I had the opportunity recently to spend an afternoon and evening with my friend Eeyore. Longer-term readers of my blog will realize that I am not myself a long-term resident of The Hundred Acre Wood, but am talking about an old, decades-old, old-old-old friend of mine who has a glum and dour disposition. He has a unique talent for making lemons out of lemonade; I’m not exaggerating much when I say his mere appearance at a Mardi Gras celebration could turn a happy festival into a mass suicide.
Going out with Eeyore these days is really not that different from going out by myself, much of the time. No sooner will we have arrived at a place than he’ll whip out his smartphone and absorb himself, for half-hours at a time, in the seemingly dozens of GPS sex apps that occupy his phone’s first screen. There’s Grindr and Scruff, of course, and Growlr, but then there are a good ten more of which I’ve never heard. Mind you, Eeyore will never actually hook up with any of the guys he sees on these apps. The last time I checked in with him, he hadn’t actually had sex in two decades. But that doesn’t keep him from dreaming about it . . . in public, surrounded by men in a gay bar, in the company of friends who take him out because they want to socialize with him and not with the back of his phone’s case.
So there we were, in a fairly quiet gay bar—just me, Eeyore, and Eeyore’s smartphone. I sipped my drink and watched his fingers move lovingly over the silicone-and-glass device. I looked away when he stroked it intimately, as it might a lover. “This one’s hot, huh?” he would occasional say, then show me a photo of a blue-haired, big-schnozzed twenty-four year old.
“Where’s he from?” I’d ask.
“He’s only thirty-six hundred miles away,” he’d sigh, and then lose himself in concentration for another half hour. I’d sit there, sipping and sipping, watching the gay men come and go while he’d hunch over and peck out conversations with ugly guys who lived just on the other side of the Urals.
A very long and silent forty-five minutes later, he nudged me to show me a profile on Grindr. “Oh god! This one’s less than two hundred and fifty feet away!” he said, using much the same strangled, ecstatic tones as might a happy pilgrim upon seeing the Virgin Mary pop her head into Lourdes.
“That’s because it’s the bartender,” I told him, nodding at the young guy at the room’s other side. The photo on the phone was of a twenty-five-year-old in shorts and hiking boots, his feet firmly planted on some rocky precipice. He had longer hair in his Grindr photo, but it was unmistakably the same guy in the jeans and the tee with the cut-off arms who was standing across the room. “If you actually looked up once in a while. . . .”
“Oh god, do you think? He’s so, so beautiful,” mooned Eeyore. I thought the kid was all right. Nothing too special. I wouldn’t have turned him down if he’d come on to me, but I wouldn’t have turned into a crushed-out schoolgirl over the kid, either.
“So go talk to him,” I suggested. I wouldn’t have minded being left alone for a few minutes. Hell, I’d been alone for the hour we’d been in the bar.
He recoiled. “I couldn’t do that,” he said, horrified at the thought. Eeyore is a good seven or eight years older than I, if I’ve not mentioned it; he behaves as if he’s thirty-seven or thirty-eight years younger. “Look at him,” he said, over and over again, cupping his smartphone as if it were a religious icon. He stared at the photo for long minutes, not seeming to realize that the real thing was standing not twenty feet from his downturned face. “Less than two hundred and fifty feet away!”
“Uh-huh,” I said, starting to grind my teeth.
For another half-hour I sat there with Eeyore, staring at the top of his bent head. “Let’s go get some dinner,” I finally suggested. Without complaint he agreed. We sucked down the rest of our drinks, collected our things, and were on the way to the front door when I realized that Eeyore had stopped in front of the bar.
“Hey,” he said. Then, louder, “HEY.”
There were two guys behind the bar that evening. One was the one from Grindr; the other was older and closer. They both stopped what they were doing to look at Eeyore.
“You ever been on a mountaintop?” Eeyore asked the younger bartender.
“What?” said the older one. “On a mountaintop?”
“I know what I’m asking!” said Eeyore. “You. You ever been on a mountaintop?”
“Hey,” I said, realizing he was a little more drunk than I realized. “Let’s go.”
“Why would I be on a mountaintop?” asked the older bartender, still not realizing he wasn’t the one being addressed. The younger bartender, in the meantime, seem to have finally realized what Eeyore was asking. He blinked and opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Eeyore caught the gesture. “Oh yeah,” he said, way too loudly and nastily. “He knows what I mean. You know exactly what I’m talking about, don’tcha, sweetheart? Standing there pretending like you don’t know—”
“We’re going,” I told him, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him out. Eeyore is a lot heavier than I, but I was a lot more sober, and had my balance. He tumbled out the door into the night. “What the fuck was that?” I wanted to know. He started to make excuses for his behavior, but I wasn’t having any of it. “That kid didn’t do anything to you,” I lectured. “There’s no need to be confrontational with him just because he’s on Grindr and you’re too afraid to go up and—“
“I can’t help it if I don’t know the etiquette of these situations!” he yelled at my back, then scurried to catch up with me.
“Just be nice,” I suggested. “Not weird.”
We went to dinner. Now, normally, when I go out with friends, I am the slow eater. Everyone else will have cleaned his plate and folded his napkin while I’m still rounding that final leg of my cheeseburger. By the time I’ve downed that last fry with small grunts of pleasure, they’re usually tapping their toes, avoiding my glance, and wondering when the entire ugly spectacle will finally come to an end. When I’m with Eeyore, however, he’s spending so much time staring at his phone and checking messages on Fuckr or Scrappr or whatever is the app du jour that I seem like a high-powered Hoover in comparison. I finished eating whatever the hell it was I’d ordered after twenty minutes; it took him a full hour and a half to consume a salad and a wedge of whole-grain bread.
But once he had some food in him he started to become the charming guy I’ve known he can be—at least when the waiter was around, anyway. The kid tending our table was a student who was outright adorable. Cute face, lithe little body, a smile that lit up our corner of the dank little restaurant. Whenever he was around, Eeyore would set down his phone, come to life, and elicit some new little bit of information about the boy. That’s how we discovered the kid was a senior in college who worked seven nights a week all summer to earn his tuition for the next year of school; he was majoring in business; he loved to surf and planned to move to San Diego with his girlfriend after he graduated. I started to relax, thinking that maybe my lecture about not being weird had sunk in a little.
The waiter enjoyed the interactions. It was a slow night, and he obviously enjoyed talking about himself. I’m sure he knew we were both gay, and even though he seemed pretty straight, he didn’t mind Eeyore’s none-too-subtle flirtation.
Then came the check. “Oh thank god,” Eeyore said, grabbing it. For a moment I thought the waiter had discounted our drinks or something. But no. “His full name’s on it. Gimme.” He pointed to the kid’s moniker under a generic computer-printed line about how happy he’d been to serve us. He grabbed his phone and started to tap at it.
I prised his fingers out of the folder and stuck my credit card in it. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“Investigating,” he said, stabbing furiously at the glass. “Look,” he said, showing me the waiter’s Facebook profile. There was a photo of him with a surfboard, shirtless and looking good. Then another of him with a smiling girl. “I hate her,” Eeyore growled, looking at the other photos.
“Come on,” I said, feeling the old dread settle over me once again. “You’re being creepy.”
The cute waiter boy came over to collect the bill. He wore a big smile on his face. “Hey guys, thanks for being at my. . . .”
The smile faded when Eeyore thrust his smartphone into the kid’s face. “Who’s the girl?” he wanted to know. “She looks like a skank.”
“How did you . . . oh . . . you saw my name on the check,” said the waiter, all color fading from his face. “Then you . . . looked me up online. . . .”
“Yeah, he’s a regular Hardy Boy,” I said, trying to lighten the moment with a joke. The waiter walked away expressionlessly to cash out the bill. When he was out of earshot, I stared at Eeyore. “Asshole,” I said to him.
“What?” he asked, still looking at the boy’s photos.
“You had a nice rapport going with that kid. Then you fucked it up. Why the hell?”
“I don’t know the etiquette of. . . .”
“That is bullshit,” I told him. “You are nearly sixty years old. You’ve had half a century to learn by now that if you want to stalk someone online, do it in private. You don’t do it, then share the results of your stalking with your victim. You don’t put them on the spot like that. You don’t—“
But I was too mad by that point to be coherent for much longer. I’d had enough for that night.
I keep thinking about my anger from that evening, in a week where I’ve had several kinds of rudeness thrown my way by other guys. Each time something new and creative and shitty has happened, I keep wanting to put my hands on my hips and ask, What in the world were you thinking? to the guys. But I’m sure that I’d just get the reply of, What?! I don’t know the etiquette here. . . .!
Which is bullshit. We’re all adults. By now we should know to play nicely with each other. We’re not theoretical constructs that exist only thirty-six hundred miles away. We’re not nerveless imaginary beings on the other side of a layer of glass. We’re all real people, and if we’re wielding our dicks at each other, we should be mature enough to treat each other with a little respect.
We all know the etiquette here. We just have to understand that it’s up to every single one of us to apply it.
Monday, July 21, 2014
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Celebrity Crush
The confession I’m about to make is more than slightly silly, but I’m going to blurt it out anyway: I have something of a schoolgirl crush on a local celebrity.
I’m stretching the word ‘celebrity’ to the max, here. The actor in question is probably an E-List celebrity at most. Even the most avid TMZ devotee would be hard-pressed to come up with a mental image of the guy’s face were I to mention his name. He’s not popular enough to be a regular in People or Us Weekly, nor is he even highbrow enough to get a mention in a Broadway periodical. He’s known mostly for a single television show, but I still doubt he’d ever, even in a pinch, make the TV Guide crossword puzzle.
No, a few years back there was a well-known cable drama that had a run for over half a decade. It got critical raves and had a stellar cast. My celebrity crush—let’s call him Davey—had a prominent role in the show for its entire run. He wasn’t the central character, but he got more airtime than most. Or maybe I just noticed him more when he was onscreen, looking all hot ’n’ stuff and stripping down to his underwear at every opportunity while his long blond hair hung down to his shoulders and the show’s directors lit him like he was some kind of Greek god.
Excuse me. I need a quick cold shower.
I liked the guy in the show. He was hot. He was frequently exposing his buttocks to the cameras. Do I really need anything else in a weekly TV cable show? Nope, apparently not. Oh wait. His acting was pretty good, too. There. Anyhow, the show went off the air, and Davey did a couple of tiny blink-and-you-miss-them appearances on a couple of other TV series, and then vanished altogether, never to be seen on the small screen again.
I first became aware that Davey lived in my vicinity when I moved here, a few years back. I was grabbing a slice for dinner at the local hole-in-the-wall pizza joint on a busy Friday night. When I took my paper plate and plastic cup (that should tip you off that I only eat in the classiest restaurants) to the only open table in the place, I slid into my seat and found myself staring at the actor over whom I used to get wet on a weekly basis. I recognized him immediately; though he unfortunately had his clothes on, he still had his trademark shoulder-length golden hair and dreamy blue eyes. Since he was eating dinner with a pretty young woman and a couple of golden-haired kids I assumed belonged to him, I attempted to choke down my pepperoni pizza and act nonchalant as I immediately thumb-stabbed subtle texts to about a half-dozen friends that read, OHMYGOD I’M SITTING NEXT TO THE HOT GUY WHO NEVER WORE A SHIRT ON THAT SHOW WHO GOT RAPED BY THAT HOT GUY WHO’S ON THAT OTHER CRIME SHOW.
Which, as a text message, I might have phrased a little more coherently, because most of my friends immediately texted back with I don’t know what the hell hot guy you’re talking about? or What?? or even Who are you and why are you texting me?
I didn’t see Davey again until this summer, when he started making regular guest appearances in my life. Now that it’s summer and the building is empty where I do a little weekly volunteer work, Davey’s been renting a room a couple of times a week so he can have a quiet place to work on a screenplay. I wasn’t around when he made those arrangements, but the morning he started happened to be on my regular volunteer schedule. He strode in, tall and muscular with his golden hair pulled back into a ponytail, smiled at me, caught my name from my badge, and held out his hand to shake.
“Hi, Rob,” he said in a manful voice, as he squeezed my hand. My knees started to go weak. “I’m Davey. I’ll be renting the office opposite yours, so you’ll be seeing me regularly over the summer.”
He might have said more. I don’t know. The sound of the heavenly chorus singing kind of drowned it out. All I know is that he gave me a wink, let go of my hand (WHY, DEAR GOD, WHY?) and exited the office to shut himself into his own rented quarters. I wet my lips, swallowed, and finally said, very suavely, “Hhhhhhhiiiiiiii hot man. . . .”
Every time I saw Davey the rest of that first day, he gave me a smile. A long, lingering smile. “How’s it going, Rob?” he’d growl, and I’d gulp and squeak out “F-F-FINE THANKS!” and in general react like I was a sixth-grade girl and he was one of the One Direction singers who happened to staying in my mom’s spare room.
I’ve regained my composure since then. Somewhat. A little. Okay, not much at all. I see Davey pretty frequently, and though my stomach develops butterflies the instant I spot his glorious form, I manage to keep my cool outwardly. When I’m sitting on a rock and eating ice cream from the local scoop shop and Davey bikes by with his daughter, I have no problem waving and saying hello like a normal person. When he comes into the building where I volunteer and passes my office, I manage to keep my head on and my tongue in my mouth and ask him how the screenplay is going.
We actually have a rapport. At the volunteer spot, all the female staff in the main office refer to Davey as ‘the hot guy.’ I was in there one morning when Davey strode by, dewy and glowing from his walk, his muscles rippling and his hair forming a mane of sunshine around his Apollo-like face. “Hi, Rob!” he called out as he walked by. Immediately all the females in the office turned on me and hissed, “HOW COME THE HOT GUY KNOWS YOUR NAME?!”
“Ladies,” I said, in jaded tones. “I cannot help my allure.”
As long as we’re confessing things, though, I have to admit that I did however have a recent mishap with my celebrity crush. A couple of weeks ago, I was taking my evening exercise. I’d chosen to do several walking laps around a local pond. It was a warm night, and the sun was brilliant as it sank down to the horizon. I was sweaty, and a little bit clammy, and listening to loud music through my earbuds.
I was rounding the back half of my fourth lap when I saw him—my celebrity crush, cutting over the pond upon one of its bridges, heading in my direction. Was it the sun’s glare was bouncing off the water that blinded me, or was the brilliance that made me shade my eyes coming from his godlike profile and the silhouette of his golden ponytail? My heartbeat quickened and my stomach tightened into knots.
I slowed down my pace in a ‘totally natural’ way. I shook my hair and wiped the sweat from my brow with my sleeve. Then I decided to have ‘earbud problems’ that required me to remove them, just in case, you know, Davey wanted to have a ‘long, drawn-out conversation’ that involved him telling me that the proximity between us was driving him mad, MAD, and that he’d decided to leave his wife and kiddies and run away with me to Aruba. Or something like that, you know. When I reached the end of the bridge at exactly the same time as his sun-obscured figure, I had a smile on my lips and a look of ‘total surprise’ on my face as I prepared myself to say something like, “Why, Davey! Fancy meeting you here!”. . . .
. . . and then I saw that the figure that had been crossing the bridge during my moment of sun blindness wasn’t Davey at all, but some gray-haired old lady with a ponytail who was looking at me with curiosity and a little bit of apprehension, obviously wondering what what sweaty crazy guy had been about to say to her.
For the record, I went with ‘good evening’ and privately ate crow on my final lap around the park.
Whoops.
I’m stretching the word ‘celebrity’ to the max, here. The actor in question is probably an E-List celebrity at most. Even the most avid TMZ devotee would be hard-pressed to come up with a mental image of the guy’s face were I to mention his name. He’s not popular enough to be a regular in People or Us Weekly, nor is he even highbrow enough to get a mention in a Broadway periodical. He’s known mostly for a single television show, but I still doubt he’d ever, even in a pinch, make the TV Guide crossword puzzle.
No, a few years back there was a well-known cable drama that had a run for over half a decade. It got critical raves and had a stellar cast. My celebrity crush—let’s call him Davey—had a prominent role in the show for its entire run. He wasn’t the central character, but he got more airtime than most. Or maybe I just noticed him more when he was onscreen, looking all hot ’n’ stuff and stripping down to his underwear at every opportunity while his long blond hair hung down to his shoulders and the show’s directors lit him like he was some kind of Greek god.
Excuse me. I need a quick cold shower.
I liked the guy in the show. He was hot. He was frequently exposing his buttocks to the cameras. Do I really need anything else in a weekly TV cable show? Nope, apparently not. Oh wait. His acting was pretty good, too. There. Anyhow, the show went off the air, and Davey did a couple of tiny blink-and-you-miss-them appearances on a couple of other TV series, and then vanished altogether, never to be seen on the small screen again.
I first became aware that Davey lived in my vicinity when I moved here, a few years back. I was grabbing a slice for dinner at the local hole-in-the-wall pizza joint on a busy Friday night. When I took my paper plate and plastic cup (that should tip you off that I only eat in the classiest restaurants) to the only open table in the place, I slid into my seat and found myself staring at the actor over whom I used to get wet on a weekly basis. I recognized him immediately; though he unfortunately had his clothes on, he still had his trademark shoulder-length golden hair and dreamy blue eyes. Since he was eating dinner with a pretty young woman and a couple of golden-haired kids I assumed belonged to him, I attempted to choke down my pepperoni pizza and act nonchalant as I immediately thumb-stabbed subtle texts to about a half-dozen friends that read, OHMYGOD I’M SITTING NEXT TO THE HOT GUY WHO NEVER WORE A SHIRT ON THAT SHOW WHO GOT RAPED BY THAT HOT GUY WHO’S ON THAT OTHER CRIME SHOW.
Which, as a text message, I might have phrased a little more coherently, because most of my friends immediately texted back with I don’t know what the hell hot guy you’re talking about? or What?? or even Who are you and why are you texting me?
I didn’t see Davey again until this summer, when he started making regular guest appearances in my life. Now that it’s summer and the building is empty where I do a little weekly volunteer work, Davey’s been renting a room a couple of times a week so he can have a quiet place to work on a screenplay. I wasn’t around when he made those arrangements, but the morning he started happened to be on my regular volunteer schedule. He strode in, tall and muscular with his golden hair pulled back into a ponytail, smiled at me, caught my name from my badge, and held out his hand to shake.
“Hi, Rob,” he said in a manful voice, as he squeezed my hand. My knees started to go weak. “I’m Davey. I’ll be renting the office opposite yours, so you’ll be seeing me regularly over the summer.”
He might have said more. I don’t know. The sound of the heavenly chorus singing kind of drowned it out. All I know is that he gave me a wink, let go of my hand (WHY, DEAR GOD, WHY?) and exited the office to shut himself into his own rented quarters. I wet my lips, swallowed, and finally said, very suavely, “Hhhhhhhiiiiiiii hot man. . . .”
Every time I saw Davey the rest of that first day, he gave me a smile. A long, lingering smile. “How’s it going, Rob?” he’d growl, and I’d gulp and squeak out “F-F-FINE THANKS!” and in general react like I was a sixth-grade girl and he was one of the One Direction singers who happened to staying in my mom’s spare room.
I’ve regained my composure since then. Somewhat. A little. Okay, not much at all. I see Davey pretty frequently, and though my stomach develops butterflies the instant I spot his glorious form, I manage to keep my cool outwardly. When I’m sitting on a rock and eating ice cream from the local scoop shop and Davey bikes by with his daughter, I have no problem waving and saying hello like a normal person. When he comes into the building where I volunteer and passes my office, I manage to keep my head on and my tongue in my mouth and ask him how the screenplay is going.
We actually have a rapport. At the volunteer spot, all the female staff in the main office refer to Davey as ‘the hot guy.’ I was in there one morning when Davey strode by, dewy and glowing from his walk, his muscles rippling and his hair forming a mane of sunshine around his Apollo-like face. “Hi, Rob!” he called out as he walked by. Immediately all the females in the office turned on me and hissed, “HOW COME THE HOT GUY KNOWS YOUR NAME?!”
“Ladies,” I said, in jaded tones. “I cannot help my allure.”
As long as we’re confessing things, though, I have to admit that I did however have a recent mishap with my celebrity crush. A couple of weeks ago, I was taking my evening exercise. I’d chosen to do several walking laps around a local pond. It was a warm night, and the sun was brilliant as it sank down to the horizon. I was sweaty, and a little bit clammy, and listening to loud music through my earbuds.
I was rounding the back half of my fourth lap when I saw him—my celebrity crush, cutting over the pond upon one of its bridges, heading in my direction. Was it the sun’s glare was bouncing off the water that blinded me, or was the brilliance that made me shade my eyes coming from his godlike profile and the silhouette of his golden ponytail? My heartbeat quickened and my stomach tightened into knots.
I slowed down my pace in a ‘totally natural’ way. I shook my hair and wiped the sweat from my brow with my sleeve. Then I decided to have ‘earbud problems’ that required me to remove them, just in case, you know, Davey wanted to have a ‘long, drawn-out conversation’ that involved him telling me that the proximity between us was driving him mad, MAD, and that he’d decided to leave his wife and kiddies and run away with me to Aruba. Or something like that, you know. When I reached the end of the bridge at exactly the same time as his sun-obscured figure, I had a smile on my lips and a look of ‘total surprise’ on my face as I prepared myself to say something like, “Why, Davey! Fancy meeting you here!”. . . .
. . . and then I saw that the figure that had been crossing the bridge during my moment of sun blindness wasn’t Davey at all, but some gray-haired old lady with a ponytail who was looking at me with curiosity and a little bit of apprehension, obviously wondering what what sweaty crazy guy had been about to say to her.
For the record, I went with ‘good evening’ and privately ate crow on my final lap around the park.
Whoops.
Monday, July 14, 2014
Revenge
When the late-night commuter trains out of Grand Central pulls into the last stop at the New York border, all the dumb white overprivileged Connecticut kids shout out derogatory comments. This stop is . . . Mexican Town!, they’ll giggle, like it’s the funniest shit in the world. This stop is . . . Little Puerto Rico! The village has a heavy concentration of Latin neighborhoods, though, and as I’m driving through the landmarks of one just outside the little downtown area, late one night on my way to a fuck, I’m suddenly struck by a thought. This street seems awfully familiar.
A couple of years back I had some spectacularly awful sex with a Brazilian guy who lived just off this street. His photos had been hot, but the reality of him had been less than attractive. I’d let him climb on top of me and wiggle around and attempt to kiss me despite the fact his breath was rank. Finally he’d shot prematurely and I’d wasted absolutely zero time standing up and fleeing from his apartment with my pants barely buttoned. When he kept nagging and nagging me to come back, I finally had to block him on every sex site.
The guy I’m supposed to be seeing isn’t that guy, I’m wondering, as I start to panic a little. Oh, fuck. What if it is? The photo this guy had sent was of a handsome Latin thirty-year-old wearing big sunglasses. I’d seen his muscular body and photos of his jocked, worked-out ass. I hadn’t seen his actual face. The Brazilian had decent photos too. Oh, fuck.
Then the GPS directs me down a street that is definitely not the Brazilian’s, and my fears subside a little.
He’s sitting on the front step of his boarding house when I approach. In the lamp light of the front porch I can tell he’s not the Brazilian. So that’s all right. What I discover is that he’s more handsome than I expected. In his clinging sport shorts and tank top, the dude looks like a muscular soccer god. “Hey,” he says, looking me over. Then he stands, and offers me his hand. His clasp is firm. Then he looks over his shoulder. “Come inside,” he whispers.
The place where he lives is one of those old turn-of-the-century houses that’s been updated and expanded and retrofitted with a dozen or more apartments. The hallways are like warrens. He takes me through a maze of them before leading me down one staircase and up another to the back of the old structure. Finally he opens the door to his apartment, and the muggy summer night’s air gives away to the coolness of a dark, air-conditioned interior.
It’s a small apartment. There’s just the living room, a kitchenette, and the bed. He stands there with his hands on his hips, like he might break into jumping-jacks or something, staring at me. I decide to break the ice. “You’re a sexy man,” I say.
The words are barely out of my mouth when he lunges at me. His mouth covers mine with a hungry kiss. The breathing through his nostrils is already feral; I feel the heat of him all over me as his hands grope and rub every part of my body. “I need you inside me so bad,” he whispers, as he strips naked.
Jesus. The man is built. The photos he’d sent me were of himself lying by a pool. He’d been muscular in that, but in front of me—crap. He looks like the cover of a fitness magazine. His cock is an uncut monster, about six and a half around and seven and growing. I suck in my lips, shake my head, and breathe out in surprise. “Fuck, you’re hot.”
“Then fuck me,” he whispers, hopping up on his mattress. It creaks under the athletic bounce. “Get that dick inside me, daddy. You like me? Fuck me.”
Daddy likes. I slip out of my sneakers and my jeans, slide out of my T-shirt, drop my shorts. My cock is hard and point out straight in front of me. Immediately he dives to the bed’s side and lets his head hang off the mattress to suck it. In and out of his mouth I slide, hardening with every stroke.
Then he’s on his back again, rubbing lube in his butt and lifting his feet to the ceiling. I take my place at his ass and position the head at his hole. He grinds, and grins, and urges me in. The head disappears, then an inch of me. His face contorts with pain and pleasure both as he draws me deep inside. “Fuck me, papi,” he whispers, looking me square in the eye. “Make babies in me, daddy.”
Daddy starts to fuck. His hole is unbelievably hot around my dick. There are holes that are simply receptacles, and then there are holes that live to be filled. His is the latter. He’s not content with lying there, with being fucked. He wants to prove himself worthy of my cock. He pulls me down to kiss him, and grips my arms and shoulders tight with his muscles. His hole clutches at me just as eagerly, inviting me to sink deeper, fuck hard, shoot more.
And it’s not long before I’m dumping a load inside him. The whole situation has pushed me over the edge more quickly than usual. I’m shooting and I’m shooting hard, bucking and straining against him as his large brown hands hold me deep inside him with a vise-like grip. “Give me your sperm, daddy,” he says. “Give it all to your boy. Yeah.”
“Christ,” I say, as the last of my deep dribbles into his guts. There’s almost a milky film before my eyes, I’m so fuck-blind. I blink it away, and topple back as the blood drains from my head. Almost solicitously he catches me and lays me down on the mattress, so that he’s kneeling between my legs.
“That was so good,” he says, reaching for his hole. His hand comes away with a streak of my load across it. He uses it to lube up his cock. “So good, daddy.” Again he reaches behind himself, draws out more of my fluid with his fingers. This time he rubs it on my hole. Almost involuntarily my legs part, rise a little. He notices. “You like to get fucked, huh? Daddy like to get fucked too?”
“I—“ My head’s still spinning. He’s driving a finger in there. Two.
“You want me to fuck you? You want it raw, baby?”
“I—“ I try again. “It’s been a real long time.” He’s got that enormous uncut cock pointing straight at my hole, slicked up with sperm and lube. Like a pro he grabs the underside of my thighs and pulls me into position. “You’d have to be really, really gent—“
Too late. He’s already driven that fat pinga up to the nuts by the time I’m halfway through my warning. And you know what? The fucking thing feels good. No pain. No fear. Just fuck. He didn’t meet with any resistance at all. “Yeah daddy,” he’s already saying, as he starts pumping. He’s mirroring the same grinding motion I used on him, getting it in deep, letting his fat head mash and crush my prostate.
I’d just shot moments before, but the sensation is driving me crazy. My dick’s rock hard again. I take it in my hand and let its cum-covered skin slide up and down in my fist. “Let me cum in your ass, daddy,” he’s growling. “Let me fill up that ass for you, papi, please.”
I shoot again. I don’t even feel it coming. One minute I’ve just got that sweet fat cock pounding away at that button deep inside, and the next I’ve got a molten load spilling onto my stomach. The sight of it drives him crazy. He’s got me bent nearly double as he lifts himself up to a semi-standing position on the mattress to drive himself in. His hips buck. Once. Twice. Three times. He’s growling, and baring his teeth at me like he wants to rip into my very flesh. Then he shudders. Ceases his pistoning. Brings my ass gently down to the mattress, and lays it down. Then his cock flops out.
From under the bed he produces a towel that he uses first to wipe my stomach, then his hands and cock. “Thanks,” I say. “That was a hell of an unexpected thing.” I’m not kidding, either. My ass is both twitching and stinging from the rough treatment.
“You single?” he asks. He’s sitting on the bedside and pulling up his shorts. I shake my head. I’d told him that before I’d come over. “Oh yeah. Married, right?”
I nod. “How about you?”
“I have a boyfriend,” he says. “But.” Then he shrugs. Chuckles a little.
“But?” If anything, I feel like I’m butting in. He’s the one who brought it up, though.
“But he fucking cheated on me.” He watches as I pull on my tee, drag on my shorts leg by leg. “So you’re what I’m doing to get back, I guess.”
“I’m a revenge fuck, huh?” I say the words slowly, kind of relishing them.
He nods. “Yeah. I guess so. Huh. You mind?”
I shrug. “It was good revenge. What’s to mind?”
“Yeah,” he says, laughing to himself. “I guess it was real good revenge for me too. Let me see you out.”
I’m probably not going to see this kid again, I realize. He’ll think about the encounter and masturbate to it for months, but now that he’s gotten the fuck out of his system, he’ll be a contrite boyfriend again.
“Thanks,” I say at the door.
“Hey,” he says, before he lets me crack open the entrance to his apartment. Then he grabs the back of my head, pulls me to him, and kisses me deeply. I have to blink away the haze when he finally finishes, again. “Maybe we can revenge again some other time, huh? You wanna, daddy?”
Daddy wanna. Maybe this kid’s not the contrite type, after all.
A couple of years back I had some spectacularly awful sex with a Brazilian guy who lived just off this street. His photos had been hot, but the reality of him had been less than attractive. I’d let him climb on top of me and wiggle around and attempt to kiss me despite the fact his breath was rank. Finally he’d shot prematurely and I’d wasted absolutely zero time standing up and fleeing from his apartment with my pants barely buttoned. When he kept nagging and nagging me to come back, I finally had to block him on every sex site.
The guy I’m supposed to be seeing isn’t that guy, I’m wondering, as I start to panic a little. Oh, fuck. What if it is? The photo this guy had sent was of a handsome Latin thirty-year-old wearing big sunglasses. I’d seen his muscular body and photos of his jocked, worked-out ass. I hadn’t seen his actual face. The Brazilian had decent photos too. Oh, fuck.
Then the GPS directs me down a street that is definitely not the Brazilian’s, and my fears subside a little.
He’s sitting on the front step of his boarding house when I approach. In the lamp light of the front porch I can tell he’s not the Brazilian. So that’s all right. What I discover is that he’s more handsome than I expected. In his clinging sport shorts and tank top, the dude looks like a muscular soccer god. “Hey,” he says, looking me over. Then he stands, and offers me his hand. His clasp is firm. Then he looks over his shoulder. “Come inside,” he whispers.
The place where he lives is one of those old turn-of-the-century houses that’s been updated and expanded and retrofitted with a dozen or more apartments. The hallways are like warrens. He takes me through a maze of them before leading me down one staircase and up another to the back of the old structure. Finally he opens the door to his apartment, and the muggy summer night’s air gives away to the coolness of a dark, air-conditioned interior.
It’s a small apartment. There’s just the living room, a kitchenette, and the bed. He stands there with his hands on his hips, like he might break into jumping-jacks or something, staring at me. I decide to break the ice. “You’re a sexy man,” I say.
The words are barely out of my mouth when he lunges at me. His mouth covers mine with a hungry kiss. The breathing through his nostrils is already feral; I feel the heat of him all over me as his hands grope and rub every part of my body. “I need you inside me so bad,” he whispers, as he strips naked.
Jesus. The man is built. The photos he’d sent me were of himself lying by a pool. He’d been muscular in that, but in front of me—crap. He looks like the cover of a fitness magazine. His cock is an uncut monster, about six and a half around and seven and growing. I suck in my lips, shake my head, and breathe out in surprise. “Fuck, you’re hot.”
“Then fuck me,” he whispers, hopping up on his mattress. It creaks under the athletic bounce. “Get that dick inside me, daddy. You like me? Fuck me.”
Daddy likes. I slip out of my sneakers and my jeans, slide out of my T-shirt, drop my shorts. My cock is hard and point out straight in front of me. Immediately he dives to the bed’s side and lets his head hang off the mattress to suck it. In and out of his mouth I slide, hardening with every stroke.
Then he’s on his back again, rubbing lube in his butt and lifting his feet to the ceiling. I take my place at his ass and position the head at his hole. He grinds, and grins, and urges me in. The head disappears, then an inch of me. His face contorts with pain and pleasure both as he draws me deep inside. “Fuck me, papi,” he whispers, looking me square in the eye. “Make babies in me, daddy.”
Daddy starts to fuck. His hole is unbelievably hot around my dick. There are holes that are simply receptacles, and then there are holes that live to be filled. His is the latter. He’s not content with lying there, with being fucked. He wants to prove himself worthy of my cock. He pulls me down to kiss him, and grips my arms and shoulders tight with his muscles. His hole clutches at me just as eagerly, inviting me to sink deeper, fuck hard, shoot more.
And it’s not long before I’m dumping a load inside him. The whole situation has pushed me over the edge more quickly than usual. I’m shooting and I’m shooting hard, bucking and straining against him as his large brown hands hold me deep inside him with a vise-like grip. “Give me your sperm, daddy,” he says. “Give it all to your boy. Yeah.”
“Christ,” I say, as the last of my deep dribbles into his guts. There’s almost a milky film before my eyes, I’m so fuck-blind. I blink it away, and topple back as the blood drains from my head. Almost solicitously he catches me and lays me down on the mattress, so that he’s kneeling between my legs.
“That was so good,” he says, reaching for his hole. His hand comes away with a streak of my load across it. He uses it to lube up his cock. “So good, daddy.” Again he reaches behind himself, draws out more of my fluid with his fingers. This time he rubs it on my hole. Almost involuntarily my legs part, rise a little. He notices. “You like to get fucked, huh? Daddy like to get fucked too?”
“I—“ My head’s still spinning. He’s driving a finger in there. Two.
“You want me to fuck you? You want it raw, baby?”
“I—“ I try again. “It’s been a real long time.” He’s got that enormous uncut cock pointing straight at my hole, slicked up with sperm and lube. Like a pro he grabs the underside of my thighs and pulls me into position. “You’d have to be really, really gent—“
Too late. He’s already driven that fat pinga up to the nuts by the time I’m halfway through my warning. And you know what? The fucking thing feels good. No pain. No fear. Just fuck. He didn’t meet with any resistance at all. “Yeah daddy,” he’s already saying, as he starts pumping. He’s mirroring the same grinding motion I used on him, getting it in deep, letting his fat head mash and crush my prostate.
I’d just shot moments before, but the sensation is driving me crazy. My dick’s rock hard again. I take it in my hand and let its cum-covered skin slide up and down in my fist. “Let me cum in your ass, daddy,” he’s growling. “Let me fill up that ass for you, papi, please.”
I shoot again. I don’t even feel it coming. One minute I’ve just got that sweet fat cock pounding away at that button deep inside, and the next I’ve got a molten load spilling onto my stomach. The sight of it drives him crazy. He’s got me bent nearly double as he lifts himself up to a semi-standing position on the mattress to drive himself in. His hips buck. Once. Twice. Three times. He’s growling, and baring his teeth at me like he wants to rip into my very flesh. Then he shudders. Ceases his pistoning. Brings my ass gently down to the mattress, and lays it down. Then his cock flops out.
From under the bed he produces a towel that he uses first to wipe my stomach, then his hands and cock. “Thanks,” I say. “That was a hell of an unexpected thing.” I’m not kidding, either. My ass is both twitching and stinging from the rough treatment.
“You single?” he asks. He’s sitting on the bedside and pulling up his shorts. I shake my head. I’d told him that before I’d come over. “Oh yeah. Married, right?”
I nod. “How about you?”
“I have a boyfriend,” he says. “But.” Then he shrugs. Chuckles a little.
“But?” If anything, I feel like I’m butting in. He’s the one who brought it up, though.
“But he fucking cheated on me.” He watches as I pull on my tee, drag on my shorts leg by leg. “So you’re what I’m doing to get back, I guess.”
“I’m a revenge fuck, huh?” I say the words slowly, kind of relishing them.
He nods. “Yeah. I guess so. Huh. You mind?”
I shrug. “It was good revenge. What’s to mind?”
“Yeah,” he says, laughing to himself. “I guess it was real good revenge for me too. Let me see you out.”
I’m probably not going to see this kid again, I realize. He’ll think about the encounter and masturbate to it for months, but now that he’s gotten the fuck out of his system, he’ll be a contrite boyfriend again.
“Thanks,” I say at the door.
“Hey,” he says, before he lets me crack open the entrance to his apartment. Then he grabs the back of my head, pulls me to him, and kisses me deeply. I have to blink away the haze when he finally finishes, again. “Maybe we can revenge again some other time, huh? You wanna, daddy?”
Daddy wanna. Maybe this kid’s not the contrite type, after all.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Sunday Morning Questions: Mental Vacation Edition
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Thursday, June 12, 2014
Competitive Top
When a real sex hound enters a room full of men fucking, he looks around to discover one thing.
He’s not looking first for the best looking guys, the way a kid might. A real pig is seasoned and experienced enough not to need the cheap and needy kind of validation that comes from fucking around with a guy one or two grades higher on the scale than himself. Nor is he searching out the man with the best underwear, or the hottest chest, or the most worked-out body in the group. Some guys think those are the things that get a guy laid. They’re not.
No, what a real sex hound does when he enters a room full of men fucking is to study the action for a moment and size up who are the likely tops and the bottoms. Then he works from there. If he’s looking to be plugged with cock, he’ll insinuate himself down on his knees in front of one of the men who appear to be taking a more active role. If he’s looking to top, he’ll approach a guy with his cock in his hand, ready for service.
When this particular guy strode into the bedroom at The Professor’s home, one weekday morning, I could tell he was used to getting what he wanted. There some something about the cocky way he held himself—furry, muscular chest puffed out, shoulders back, hips askew—that told me he was used to being the center of attention. The guy was built like a barrel: stocky, solid, gym-shaped to withstand a lot of use. I saw his eyes alight on the pair of men sixty-nining on the carpeted floor, then on the trio swapping kisses and fondling each other’s dicks in the corner. Then he looked at the low-slung queen-sized bed where I and four other men cavorted. He stood for a long time, his short fat dick sticking straight out in front of him, hands on hips, watching us there.
Watching me, I should say. I was the focus of the other men’s sexual energy. I had one sexy daddy straddling my chest as he made out with me. My cock was wedged into his ass crack, where it thrust up and down, made slippery by the mouth of the sexy bald muscle man I always fuck once or twice at this particular party. The bald guy was crouched on all fours licking my stick and my balls, hungrily gobbling the head whenever it emerged. One older man knelt at the bottom of the bed, sucking on my toes; it’s what he likes to do while other men are pleasuring me. I can’t say I objected. The feeling of a warm mouth on my feet just amplifies whatever sensations other mouths and hands create. Finally I had an Asian boy trying to insert himself between me and the man on my chest. He grabbed kisses when he could, and chewed on my nipples when he couldn’t.
The furry muscle dude looked at my cock, red and wet and big and much in demand, and looked at me, and looked at the guys competing for my attention. When his lips worked a little, silently, I knew exactly what kind of guy he was: a competitive top.
I’m not judging competitive tops, mind you. I’m a highly-competitive top myself. Are there any true tops who aren’t competitive at heart? We want our cocks to be the biggest, the thickest, the hardest—the best. We want our fucks to be the most memorable. We want to be, more than the prettiest or the biggest or the strongest, the most desired in the room. At my cockiest and my most son-of-a-bitchiest, I get it.
This guy had swagger, though. I had to give him that. After he sized me up and (correctly) determined that I was his biggest competition in the room, he made his way to the bed and hauled the bald muscle guy off my dick. The bald guy didn’t care about the rough treatment; he’s used to being manhandled. He’s got a built frame, but he’s pocket-sized and easily manhandled. His mouth was still in an O-shape from sucking me when he landed on his knees in front of the furry dude. The furry top roughly shoved him down on his dick, gave the back of the bald skull a push, and started getting the rest of the blow job I’d been enjoying myself. Then the furry muscle top looked at me without expression.
I got the hot one now, he seemed to be saying.
I wasn’t flustered. I don’t get threatened so easily. Besides, I’d already had my dick inside that hole he was currently fucking. I raised my hands up. Used them to cradle the back of my head. The daddy who’d been straddling my chest moved down to my dick and started to suck. The Asian kid took his place, eagerly thrusting his dripping cock into my stomach as he greedily made out with me. Meanwhile, the guy working my feet continued to do my thing. I didn’t look back in the furry dude’s direction, but I could tell he was watching.
He decided to escalate it. He turned his little bald bottom around and shoved him forward so that the guy started edging me off the bed. Then he pried apart the bald guy’s ass, spat in his palm, rubbed it around, and shoved his cock in. I know how to fuck Junior Mr. Clean; I’ve been dicking him for over a year. Just stabbing it into him isn’t going to do it. My bald buddy’s face was screwed up not in that sweet mix of anguish and pleasure that lets me know I’m doing my job right, but in outright pain. He was pro enough, though, to bite his lower lip, close his eyes, and power on through. Then the furry top decided to poach another of my men—the daddy on my dick. He pulled his skull off my rod and pushed the daddy’s face against his broad pec.
I found the move a little sleazy, to be honest. I’m not the kind of guy who asserts himself by showing up others. In a group situation, there’s plenty of fun to be found; when I’m on the playground, I don’t feel the need to snatch other boys’ toys just so I can climb to the top of the jungle gym. At the same time, I wasn’t going to let the guy see that he was irritating me. So I got up on my knees, turned the Asian kid around, and slowly started to lube his ass.
I squeezed out a dollop of the stuff and rubbed it in. Another clump of the cold goo went from my palm to my dick. Then I pressed the head against that hairless hole and rubbed the tip around the dark fringe of hair before I started to slip it in. I went in slow, inch by inch. The kid rested on his palms and panted and groaned. The muscle bottom stared him in the eye.
I wasn’t in a hurry. While the furry top kept humping away with little rabbit thrusts, I slid the length of my meat in and out of that tight hole. I was putting on a show. I just didn’t acknowledge the audience. The other top might have been making the bed jiggle more; he might have been making more of a ruckus and making his bottom hiss with pain, but my bottom was hitting low baritone notes of pure pleasure.
I hadn’t seen the Asian kid before; he hadn’t attended any previous parties. He was a handsome boy, though, with a faint trace of a mustache and a lean body. His butt, though . . . fucking perfection. Round, smooth, blemish-free. And he fucked like a dream. I pulled him up so that his torso reclined against mine. “You love this dick, don’t you,” I breathed in his ear.
“Yes, fuck yes,” he replied, his eyes slitted.
That’s all the validation I needed.
The other guys attending started to crowd around the bed to watch the double fucks. The daddy wrenched himself away from the other top’s nipple to kneel down and lick at my hole as best he could, while I fucked. I tweaked the kid’s nipples fiercely while I ground into him. They were as hard as pencil erasers between my fingers. The muscle bottom had reached out to jack at the kid’s uncut dick. “Crap,” I heard him say. “Oh crap.”
Cum spewed from his dick in the way a carbonated soda erupts from a bottle after a vigorous shaking. It splattered the face of the muscle bottom, landed on the pillows, hit the cabinets behind the bed. The kid yelled as he shot, shuddering in my arms.
I waited until he subsided, and fell forward, totally spent. Then I pulled out of him. My cock was wet, the skin flushed and slick from the fuck. I just let it hang there, unsatisfied. I liked the look.
So did my blade friend. Even though the furry top was still jackrabbiting away at his ass, my muscle bottom buddy had had enough. He detached himself from the top’s dick, winked at me, and then lay on his back with his legs in the air. I grabbed his ankles and slipped right in.
I don’t grab guys away from other tops. I don’t play that way. I let the bottoms do the choosing.
It didn’t take long for my bald friend to shoot. My dick reaches his prostate perfectly, and I know him well enough by now to push that button perfectly. I slammed it again and again; he lifted his butt higher for me until he was holding his own legs for support. This is how an alpha top fucks. No bad sportsmanship. No poaching. Just good old-fashioned banging until the bottom is pushed beyond the point of no return. The bald guy let loose with a small load on his stomach, panting like a dog the entire time.
I waited for him to recuperate, then slowly snake out. My dick was still wet. Still slick. Still red. Still hard. Still unsatisfied. The daddy tried to grab at it, and the Asian kid wanted to suck it, but I gently wrested myself away. I’d been at the center of the crowd for a while. I took myself to the edges, and let someone else occupy the vacuum I created.
I’m not surprised when the furry top joined me on the sidelines after a moment. He looked down at my dick.
“You know how to fuck,” he said in a low voice. He had a Long Island accent.
“Thanks man,” I said, casually leaning against the wall. My dick was still a stiff length poking out in front of me.
He licked his lips. His next question was more tentative. “Maybe you want to fuck me a little.”
I let him wait long enough to wonder if I’d heard the question, before I reply. “Yeah,” I say. “That’d be hot.”
“Not here, though,” he said. I understood. He’s got his pride.
I jerked my head. There’s another bedroom downstairs that The Professor lets me use when I want a little privacy.
I don’t grandstand. I don’t poach. I stick to my own style. I let the bottoms do the choosing. I’m a competitive top, and today was the day I won.
He’s not looking first for the best looking guys, the way a kid might. A real pig is seasoned and experienced enough not to need the cheap and needy kind of validation that comes from fucking around with a guy one or two grades higher on the scale than himself. Nor is he searching out the man with the best underwear, or the hottest chest, or the most worked-out body in the group. Some guys think those are the things that get a guy laid. They’re not.
No, what a real sex hound does when he enters a room full of men fucking is to study the action for a moment and size up who are the likely tops and the bottoms. Then he works from there. If he’s looking to be plugged with cock, he’ll insinuate himself down on his knees in front of one of the men who appear to be taking a more active role. If he’s looking to top, he’ll approach a guy with his cock in his hand, ready for service.
When this particular guy strode into the bedroom at The Professor’s home, one weekday morning, I could tell he was used to getting what he wanted. There some something about the cocky way he held himself—furry, muscular chest puffed out, shoulders back, hips askew—that told me he was used to being the center of attention. The guy was built like a barrel: stocky, solid, gym-shaped to withstand a lot of use. I saw his eyes alight on the pair of men sixty-nining on the carpeted floor, then on the trio swapping kisses and fondling each other’s dicks in the corner. Then he looked at the low-slung queen-sized bed where I and four other men cavorted. He stood for a long time, his short fat dick sticking straight out in front of him, hands on hips, watching us there.
Watching me, I should say. I was the focus of the other men’s sexual energy. I had one sexy daddy straddling my chest as he made out with me. My cock was wedged into his ass crack, where it thrust up and down, made slippery by the mouth of the sexy bald muscle man I always fuck once or twice at this particular party. The bald guy was crouched on all fours licking my stick and my balls, hungrily gobbling the head whenever it emerged. One older man knelt at the bottom of the bed, sucking on my toes; it’s what he likes to do while other men are pleasuring me. I can’t say I objected. The feeling of a warm mouth on my feet just amplifies whatever sensations other mouths and hands create. Finally I had an Asian boy trying to insert himself between me and the man on my chest. He grabbed kisses when he could, and chewed on my nipples when he couldn’t.
The furry muscle dude looked at my cock, red and wet and big and much in demand, and looked at me, and looked at the guys competing for my attention. When his lips worked a little, silently, I knew exactly what kind of guy he was: a competitive top.
I’m not judging competitive tops, mind you. I’m a highly-competitive top myself. Are there any true tops who aren’t competitive at heart? We want our cocks to be the biggest, the thickest, the hardest—the best. We want our fucks to be the most memorable. We want to be, more than the prettiest or the biggest or the strongest, the most desired in the room. At my cockiest and my most son-of-a-bitchiest, I get it.
This guy had swagger, though. I had to give him that. After he sized me up and (correctly) determined that I was his biggest competition in the room, he made his way to the bed and hauled the bald muscle guy off my dick. The bald guy didn’t care about the rough treatment; he’s used to being manhandled. He’s got a built frame, but he’s pocket-sized and easily manhandled. His mouth was still in an O-shape from sucking me when he landed on his knees in front of the furry dude. The furry top roughly shoved him down on his dick, gave the back of the bald skull a push, and started getting the rest of the blow job I’d been enjoying myself. Then the furry muscle top looked at me without expression.
I got the hot one now, he seemed to be saying.
I wasn’t flustered. I don’t get threatened so easily. Besides, I’d already had my dick inside that hole he was currently fucking. I raised my hands up. Used them to cradle the back of my head. The daddy who’d been straddling my chest moved down to my dick and started to suck. The Asian kid took his place, eagerly thrusting his dripping cock into my stomach as he greedily made out with me. Meanwhile, the guy working my feet continued to do my thing. I didn’t look back in the furry dude’s direction, but I could tell he was watching.
He decided to escalate it. He turned his little bald bottom around and shoved him forward so that the guy started edging me off the bed. Then he pried apart the bald guy’s ass, spat in his palm, rubbed it around, and shoved his cock in. I know how to fuck Junior Mr. Clean; I’ve been dicking him for over a year. Just stabbing it into him isn’t going to do it. My bald buddy’s face was screwed up not in that sweet mix of anguish and pleasure that lets me know I’m doing my job right, but in outright pain. He was pro enough, though, to bite his lower lip, close his eyes, and power on through. Then the furry top decided to poach another of my men—the daddy on my dick. He pulled his skull off my rod and pushed the daddy’s face against his broad pec.
I found the move a little sleazy, to be honest. I’m not the kind of guy who asserts himself by showing up others. In a group situation, there’s plenty of fun to be found; when I’m on the playground, I don’t feel the need to snatch other boys’ toys just so I can climb to the top of the jungle gym. At the same time, I wasn’t going to let the guy see that he was irritating me. So I got up on my knees, turned the Asian kid around, and slowly started to lube his ass.
I squeezed out a dollop of the stuff and rubbed it in. Another clump of the cold goo went from my palm to my dick. Then I pressed the head against that hairless hole and rubbed the tip around the dark fringe of hair before I started to slip it in. I went in slow, inch by inch. The kid rested on his palms and panted and groaned. The muscle bottom stared him in the eye.
I wasn’t in a hurry. While the furry top kept humping away with little rabbit thrusts, I slid the length of my meat in and out of that tight hole. I was putting on a show. I just didn’t acknowledge the audience. The other top might have been making the bed jiggle more; he might have been making more of a ruckus and making his bottom hiss with pain, but my bottom was hitting low baritone notes of pure pleasure.
I hadn’t seen the Asian kid before; he hadn’t attended any previous parties. He was a handsome boy, though, with a faint trace of a mustache and a lean body. His butt, though . . . fucking perfection. Round, smooth, blemish-free. And he fucked like a dream. I pulled him up so that his torso reclined against mine. “You love this dick, don’t you,” I breathed in his ear.
“Yes, fuck yes,” he replied, his eyes slitted.
That’s all the validation I needed.
The other guys attending started to crowd around the bed to watch the double fucks. The daddy wrenched himself away from the other top’s nipple to kneel down and lick at my hole as best he could, while I fucked. I tweaked the kid’s nipples fiercely while I ground into him. They were as hard as pencil erasers between my fingers. The muscle bottom had reached out to jack at the kid’s uncut dick. “Crap,” I heard him say. “Oh crap.”
Cum spewed from his dick in the way a carbonated soda erupts from a bottle after a vigorous shaking. It splattered the face of the muscle bottom, landed on the pillows, hit the cabinets behind the bed. The kid yelled as he shot, shuddering in my arms.
I waited until he subsided, and fell forward, totally spent. Then I pulled out of him. My cock was wet, the skin flushed and slick from the fuck. I just let it hang there, unsatisfied. I liked the look.
So did my blade friend. Even though the furry top was still jackrabbiting away at his ass, my muscle bottom buddy had had enough. He detached himself from the top’s dick, winked at me, and then lay on his back with his legs in the air. I grabbed his ankles and slipped right in.
I don’t grab guys away from other tops. I don’t play that way. I let the bottoms do the choosing.
It didn’t take long for my bald friend to shoot. My dick reaches his prostate perfectly, and I know him well enough by now to push that button perfectly. I slammed it again and again; he lifted his butt higher for me until he was holding his own legs for support. This is how an alpha top fucks. No bad sportsmanship. No poaching. Just good old-fashioned banging until the bottom is pushed beyond the point of no return. The bald guy let loose with a small load on his stomach, panting like a dog the entire time.
I waited for him to recuperate, then slowly snake out. My dick was still wet. Still slick. Still red. Still hard. Still unsatisfied. The daddy tried to grab at it, and the Asian kid wanted to suck it, but I gently wrested myself away. I’d been at the center of the crowd for a while. I took myself to the edges, and let someone else occupy the vacuum I created.
I’m not surprised when the furry top joined me on the sidelines after a moment. He looked down at my dick.
“You know how to fuck,” he said in a low voice. He had a Long Island accent.
“Thanks man,” I said, casually leaning against the wall. My dick was still a stiff length poking out in front of me.
He licked his lips. His next question was more tentative. “Maybe you want to fuck me a little.”
I let him wait long enough to wonder if I’d heard the question, before I reply. “Yeah,” I say. “That’d be hot.”
“Not here, though,” he said. I understood. He’s got his pride.
I jerked my head. There’s another bedroom downstairs that The Professor lets me use when I want a little privacy.
I don’t grandstand. I don’t poach. I stick to my own style. I let the bottoms do the choosing. I’m a competitive top, and today was the day I won.
Monday, June 2, 2014
Face Down. Butt Up.
Face down. Butt up. A grown man is lying across my lap, naked, like a little boy waiting for a spanking. His ass is round and furry, his thighs spread. I can feel his erection pressing against my balls. The wetness from his tip seeps down to slick my flesh.
We’re in his apartment in the Village. It’s a narrow little place, long and deep, but at its widest the rooms measure not much more than six or seven feet. The weird proportions are claustrophobic to me; I feel pressed in on one side. Sitting here cross-legged in his bedroom, eyes closed, is helping soothe my mind, though. That and the slickness of his hole, and the meditative nature of what I’m doing to it.
I’ve got his ass greased up and plugged with a toy. Not just any toy. A special toy. It’s a heavy metal butt plug. But fancy. It’s so stylishly designed that it looks like I picked it up at the Museum of Modern Art gift shop. There’s a shiny silver knob at the end, followed by a swooping stem connected to an elegant beveled oval handle. It looks more like a fancy wine cork, or perhaps an avant-garde door knocker to a modernist’s upscale flat. It’s a butt plug, though, and I’ve got my last three fingers hooked through the oval as slowly I work it in and out of his chute.
His face is buried in the mattress. “Shit,” he’s saying, over and over again. “Shit, that feels so good. You have no idea.”
I have an idea, though. He’s been letting me know how good it feels every time I twist that curved stem inside his ass, which presses the knob in new, unexplored areas. He lets me know when he groans as I plunge it deep, and twist again in the other direction. And when his head rises, then lolls, whenever I pull out that plug and let his ass lips flop together with a wet smack, I know I’m doing my job right.
He’s excited. I’m relaxed. I’m digging the quietness of this exploration. I like the wetness I feel beneath my fingertips as they gently kiss the outermost rim of his hole. I’m enjoying how pliant he is to my touch, how much he’s enjoying my slow attentions. My fingers are so slippery I can barely keep hold of the shiny metal handle. My other hand explores his balls, stroking up and down their middle. They’ve retracted so tightly that he’s almost a eunuch, but I tease them out again, and feel him shudder beneath my ministrations.
I’m not hard. I don’t mind. This manipulation of flesh would be erotic enough to sustain me at my most sexually starved. It’s a feast for the senses. The soft squelching noises, the groans, the whisper of the sheets as they shift and pull beneath his clawing hands, tickle my ears. My nose prickles at the scent of the lube, the soapy, just-showered smell of his skin. The warmth of him nourishes me. The weight of him is substantial, and worthwhile. The gentle abrasion of his fur against my smooth palms is like the sexual Braille I follow to its conclusion, where his legs meet.
“Tell me about the last boy you fucked,” he begs.
I chuckle. My eyes are closed still, but I continue inserting and twisting the metal toy. I feel like I’m telling him a bedtime story, as my lips spool off the details of my last fuck. He listens just as breathless as a child might a ghost story, holding his breath for the conclusion. This is no ghost story, though. It’s a tale of two living and breathing men doing what men do to each other. It’s as alive a tale as it can be, and as I reach the climax, I feel myself hardening.
“Tell me another.” It’s the plea of a child who doesn’t want the day to end, not yet.
My cock continues to swell as I narrate plugging another hole. My heart’s not into this telling, though. I don’t want to talk about fucking. I want to fuck.
I remove the toy, set it to the side. I slide him from my lap and settle him into the mattress. He knows what’s coming. When my hard dick slides into that hole, it reaps the reward of plying it with a thick toy for the better part of an hour; it’s less ass and more pussy. Soft. Puffy. It enfolds me, rather than grips. It’s velvet. Not a vise.
I’ve only been in for a couple of minutes, and I’m not far from shooting. It’s as if that toy has done the work my cock usually has—stretching and shaping the hole to suit me, so that when I plunge in, it’s a perfect accommodation for my length and girth. “I’m going to seed you,” I warn him.
“Do it.” There’s urgency in his voice. “Do it.”
My cock hits the root. It pulses and swells. The head is suddenly twice as warm as my semen begins to envelop the head. “Oh shit.” His voice is full of astonishment. “I can really feel it filling me up.”
It continues some more. I’m giving him so much semen that it’s leaking around my cock and out of his hole, sticking in my pubes. There’s a final shudder. Then I subside, and lie still atop him.
“I can’t believe how much I felt that,” he murmurs, his voice sleepy and vague. We’re not moving. Sweat and cum has glued us together. Our two bodies feel like one. Neither of us want to move, immediately. So we don’t. Our chests rise and fall in unison, and the two of us rest, dozy, in the hollow our weight has created in the mattress.
Face down. Butts up. Still connected, cock to hole, we glide toward sleep.
We’re in his apartment in the Village. It’s a narrow little place, long and deep, but at its widest the rooms measure not much more than six or seven feet. The weird proportions are claustrophobic to me; I feel pressed in on one side. Sitting here cross-legged in his bedroom, eyes closed, is helping soothe my mind, though. That and the slickness of his hole, and the meditative nature of what I’m doing to it.
I’ve got his ass greased up and plugged with a toy. Not just any toy. A special toy. It’s a heavy metal butt plug. But fancy. It’s so stylishly designed that it looks like I picked it up at the Museum of Modern Art gift shop. There’s a shiny silver knob at the end, followed by a swooping stem connected to an elegant beveled oval handle. It looks more like a fancy wine cork, or perhaps an avant-garde door knocker to a modernist’s upscale flat. It’s a butt plug, though, and I’ve got my last three fingers hooked through the oval as slowly I work it in and out of his chute.
His face is buried in the mattress. “Shit,” he’s saying, over and over again. “Shit, that feels so good. You have no idea.”
I have an idea, though. He’s been letting me know how good it feels every time I twist that curved stem inside his ass, which presses the knob in new, unexplored areas. He lets me know when he groans as I plunge it deep, and twist again in the other direction. And when his head rises, then lolls, whenever I pull out that plug and let his ass lips flop together with a wet smack, I know I’m doing my job right.
He’s excited. I’m relaxed. I’m digging the quietness of this exploration. I like the wetness I feel beneath my fingertips as they gently kiss the outermost rim of his hole. I’m enjoying how pliant he is to my touch, how much he’s enjoying my slow attentions. My fingers are so slippery I can barely keep hold of the shiny metal handle. My other hand explores his balls, stroking up and down their middle. They’ve retracted so tightly that he’s almost a eunuch, but I tease them out again, and feel him shudder beneath my ministrations.
I’m not hard. I don’t mind. This manipulation of flesh would be erotic enough to sustain me at my most sexually starved. It’s a feast for the senses. The soft squelching noises, the groans, the whisper of the sheets as they shift and pull beneath his clawing hands, tickle my ears. My nose prickles at the scent of the lube, the soapy, just-showered smell of his skin. The warmth of him nourishes me. The weight of him is substantial, and worthwhile. The gentle abrasion of his fur against my smooth palms is like the sexual Braille I follow to its conclusion, where his legs meet.
“Tell me about the last boy you fucked,” he begs.
I chuckle. My eyes are closed still, but I continue inserting and twisting the metal toy. I feel like I’m telling him a bedtime story, as my lips spool off the details of my last fuck. He listens just as breathless as a child might a ghost story, holding his breath for the conclusion. This is no ghost story, though. It’s a tale of two living and breathing men doing what men do to each other. It’s as alive a tale as it can be, and as I reach the climax, I feel myself hardening.
“Tell me another.” It’s the plea of a child who doesn’t want the day to end, not yet.
My cock continues to swell as I narrate plugging another hole. My heart’s not into this telling, though. I don’t want to talk about fucking. I want to fuck.
I remove the toy, set it to the side. I slide him from my lap and settle him into the mattress. He knows what’s coming. When my hard dick slides into that hole, it reaps the reward of plying it with a thick toy for the better part of an hour; it’s less ass and more pussy. Soft. Puffy. It enfolds me, rather than grips. It’s velvet. Not a vise.
I’ve only been in for a couple of minutes, and I’m not far from shooting. It’s as if that toy has done the work my cock usually has—stretching and shaping the hole to suit me, so that when I plunge in, it’s a perfect accommodation for my length and girth. “I’m going to seed you,” I warn him.
“Do it.” There’s urgency in his voice. “Do it.”
My cock hits the root. It pulses and swells. The head is suddenly twice as warm as my semen begins to envelop the head. “Oh shit.” His voice is full of astonishment. “I can really feel it filling me up.”
It continues some more. I’m giving him so much semen that it’s leaking around my cock and out of his hole, sticking in my pubes. There’s a final shudder. Then I subside, and lie still atop him.
“I can’t believe how much I felt that,” he murmurs, his voice sleepy and vague. We’re not moving. Sweat and cum has glued us together. Our two bodies feel like one. Neither of us want to move, immediately. So we don’t. Our chests rise and fall in unison, and the two of us rest, dozy, in the hollow our weight has created in the mattress.
Face down. Butts up. Still connected, cock to hole, we glide toward sleep.
Thursday, May 29, 2014
Thursday Open Forum: Group Sex 101
Orgies. Group sex. To a lot of people, myself included, the terms are no big deal. To others, they’re fraught with anxiety.
Most of the sex I’ve had over the last six months, it seems, has either been in group situations, or with men I’ve met during big naked groups. I can’t say why this is, exactly—beyond, of course, the fact that I’m a top with a big dick, and big-docked tops are popular (and rare) in groups. Maybe there are more orgies in this part of the country? Maybe I’ve just stumbled into a handful of sex friends who are more inclined to throw groups when they know there’s a reliable top to invite? I don’t know.
What I do know is that of the mail I get from readers, the topic that gets addressed the most, the topic which has people fretting and worrying more than any other, has to do with the etiquette involved in attending group sex functions.
I’m not going to dismiss any of this anxiety as foolish or unwarranted. Meeting up with one stranger can be scary on its own. Walking into a group situation with a bunch of unknown strangers only multiplies whatever body anxieties and performance fears one might have; it’s enough to make a neurotic out of the most stable personality.
If you’re considering following in my footsteps and attempting group sex for the first time, however, I think there are a few general guidelines to follow.
1. Don’t be afraid to say yes to to a group sex invitation.
Group sex isn’t inherently deviant and perverted. Attending an orgy isn’t going to make you into an unredeemable slut or a bad person. Gay or straight, large group or small, it can be highly enjoyable and a great way to socialize. Yes, socialize. And network too, believe it or not.
Overwhelming as the prospect of getting naked in front of group might be for a first-timer, however, I think it’s important to remember that most of the men attending a group sex event are really all there for the same reason—to get off a time or two, and to have an enjoyable couple of hours doing it.
Chances are they’re all arriving with the same worries you might be feeling. Am I good looking enough? Am I hung enough? Will anybody want to fuck me? They’ll be worrying about whether or not they’ll have to make the first move, and how humiliated they’ll be when they try to reach out for some hot guy’s dick and the hot guy up and slaps away that filthy greasy paw. There might be some die-hard group sex aficionados in the mix like me, but chances are a lot (if not most) of the guys are new to it, just like you.
If you get the invite, or if you see an opportunity while you’re prowling online, first relax. Calm down. Take a deep breath. Think about it. Then accept. You might have more fun than you think, and you probably will even come away more confident than you went in.
2. Pick an event that’s right for you.
If you live in a big city, there are probably sex parties happening around you on a frequent basis. Some of them get advertised on sites such as Manhunt or Adam4Adam or BBRT, where it’s possible to browse through public boards or even to press a single button to get a listing of upcoming events. Others might appear in local sex blogs. Some are going to be private, by invitation only, and you have to know the right people.
Anxious as you might be, however, to get your first taste of group sex, before you start worrying about whether you’ll fit in, make sure the event suits you. If you’re looking for guaranteed bareback sex, don’t sign up to attend a foot fetishists’s festival or a jackoff party. Don’t sign up for a group in which safer sex rules are strictly enforced. If you think anal sex is dirty and disgusting, don’t attend a fisting party. This advice might seem obvious, but believe me, I’ve been in a lot of situations in which guys showed up, convinced they could make the party suit their own desires, without any regard to what everyone else wanted. It ain’t cute, and the results ain’t pretty.
There are a handful of events in which the people throwing the party very rigorously screen attendees. They may be searching for a certain degree of hotness, or excluding men who don’t meet a certain invisible requirement for looks, weight, or age. If you do submit your stats and photos for one of these and don’t get invited, don’t waste any of your time mourning when you get the rejection. You are not totally unfuckable. That party just wasn’t for you—and you can do better, trust me.
3. If you agree to attend a group sex party, show up. And show up on time.
Nothing irritates a man who’s spent a lot of his own personal time attempting to arrange a group sex party more than people who simply don’t show. My experience in arranging groups has always been pretty dismal; if I invite ten guys to come play at my place on a given date and time, I usually expect about three to show up, at most. I have friends who are more trusting.
Don’t sit behind your computer wanking while you think to yourself how hot an orgy would be, if all you plan to do is get off and never show up, even though the host is expecting you. If you’re unsure you’ll be able to attend, don’t say yes. If you know the chances are slim of you emerging from beneath the rock where you live, please tell the nice guy inviting you Think of me next time, but I can’t be there on that date. Thanks.
If the party’s one of those affairs in which you’re encouraged to show up anytime between eight p.m. and midnight, feel free to make a late entrance. Otherwise, show up at exactly the appointed hour the party’s supposed to start. It’s annoying for the host or one of the other guests to open and close the door repeatedly. You’re pulling them away from the action, when you show up late.
If you do have a genuine conflict, tell your host as soon as possible—preferably before the event commences. Telephone, text, or email your regrets. Doing so as an afterthought might indicate how little regard you have for the host, but even that’s better than not showing up at all.
4. If you agree to attend a group sex party, show up ready to play.
Don’t bounce into the room expecting everyone to be hugely interested in the traffic you just encountered. Don’t spill the hundred excuses you might have for being fifteen minutes late. Don’t assume that the motel room or the host’s house will have a working shower so you can clean up. Arrive with your cock ring on, your jock on your butt beneath your business suit, and your hole cleaned out and ready to go. Everyone’s time is at a premium these days; don’t waste it when it comes to others.
Additionally, don’t even bother attending a sex party if you’re not committed actually to having sex. If you’re going to lurk in the corner and not remove your clothes, stay home. If you’re going to arrive only to check out the guys, decide they’re not good enough for your persnickety ass, and then flounce off, just don’t come in the first place. If you’re planning to whack off furiously watching others while growling like a rabid dog at anyone who attempts to touch you, you’d do better behind your monitor watching porn. I’ve encountered all three types of these guys at just about every party I’ve been to, and I can tell you from experience, none of them ever got invited back.
If you are going to need lube for your adventures, bring lube. If you are requiring condoms, bring condoms. If the guy throwing the party has asked for a few bucks to cover the overhead costs, bring a few bucks. Don’t assume that others will cover for you.
5. While you’re at a group sex party, stay responsible for your own safety and behavior.
Start off by being responsible for what you bring with you. If it’s a regular group of guys you trust, that’s one thing. But if you’re in a dark hotel room with a bunch of naked strangers, don’t show up with a Coach leather man-bag that’s holding your iPad, your smartphone, the one printed copy of your doctoral thesis due next week and the one backup, and the irreplaceable birthday gift you just bought your dear mother-in-law. You don’t know who’s going to take off with it while you’ve got your legs lifted to heaven. Leave your wallet in the car, or at home. Arrive with as little cash as possible, and with as little that a light-fingered stranger might be tempted to filch.
If you’re attempting to preserve a negative serostatus at a group sex party, doing so is your responsibility. If you want your partners to wear condoms, it’s up to you to ask them. If you’re trying to bareback but to serosort your partners through some kind of superstitious voodoo ritual that convinces you that you’re immune to risk, be aware that a man’s answers to your question about his HIV status may be affected by exactly how few inches away his raging cock is from your raw hole. Don’t accept substances at a party you wouldn’t otherwise accept; don’t venture to a neighborhood where you’d feel uncomfortable, just for the sake of cheap and easy sex.
When it comes right down to it, you are responsible for your own safety and welfare at a group sex party. Don’t let your dick or anybody else make those important decisions for you.
6. Be nice to the host.
I don’t know how many times I can emphasize this particular point. Every couple of weeks I attend a group event at the home of a retired professor, at which fifteen to twenty guys show up on any given day. And every single time there’s always one asshole—he’s always a different person, but it seems like someone new is always occupying the Designated Asshole slot—who comes in, drops his drawers, and proceeds to rebuff not only the genial host’s advances, but even his attempts at conversation. The Designated Asshole will try to corner whoever he thinks is the hottest guy, get off quickly, and then disappear without even thanking the host.
Grandmotherly though I know I sound, I think this kind of behavior is appalling. (I know, you’re picturing me in a housecoat clutching my pearls and intoning Whatever are they teaching the children these days!) But I know I’m not the only one. Not only does my host keep track of who’s being a rude son-of-a-bitch, but the other regulars at the party, when they see our host given the cold shoulder, are more inclined to shut out the Designated Asshole so that he’s not getting any fun whatsoever. We can be highly protective of our favorite professor.
So if your party has a host, whether it’s the fellow whose house you’re using, or whether it’s the nice pervert who’s taken his time to arrange for the hotel room and to line up the list of guests, be nice to the guy. Give him some extra attention. Slip him a twenty to help pay for the costs, if he’s rented a hotel room for the day. Give him a blow job or your dick or make him feel extra special and hot with your compliments. Your kindness will be remembered, and you will be invited back.
7. For the love of god, play nicely with others.
You’re not going to be attracted to every single person at a sex party. You’re just not. But that doesn’t mean you’re excused from treating them politely.
That guy you think is a creepy old troll might be the boyfriend of the hottie you’re trying to get with, for all you know. Kicking him to the curb with a rude comment could backfire. Even if the creepy old troll is indeed merely a creepy old troll, you’re still not going to do yourself any favors by cutting him down with what you imagine is a witty and devastating remark. Mostly you’re just going to make yourself look like a cruel dick in front of your peers.
The same rules your mom taught you on the playground when you were five years old apply here. Don’t shove others out of the way to get to your favorite toy. You are no more entitled than anyone else present to be first on the best rides. Don’t cause fights, don’t argue, don’t make a fuss or a scene. Do not monopolize any one person. You will be expected to share.
I’ve always found that the camaraderie of men enjoying sex with each other is a bonding experience that can’t be beat; it’s a surefire way to make friends, earn respect, and to share joyful experiences that you’ll remember for a very long time to come. Group sex can be fucking amazing when everyone’s looking out for each other and helping each other to have a hot, sweaty time. And it can be lousy, frustrating, and godawful when one or two guys spoil it by behaving heedlessly or by trying to ruin the spirit of sharing with selfish behavior. Don’t be the Designated Asshole, and treat everyone as you’d like to be treated. It’s the Breeder’s Golden Rule.
If you’ve got questions about group sex, ask them in the comments below. And if you’re experienced in it and have other tips to share, post those as well. We’re all here to help each other over these hurdles—and once those fears of groups are conquered, you’ll be on your way to having some great fun.
(Just remember to invite me, too.)
Most of the sex I’ve had over the last six months, it seems, has either been in group situations, or with men I’ve met during big naked groups. I can’t say why this is, exactly—beyond, of course, the fact that I’m a top with a big dick, and big-docked tops are popular (and rare) in groups. Maybe there are more orgies in this part of the country? Maybe I’ve just stumbled into a handful of sex friends who are more inclined to throw groups when they know there’s a reliable top to invite? I don’t know.
What I do know is that of the mail I get from readers, the topic that gets addressed the most, the topic which has people fretting and worrying more than any other, has to do with the etiquette involved in attending group sex functions.
I’m not going to dismiss any of this anxiety as foolish or unwarranted. Meeting up with one stranger can be scary on its own. Walking into a group situation with a bunch of unknown strangers only multiplies whatever body anxieties and performance fears one might have; it’s enough to make a neurotic out of the most stable personality.
If you’re considering following in my footsteps and attempting group sex for the first time, however, I think there are a few general guidelines to follow.
1. Don’t be afraid to say yes to to a group sex invitation.
Group sex isn’t inherently deviant and perverted. Attending an orgy isn’t going to make you into an unredeemable slut or a bad person. Gay or straight, large group or small, it can be highly enjoyable and a great way to socialize. Yes, socialize. And network too, believe it or not.
Overwhelming as the prospect of getting naked in front of group might be for a first-timer, however, I think it’s important to remember that most of the men attending a group sex event are really all there for the same reason—to get off a time or two, and to have an enjoyable couple of hours doing it.
Chances are they’re all arriving with the same worries you might be feeling. Am I good looking enough? Am I hung enough? Will anybody want to fuck me? They’ll be worrying about whether or not they’ll have to make the first move, and how humiliated they’ll be when they try to reach out for some hot guy’s dick and the hot guy up and slaps away that filthy greasy paw. There might be some die-hard group sex aficionados in the mix like me, but chances are a lot (if not most) of the guys are new to it, just like you.
If you get the invite, or if you see an opportunity while you’re prowling online, first relax. Calm down. Take a deep breath. Think about it. Then accept. You might have more fun than you think, and you probably will even come away more confident than you went in.
2. Pick an event that’s right for you.
If you live in a big city, there are probably sex parties happening around you on a frequent basis. Some of them get advertised on sites such as Manhunt or Adam4Adam or BBRT, where it’s possible to browse through public boards or even to press a single button to get a listing of upcoming events. Others might appear in local sex blogs. Some are going to be private, by invitation only, and you have to know the right people.
Anxious as you might be, however, to get your first taste of group sex, before you start worrying about whether you’ll fit in, make sure the event suits you. If you’re looking for guaranteed bareback sex, don’t sign up to attend a foot fetishists’s festival or a jackoff party. Don’t sign up for a group in which safer sex rules are strictly enforced. If you think anal sex is dirty and disgusting, don’t attend a fisting party. This advice might seem obvious, but believe me, I’ve been in a lot of situations in which guys showed up, convinced they could make the party suit their own desires, without any regard to what everyone else wanted. It ain’t cute, and the results ain’t pretty.
There are a handful of events in which the people throwing the party very rigorously screen attendees. They may be searching for a certain degree of hotness, or excluding men who don’t meet a certain invisible requirement for looks, weight, or age. If you do submit your stats and photos for one of these and don’t get invited, don’t waste any of your time mourning when you get the rejection. You are not totally unfuckable. That party just wasn’t for you—and you can do better, trust me.
3. If you agree to attend a group sex party, show up. And show up on time.
Nothing irritates a man who’s spent a lot of his own personal time attempting to arrange a group sex party more than people who simply don’t show. My experience in arranging groups has always been pretty dismal; if I invite ten guys to come play at my place on a given date and time, I usually expect about three to show up, at most. I have friends who are more trusting.
Don’t sit behind your computer wanking while you think to yourself how hot an orgy would be, if all you plan to do is get off and never show up, even though the host is expecting you. If you’re unsure you’ll be able to attend, don’t say yes. If you know the chances are slim of you emerging from beneath the rock where you live, please tell the nice guy inviting you Think of me next time, but I can’t be there on that date. Thanks.
If the party’s one of those affairs in which you’re encouraged to show up anytime between eight p.m. and midnight, feel free to make a late entrance. Otherwise, show up at exactly the appointed hour the party’s supposed to start. It’s annoying for the host or one of the other guests to open and close the door repeatedly. You’re pulling them away from the action, when you show up late.
If you do have a genuine conflict, tell your host as soon as possible—preferably before the event commences. Telephone, text, or email your regrets. Doing so as an afterthought might indicate how little regard you have for the host, but even that’s better than not showing up at all.
4. If you agree to attend a group sex party, show up ready to play.
Don’t bounce into the room expecting everyone to be hugely interested in the traffic you just encountered. Don’t spill the hundred excuses you might have for being fifteen minutes late. Don’t assume that the motel room or the host’s house will have a working shower so you can clean up. Arrive with your cock ring on, your jock on your butt beneath your business suit, and your hole cleaned out and ready to go. Everyone’s time is at a premium these days; don’t waste it when it comes to others.
Additionally, don’t even bother attending a sex party if you’re not committed actually to having sex. If you’re going to lurk in the corner and not remove your clothes, stay home. If you’re going to arrive only to check out the guys, decide they’re not good enough for your persnickety ass, and then flounce off, just don’t come in the first place. If you’re planning to whack off furiously watching others while growling like a rabid dog at anyone who attempts to touch you, you’d do better behind your monitor watching porn. I’ve encountered all three types of these guys at just about every party I’ve been to, and I can tell you from experience, none of them ever got invited back.
If you are going to need lube for your adventures, bring lube. If you are requiring condoms, bring condoms. If the guy throwing the party has asked for a few bucks to cover the overhead costs, bring a few bucks. Don’t assume that others will cover for you.
5. While you’re at a group sex party, stay responsible for your own safety and behavior.
Start off by being responsible for what you bring with you. If it’s a regular group of guys you trust, that’s one thing. But if you’re in a dark hotel room with a bunch of naked strangers, don’t show up with a Coach leather man-bag that’s holding your iPad, your smartphone, the one printed copy of your doctoral thesis due next week and the one backup, and the irreplaceable birthday gift you just bought your dear mother-in-law. You don’t know who’s going to take off with it while you’ve got your legs lifted to heaven. Leave your wallet in the car, or at home. Arrive with as little cash as possible, and with as little that a light-fingered stranger might be tempted to filch.
If you’re attempting to preserve a negative serostatus at a group sex party, doing so is your responsibility. If you want your partners to wear condoms, it’s up to you to ask them. If you’re trying to bareback but to serosort your partners through some kind of superstitious voodoo ritual that convinces you that you’re immune to risk, be aware that a man’s answers to your question about his HIV status may be affected by exactly how few inches away his raging cock is from your raw hole. Don’t accept substances at a party you wouldn’t otherwise accept; don’t venture to a neighborhood where you’d feel uncomfortable, just for the sake of cheap and easy sex.
When it comes right down to it, you are responsible for your own safety and welfare at a group sex party. Don’t let your dick or anybody else make those important decisions for you.
6. Be nice to the host.
I don’t know how many times I can emphasize this particular point. Every couple of weeks I attend a group event at the home of a retired professor, at which fifteen to twenty guys show up on any given day. And every single time there’s always one asshole—he’s always a different person, but it seems like someone new is always occupying the Designated Asshole slot—who comes in, drops his drawers, and proceeds to rebuff not only the genial host’s advances, but even his attempts at conversation. The Designated Asshole will try to corner whoever he thinks is the hottest guy, get off quickly, and then disappear without even thanking the host.
Grandmotherly though I know I sound, I think this kind of behavior is appalling. (I know, you’re picturing me in a housecoat clutching my pearls and intoning Whatever are they teaching the children these days!) But I know I’m not the only one. Not only does my host keep track of who’s being a rude son-of-a-bitch, but the other regulars at the party, when they see our host given the cold shoulder, are more inclined to shut out the Designated Asshole so that he’s not getting any fun whatsoever. We can be highly protective of our favorite professor.
So if your party has a host, whether it’s the fellow whose house you’re using, or whether it’s the nice pervert who’s taken his time to arrange for the hotel room and to line up the list of guests, be nice to the guy. Give him some extra attention. Slip him a twenty to help pay for the costs, if he’s rented a hotel room for the day. Give him a blow job or your dick or make him feel extra special and hot with your compliments. Your kindness will be remembered, and you will be invited back.
7. For the love of god, play nicely with others.
You’re not going to be attracted to every single person at a sex party. You’re just not. But that doesn’t mean you’re excused from treating them politely.
That guy you think is a creepy old troll might be the boyfriend of the hottie you’re trying to get with, for all you know. Kicking him to the curb with a rude comment could backfire. Even if the creepy old troll is indeed merely a creepy old troll, you’re still not going to do yourself any favors by cutting him down with what you imagine is a witty and devastating remark. Mostly you’re just going to make yourself look like a cruel dick in front of your peers.
The same rules your mom taught you on the playground when you were five years old apply here. Don’t shove others out of the way to get to your favorite toy. You are no more entitled than anyone else present to be first on the best rides. Don’t cause fights, don’t argue, don’t make a fuss or a scene. Do not monopolize any one person. You will be expected to share.
I’ve always found that the camaraderie of men enjoying sex with each other is a bonding experience that can’t be beat; it’s a surefire way to make friends, earn respect, and to share joyful experiences that you’ll remember for a very long time to come. Group sex can be fucking amazing when everyone’s looking out for each other and helping each other to have a hot, sweaty time. And it can be lousy, frustrating, and godawful when one or two guys spoil it by behaving heedlessly or by trying to ruin the spirit of sharing with selfish behavior. Don’t be the Designated Asshole, and treat everyone as you’d like to be treated. It’s the Breeder’s Golden Rule.
If you’ve got questions about group sex, ask them in the comments below. And if you’re experienced in it and have other tips to share, post those as well. We’re all here to help each other over these hurdles—and once those fears of groups are conquered, you’ll be on your way to having some great fun.
(Just remember to invite me, too.)
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