of the parking lot is quiet, though, and the van is cooling. I’m comfortable where I am. I like the sensation I’m getting up and down my left side, where he sits, as if his proximity is setting the nerves to tingling. So I keep my eyes shut. “It’s cool to make out during a hot fuck. Feels good.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. He pauses for a moment. “My wife says I was a lousy kisser when I met her. She says she taught me everything.” I hear him laugh. “Funny that I didn’t get any complaints before I knew her though.” I don’t say anything. I don’t really know where this is going. “But you never kissed a guy before?”
“Fuck no.”
“Me neither,” he says. “I mean, my dad or an uncle or something, but not. . . .”
I believe him. There’s a note in his voice, though, that clues me in. “Why are you asking me this,” I growl. But I keep my eyes closed.
“You don’t gotta say yes,” he says, shifting his weight beside me. I can feel his sweatshirt against the back of my arm. “I thought maybe . . . .”
There’s such a long silence that it grows awkward. I’m not going to help him out by finishing that sentence, though. It’s a long moment before he continues. “If you thought about your hot wife, or thought about my wife, if you’d let me. . . . You can pretend. . . .”
I sit there motionless. Maybe he thinks I’m considering it. Maybe he thinks I’m stunned. Either way, I’m not too surprised when I feel his warm breath on my skin, and the lightest of touches on my neck. It’s a butterfly of a kiss, the merest graze. In fact, for a moment I’m not even entirely sure it really happened.
Only I am. There’s another light touch, a little higher. Then I feel his lips and breath against my jawline. I want to sink into it. I want to connect to him eagerly, to let our mouths wander where they will. But instead, I turn my head so that my mouth is facing away from him, forcing him to breathe a trail to my ear.”I bet she’s real sexy in bed,” he whispers. “You thinking about her? Thinking about her kissing you?”
Then I feel his nose, his cheek, against my beard. He’s resting his face there. I feel one of his hands between my thighs, where he’s balancing himself. It’s trembling hard. He’s shaking like a leaf. This is the closest we’ve ever been to each other. He might have his own landscaping company, might cultivate a Mike Rowe kind of image, but he smells expensive. Groomed. “Dude,” I say, protesting weakly. “I can’t. . . .”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he says. I’m surprised that he’s the one reassuring me. “Nothing freaky’s going to happen.”
Nothing freaky does. By my usual sexual adventuring standards, what he does for the next couple of minutes is damned tame. He pushes down my leg so that he can straddle it. I keep my face turned away from his, but I let his lips travel up and down along the length of my jaw, from one side to another. He plants kiss after delicate kiss along the bone. They’re sweet kisses. Surprisingly gentle. Surprisingly soft. For a couple of minutes I simply enjoy the pleasure of him touching me with his warm lips, the sensation of them lingering on my skin, the shiver he elicits as his nostrils breathe in and out and create goosebumps. I let him maneuver my head back and forth. I let him touch my own lips with his thumb.
The ball of that digit rests there for a moment. If I wanted, I could lick out and taste its saltiness.
By my standards, it’s nothing. By his . . . it’s a stretch that means everything, then a whole mile more.
“You’re hard?” he asks. I feel him poke with a fingertip at the bulge in my denim.
After a moment, I shrug. Yeah. I’m rock hard.
He moves off me. I open my eyes, look at him. His own jeans are practically tenting. “Show me?” he suggests.
I avoid looking at him as I shuck down the denim, pull down the shorts. I’m sticky and drooling, though. I can’t hide that excitement. I wrap my hand around my meat and beat at it.
“Wasn’t so bad, was it,” he says to me as he watches me stroke. “Letting a dude kiss you. I mean, it wasn't real kisses, not really.”
I say nothing. I beat harder. I’m close to shooting.
“I liked it,” he breathes. “My first time, seriously. Fuck, that dick is amazing, dude. That’s a porn star dick. You should be in porn. You don’t know how amazing that dick is.”
I shrug like I don’t care. But I know.
“You gonna cum for me?” he asks. I can hear the need in his voice.
Yeah. I am gonna cum. It oozes out of the slit and down my dick’s underside, cascades over my clenched fingers, drips from the knuckles to the floor. It’s a fat gush of fluid, a flood of sperm that baptizes his van’s carpet.
“Fuck,” he whispers as I shake and shudder. “Fuuuuuck. So fucking hot. Looks like you needed that, buddy.”
I sit there for a minute, letting my head clear. Then I shake the cum from my hand. It flops onto the carpet. I wipe the rest on my jeans. “Shit,” I say. “I’d better go.”
“Can I do that again?” he already wants to know. “Next time? Can I do it again?” When I don’t answer, and yank up my jeans around my hips, he hastens to assure me, “I won’t tell anyone. It’s our secret, dude. Nobody’s got to know.”
“I don’t know,” I say. But I do. Yeah. I’ll be letting him plant those little-boy butterfly kisses on me again.
I think he knows it too. He watches as I gather my jacket, check for my keys and wallet and phone, my cash. “It’s okay. I’ll text you soon buddy,” he says. When he speaks the words, it’s not in the intimate, soft voice he’s been using for the previous few minutes. It’s not in his sex voice, that voice of need and yearning and intimacy. It’s in the bluff, masculine, hearty way that dudes speak to dudes. Impersonal. Clipped. The voice men use between themselves when they know someone might overhear. Then, in a lower voice, closer to the one he’d been using during our time together, he adds, “If you want.”
I think he’s almost expecting me to disappoint him. I turn in his direction after I’ve climbed between the seats into the front, my knee deep in the passenger-side cushion as I look at him over the headrest.
“When?” I ask.
It only takes one word to make his face light up.
His voice is hoarse with surprise. “Soon,” he promises.
There’s something in the way he says the word that connects with me. I’ve given him a lifeline to cling onto.
For the next three and a half weeks, anyway.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Sunday Morning Questions: Oh Honey Edition
The bartender at my semi-local gay bar surely is pretty. His eyes are deep and soulful. His locks are wavy and lush. His muscles are abundant, his teeth a gleaming white.
But as I've said elsewhere on these pages, he's also deeply dumb. So deeply dumb that whenever he speaks, whenever it's my turn, all I want to do is say to him with deep sympathy and a pat to his head, "Oh, honey."
Though he's nearly my age, he reminds me of nothing more closely than an enthusiastic, hyper Dalmatian. He's all about jumping up and wagging his tail and licking my face (metaphorically, I stress) and getting his muddy paw prints all over my shirt when I walk into the bar, but I'm not sure I'd trust him to look both ways before walking out into the street—or pick up a stick I've thrown instead of coming back with a water moccasin in his mouth.
"Hey buddy!" he panted with excitement when I walked into the bar the night before Thanksgiving. "Guess what? Guess what? Guess what? I'm going to have my iPhone accessories line!" Before I'd even removed my coat, he was outlining for me the latest of his harebrained schemes to make a quick million—this time by marketing high-end (e.g., tacky) cases for iPhones and iPads. He intends to call the line, for god knows what reason, iChicken. "I met with these people, right, who want to sponsor my new line for like, fashion shows! And television ads!" Then he went off into a long, long excited speech about how his iPhone cases were going to be the real deal. "Not that fake jewelry shit, but real Swarkovski crystals put all over the fuck of that shit! Real Swarkovski! It'll be hot, right? Real classy, right?"
All I could really think of was a line from the Avenue D song, "Do I Look Like a Slut?" that runs, Shiiiiit, I love your Daisy Dukes! I think they're real classy!
The bartender's questions are rhetorical, however. He doesn't even pause for a response, or for my gentle suggestion that it's Swarovski, not Swarkovski. "I got it all up here!" he said, pointing to his skull. "Hundreds of ideas for this shit. Hundreds! I was telling them to one of my buddies and he was like, 'Dude, you're a real resonance man!' And I was like, yeah! I am!" His voice dropped to a confidential tone. "That's like a Resonance Faire, right?"
Oh, honey.
Let's get to some Formspring questions, shall we?
I'd like to try hooking up at rest stops. I live in CT like you (towards New Haven). Are there any good and safe places where I'd be likely to find some action?
By its very nature, public cruising isn't safe. It's risky and unpredictable and even dangerous. If you have a high-stakes career, or a public image, or if you don't want to take any risks whatsoever when it comes to hooking up, you shouldn't be cruising in rest stops or other public places.
However, if you do give it a try, I've noticed that the rest stops in our area tend to be very much park-and-wait experiences. Most of the cruising goes on in the backs of the parking lots, after dark. Men will turn off their engines, roll down their windows a little, and check each other out. It'll progress to a conversation between cars, and after that perhaps one man getting into the other man's car for some groping. The action is mostly taken elsewhere.
If you're looking for a lower-risk experience, I would suggest some of the adult bookstores in the New Haven area. The men in the back rooms tend to be there for one reason only, and the stores aren't really policed all that closely, from what I've heard.
How long since you've been on an airplane?
That's a good question. A year and a half? I flew from Michigan to New York on my birthday, back in 2011. Why do you ask? Are you buying me a ticket somewhere?
Would we ever see you at a karaoke bar? What song would you sing?
Um, anyone who knows me would immediately reply that it's less likely to find me in a bar that wasn't a karaoke bar.
I maintain in my phone a database of over 250 songs that I've sung in karaoke bars over the last decade. The database contains information on the song title, original artist, and the amount of half-steps that I request the KJ to change the key, if needed. I find that keeping the list helps me overcome that "I don't know anything in this karaoke book" block that I always get upon entering a karaoke bar.
Though most of the songs on the list I've performed at least a good number of times, there are a few that, after giving it the old college try, I will never perform again. There are some that no matter how many keys I tone it down, are still way too high for me (I'm looking at you, Maroon 5's "Misery"—I certainly lived up to that title). And some, while fine on the radio, are just a snooze to sing, like Level 42's "Something About You" or White Town's "I Could Never Be Your Woman."
Still. That's a lot of songs.
Posted on Twitter was a comment that said, "Some of the best Tops were previous bottoms". Was wondering what your thoughts on that were.
I think that if an observant guy who's willing to learn, experiments with the opposite role of what he generally prefers, he'll pick up a lot of nuances about the experience that will enhance his future lovemaking skills.
Some guys like me who started as bottoms have turned out to be very good tops; we remember what it was that tops did to us to make us hornier for them, and to make us feel good. Then we put those things into action.
I've known bottoms who have flipped and learned what it is that makes top men tick, and play upon that as well.
Is it an automatic process? No, not at all. There are plenty of tops who were previous bottoms out there who are still lousy at both. Being attuned to the moment, and remembering the feelings and connecting the dots between previous experiences and future encounters, though, will make anyone better in bed.
I was very touched by your recent gratitude post. Do you have a routine way you practice gratitude? And looking back on your life (sexual life it you want) what 10 or so things are you most grateful for?
Writing about my life in a journal helps me practice gratitude. Rather than letting life rush by, I find that capturing moments from it really helps me remember them better, and to appreciate the good moments for what they are.
Here are a few things for which I'm grateful, in no particular order.
- I'm grateful that I've always been willing to take chances in my life, whether it's been in throwing myself into new situations and new parts of the country in my personal life, or simply to take a risk with another person and let them into my intimate sexual space.
- I'm not wealthy, or famous, but I'm grateful that as a career I get to do what I love to do.
- I'm happy to have had an upbringing that has helped me face most of the obstacles that stand in my way, and the support to endure those that seem unattackable.
- I'm very lucky and fortunate to have been born with a sense of humor that, most days, keeps me from being bitter and overly cynical. Usually.
- I'm really glad that the universe has seen fit to send my way people who can share their lives and secrets and most intimate fantasies with me at the times I need to meet them, and I'm glad that their sparks illuminate my life in ways I didn't even know were possible—or sometimes necessary—before our lives touched.
- I'm grateful for the capacity to love deeply, and to continue to love others, despite all the pain opening up that way can bring.
- Shallow as it might sound, I'm grateful to have been born with the dick I received, because it's gotten me a lot of places I might not have been otherwise.
- I'm grateful for the bad times I've had in my life. They've only made me appreciate the good all the more.
Anyone who doesn't practice gratitude on a daily basis is letting his life simply slip by, rather than living it.
But as I've said elsewhere on these pages, he's also deeply dumb. So deeply dumb that whenever he speaks, whenever it's my turn, all I want to do is say to him with deep sympathy and a pat to his head, "Oh, honey."
Though he's nearly my age, he reminds me of nothing more closely than an enthusiastic, hyper Dalmatian. He's all about jumping up and wagging his tail and licking my face (metaphorically, I stress) and getting his muddy paw prints all over my shirt when I walk into the bar, but I'm not sure I'd trust him to look both ways before walking out into the street—or pick up a stick I've thrown instead of coming back with a water moccasin in his mouth.
"Hey buddy!" he panted with excitement when I walked into the bar the night before Thanksgiving. "Guess what? Guess what? Guess what? I'm going to have my iPhone accessories line!" Before I'd even removed my coat, he was outlining for me the latest of his harebrained schemes to make a quick million—this time by marketing high-end (e.g., tacky) cases for iPhones and iPads. He intends to call the line, for god knows what reason, iChicken. "I met with these people, right, who want to sponsor my new line for like, fashion shows! And television ads!" Then he went off into a long, long excited speech about how his iPhone cases were going to be the real deal. "Not that fake jewelry shit, but real Swarkovski crystals put all over the fuck of that shit! Real Swarkovski! It'll be hot, right? Real classy, right?"
All I could really think of was a line from the Avenue D song, "Do I Look Like a Slut?" that runs, Shiiiiit, I love your Daisy Dukes! I think they're real classy!
The bartender's questions are rhetorical, however. He doesn't even pause for a response, or for my gentle suggestion that it's Swarovski, not Swarkovski. "I got it all up here!" he said, pointing to his skull. "Hundreds of ideas for this shit. Hundreds! I was telling them to one of my buddies and he was like, 'Dude, you're a real resonance man!' And I was like, yeah! I am!" His voice dropped to a confidential tone. "That's like a Resonance Faire, right?"
Oh, honey.
Let's get to some Formspring questions, shall we?
I'd like to try hooking up at rest stops. I live in CT like you (towards New Haven). Are there any good and safe places where I'd be likely to find some action?
By its very nature, public cruising isn't safe. It's risky and unpredictable and even dangerous. If you have a high-stakes career, or a public image, or if you don't want to take any risks whatsoever when it comes to hooking up, you shouldn't be cruising in rest stops or other public places.
However, if you do give it a try, I've noticed that the rest stops in our area tend to be very much park-and-wait experiences. Most of the cruising goes on in the backs of the parking lots, after dark. Men will turn off their engines, roll down their windows a little, and check each other out. It'll progress to a conversation between cars, and after that perhaps one man getting into the other man's car for some groping. The action is mostly taken elsewhere.
If you're looking for a lower-risk experience, I would suggest some of the adult bookstores in the New Haven area. The men in the back rooms tend to be there for one reason only, and the stores aren't really policed all that closely, from what I've heard.
How long since you've been on an airplane?
That's a good question. A year and a half? I flew from Michigan to New York on my birthday, back in 2011. Why do you ask? Are you buying me a ticket somewhere?
Would we ever see you at a karaoke bar? What song would you sing?
Um, anyone who knows me would immediately reply that it's less likely to find me in a bar that wasn't a karaoke bar.
I maintain in my phone a database of over 250 songs that I've sung in karaoke bars over the last decade. The database contains information on the song title, original artist, and the amount of half-steps that I request the KJ to change the key, if needed. I find that keeping the list helps me overcome that "I don't know anything in this karaoke book" block that I always get upon entering a karaoke bar.
Though most of the songs on the list I've performed at least a good number of times, there are a few that, after giving it the old college try, I will never perform again. There are some that no matter how many keys I tone it down, are still way too high for me (I'm looking at you, Maroon 5's "Misery"—I certainly lived up to that title). And some, while fine on the radio, are just a snooze to sing, like Level 42's "Something About You" or White Town's "I Could Never Be Your Woman."
Still. That's a lot of songs.
Posted on Twitter was a comment that said, "Some of the best Tops were previous bottoms". Was wondering what your thoughts on that were.
I think that if an observant guy who's willing to learn, experiments with the opposite role of what he generally prefers, he'll pick up a lot of nuances about the experience that will enhance his future lovemaking skills.
Some guys like me who started as bottoms have turned out to be very good tops; we remember what it was that tops did to us to make us hornier for them, and to make us feel good. Then we put those things into action.
I've known bottoms who have flipped and learned what it is that makes top men tick, and play upon that as well.
Is it an automatic process? No, not at all. There are plenty of tops who were previous bottoms out there who are still lousy at both. Being attuned to the moment, and remembering the feelings and connecting the dots between previous experiences and future encounters, though, will make anyone better in bed.
I was very touched by your recent gratitude post. Do you have a routine way you practice gratitude? And looking back on your life (sexual life it you want) what 10 or so things are you most grateful for?
Writing about my life in a journal helps me practice gratitude. Rather than letting life rush by, I find that capturing moments from it really helps me remember them better, and to appreciate the good moments for what they are.
Here are a few things for which I'm grateful, in no particular order.
- I'm grateful that I've always been willing to take chances in my life, whether it's been in throwing myself into new situations and new parts of the country in my personal life, or simply to take a risk with another person and let them into my intimate sexual space.
- I'm not wealthy, or famous, but I'm grateful that as a career I get to do what I love to do.
- I'm happy to have had an upbringing that has helped me face most of the obstacles that stand in my way, and the support to endure those that seem unattackable.
- I'm very lucky and fortunate to have been born with a sense of humor that, most days, keeps me from being bitter and overly cynical. Usually.
- I'm really glad that the universe has seen fit to send my way people who can share their lives and secrets and most intimate fantasies with me at the times I need to meet them, and I'm glad that their sparks illuminate my life in ways I didn't even know were possible—or sometimes necessary—before our lives touched.
- I'm grateful for the capacity to love deeply, and to continue to love others, despite all the pain opening up that way can bring.
- Shallow as it might sound, I'm grateful to have been born with the dick I received, because it's gotten me a lot of places I might not have been otherwise.
- I'm grateful for the bad times I've had in my life. They've only made me appreciate the good all the more.
Anyone who doesn't practice gratitude on a daily basis is letting his life simply slip by, rather than living it.
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