There were a couple of secrets nobody told me about the fifth decade of life.
The first happened when I, normally a person of such even and placid temperament that for most of my life people affixed the dubious honorific ‘Saint’ before my name, started to have fits of temper that were absolutely terrifying in their intensity. An incorrectly-loaded dishwasher could turn me into a volcano of rage, spewing epithets and obscenities in lieu of lava. Grudges, instead of dull, heavy resentments safely buried in my past, rose from the depths of the earth like those tripods in the Tom Cruise War of the Worlds, to blast everyone in their paths with laser beams fashioned from alien technology so advanced they dissipated everything into dust and atoms.
I couldn’t understand why I, who’d lived the tranquil pre-Nazi life of that Mother Superior who sang “Climb Every Mountain” in The Sound of Music, was suddenly Linda Blair in The Exorcist. When I was in the company of a couple I knew, both doctors, I decided to get a pair of free medical opinions in case something was seriously wrong with me, like a tumor pressing on that section of my brain that caused irrational rage. My, how they laughed, long and hard. Wiping tears from her eyes, the female half of the couple put her hand on my wrist and said, “Sweetie, it’s called the furious forties. You’re in for a few years of it. It happens to us all at your age.” They laughed some more (at me, not with me) and told me that if it got worse, by all means to go in for a brain scan, but otherwise to get used to not having the ‘Saint’ in front of my name for a few years.
The other—happier—secret no one told me was that when you turn forty, suddenly the boys crawl out of the woodwork for your cock.
No, really. If you’re in your mid-forties, aren’t actively repellant and don’t sport a throbbing goiter (which is about as close to handsome as you’ll ever hear me describing myself), and have any inclinations whatsoever to topping, the boys in their late teens and early twenties will beat their way to your door. It’s not just a small, oddball subset of misfits who’ll want to ride your cock, either, but a great number of some of the hottest young men out there. If they can call you ‘daddy’ during sex, they’ll love you for it. If you’ve actually fathered a child, they’ll claw each other in the struggle to get you first.
At least, so it seems, much of the time. If you like that, you’re in luck. As for myself, I usually consider the young guys as the Froot Loops part of this complete nutritious breakfast. A whole lot of it might not be great for your diet, but it sure is tasty, and turns your tongue all different colors.
Maybe that metaphor isn’t as apt as I hoped.
Case in point: last Wednesday I had a twenty-year-old drive forty miles to see me. The photos he’d shown me were of a fresh-faced, skinny young thing with a bubble butt that filled out his jeans and hung down slightly, like a pregnant woman’s swollen belly, or a heavy drop of dew clinging to a blade of grass. When he undressed, he smelled of sweet cologne and a fruity chewing gum. His skin still had the tautness of a youth coming out of his adolescence, and his stomach was perfectly flat. His navel was a little dip in his skin, scarcely enough in which to scrape a fingertip. When I pulled off his shirt in the darkness of my bedroom, he shivered and crossed his arms over his chest. When I kissed his spine and rubbed my beard over his shoulders, his head lolled back. In that position he looked all the world like the painting of a blue-jeaned apostle, just before his martyrdom.
Once his clothes were off, I pulled him onto the bed. We writhed over the fleece blanket, feeling each other all over, until finally I pushed his head down onto my dick. “Damn, daddy,” he said, right before he started sucking. I never really bring up this specialized area of dirty talk with these boys; they bring it up on their own, once the action starts. “It’s as good as the pictures. Better.”
I didn’t say anything for a while, as I let him ease into the oral. He licked and slurped over my dick with an eagerness that transcended age. “You give good head, son,” I finally told him. My reward was his impaling himself onto my dick with his throat, anxious for the praise and the encouragement.
That’s what they really seem to want, these young guys. Often when they show up, it’s with a swaggering posture that sometimes borders on arrogance. Naked, though, and in the near-dark, that usually vanishes. They want what any bottom man wants, at heart, and they’re often more transparent about their needs than the men twice their age. They want to be of service. They want to be appreciated for what they can do. And they want to be praised for it, when it’s deserved.
I kept up a steady stream of mingled, muttered filth and motivation until finally I got him onto his knees. His face dipped into the cleft between my pillows as he cooled his face on the smooth cotton. His hole was ripe and overheated with excitement. When my tongue dipped into it, it was like taking a mouthful of piping hot coffee. He wasn’t going to let me rim him for any length of time, though. “Let me sit on it,” he begged.
“You don’t want me from behind, first?” I asked.
He shook his head. Even in the dark I could tell that a flush had spread over his cheekbones, furious and scarlet. “I open up better if I sit down on it.”
It was the exact opposite of every other boy his age I’ve had, but I was game. I let him lay me down and grease up my dick with lube. Together we guided it into his descending hole. I felt pressure, then release. His amazingly warm hole enclosed my flesh more quickly than I would have suspected possible. And he was tight, too. “How long have you been getting fucked?” I wanted to know.
“Only three years,” he said. “But I really like it. And you’ve got the dick for it.” His eyes closed. Using his knees and thigh muscles, he raised and lowered himself onto me. I just relaxed and enjoyed it. “A big, fat, daddy dick. Yeah. Big daddy dick up my ass.”
On and on he talked about daddy dick, turning himself on with the phrase. I could’ve lain back and done nothing while he carried on, but instead I fueled his furnace by tossing tinder on the fire. “Daddy loves his boy’s pretty butt,” I’d say, sending him into an ecstatic frenzy. Or, “Damn, son, you’ve learned how to take dad’s dick like a little pro.” Or, “Yeah, daddy sure loves breeding young stuff like you.”
“Breed me, sir,” he began to whimper. His gyrations became more frenetic. His own sizable dick flapped against his taught stomach with every bounce with the sound of a drum. “Breed you boy. Pump that manload up your boy’s ass, daddy. Fucking breed me, dad.”
“Yeah,” I growled, getting closer. “Gonna breed you good. That’s what you were made for, right?”
The question pushed him right over the edge. “Fuuuuuck,” he groaned, with one long vowel that started in his mouth and ended deep, deep inside. I could feel it vibrate his pelvis, and tickle at my dick; he grunted, and began to spew sperm all over me and the blanket. I was close myself, but when he stopped to unleash his own orgasm, I felt mine began to ebb, and then fade.
I was drenched by the time he finished. He held up his hands, sticky with semen, and let it drip from his fingers as if he wasn’t certain what to do. I was afraid it was all over, right then.
But then, with a renewed determination, the boy started to grab at my still-hard dick with his ass muscles, pulling it back into him and milking it with just as much purpose as he had before he’d come. “I want it,” he told me, staring in my eyes. His hands rested on my shoulders, pressing me down into the mattress and leaving sticky trails on my skin. “I want that load. I’m gonna get that fucking load out of you.”
It was more threat than anything else, but it was the kind of threat I could live with. A couple of minutes of him grinding and milking me, and I was panting. A couple of minutes more and I was on the edge.
“Fucking give it to me,” he insisted, shaking me.
When I shot, it was almost as intensely as his demands had been. I shook, and jolted up. If he hadn’t been pressing me down, our skulls would likely have collided. Then I shot pulse after pulse of sperm into his little hole. He looked down at me for a moment, his hair hanging in his face. When I and my after-tremors had subsided, he let go of me and sat up to elongate his torso and stretch. His hands almost collided with the ceiling fan above. “That’s what I like about you older guys,” he said, yawning and laughing at the same time.
“What’s that?” I asked, genuinely curious.
He shook off whatever imaginary cramps he’d accumulated during the sex, knuckle by knuckle, joint by slender young joint. “You know what the fuck you’re doing. Hey. Can I come again tomorrow night? I don’t mind driving for a great fuck like this.”
“Yeah,” I told him. “You can come again tomorrow.”
If I have to endure the furious forties, I’m grateful to have this other, unexpected side benefit as the trade-off.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Daddy's Best Boy
His name is Steve; he prefers that I address him as Son, or Daddy’s Boy.
Steve moved from the eastern seaboard to accept a job at a big hospital here in town. A friend of mine gave him my email address when he found out we lived only ten minutes apart; we’ve seen each other irregularly for a year, since, when his busy hospital schedule can accommodate a meeting. Much of his furniture’s still in storage, making his apartment a little sparse.
I’m not there to see the furniture, though.
The moment the door’s closed, he’s on me, moving my hands into his loose clothing. “Oh fuck, daddy,” he tells me. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“I’ve missed you too, son,” I whisper when I manage to tear my mouth from his.
“Do I look okay, daddy?" He's not pretending, with this question. He's earnest, and even worried a little. "I want to look good for you. I want to make you proud of me.”
Steve always looks great. His face has the strong chin, easy grin, and jock-like good features of a sportswear model. Sometimes he’ll greet me wearing nothing more than a t-shirt and tight underwear, or a tank top and some slack sweatpants. Sometimes he'll be wearing nothing. Today he's greeted me in a black jock and a tight-fitting wife-beater. “Oh yes,” I hiss, pushing him in the direction of the air mattress lying on his bedroom floor. He's still not managed to take the time to buy a bed. “You look very, very good, boy. I want you to show me how good you look.”
It’s ridiculous, this roleplay. He’s almost the same age as I. With his salt and pepper hair and dark brown eyes, he might even look older. No matter. He insinuates himself into my lap and has me slap his ass until it’s red, and snap the elastic of his jock to raise angry welts across his butt as he moans and writhes.
It would take only one word to break the illusion we sharing together. One word, one refusal, one mistimed snort of disbelief. “I want to make my daddy feel good,” he tells me, pushing me onto my back and straddling my hips. “I want to be daddy’s best boy.”
“Oh, you are daddy’s best boy,” I say. His hole is already lubed, loose, and ready. I wrap my fist around my cock and support it as he lowers himself down. Then I sigh as I sink deep into his warm, soft flesh. “You are making your daddy very proud, son.”
His eyes widen as they stare into mine, then close entirely. His mouth drops into a gasp. His head jerks backwards, and he says nothing more. Not for a long, long while. This is the payoff, for me. I wear the daddy mask just for this moment, when I see him so lost in the bliss of his fantasy, beyond words and the cares of the everyday, that his body shakes with pleasure.
After our long lovemaking, yesterday afternoon, I was drinking cold water from a glass mug as I looked at the largest of the photographs sitting atop his dresser. They're the only decoration I've ever seen in his spartan apartment; he must have dug them out fairly recently. The photo was of a young man with medium-length blond hair, handsome as hell, standing in a park with a hound at his side. The dog’s silky coat was glistening in the sunlight, falling around the dog's body like a pair of shaggy, bell-bottomed pajamas. There were matching glints in the young man’s wire-rimmed spectacles. “Is that you?” I asked Steve, letting the water soothe my raw and ragged throat.
“That’s me,” he replied, settling down by my side on the air mattress. He picked up the frame and studied the photograph. His face wore the somewhat sad, somewhat wistful expression of a man looking at the picture of an old friend he once loved but hadn’t seen in some time.
“The dog’s beautiful,” I told him.
“She really was,” he said. “She really was.” He paused, lost in thought, while I waited for more. “Sally was her name. She was an afghan. I had two afghans, once. Both were beautiful dogs. Total couch hogs. If they wanted up next to you when you were watching TV, they got their way. But they were my babies. Then I had to have one of them put to sleep because she had cancer.”
“I’m really sorry.” I waited a moment. “How old were you in that photo?”
“Twenty. . . .” He calculated on his fingers. “Between twenty-four and twenty-six. I forget exactly. Almost twenty years ago. Yeah, the first dog died of cancer just as I was at the end of my relationship with my first serious boyfriend. He was twenty years older than me. A librarian. We were living in Texas and he had two job opportunities—one in Ann Arbor, at the University of Michigan, you know, and the other in Seattle. So I went to Seattle with him and I realized . . . well, it was kind of strange. I realized I didn’t want to be with him any more. He was so settled and I was just young, you know. I wanted to travel and see things. I thought that's what it would mean to live my life. Going to Seattle to his home, with his furniture and his paintings and decorations—none of it mine—made me realize how much I was missing.
“So I told him that I was sorry, but I wanted to move out and see the world. He didn’t realize at first what I was saying. He thought he could kind of keep the home fires burning and that when I was tired of going new places, I’d come back and we’d live happily ever after. I kept telling him that I wouldn’t be coming back, but I don’t think he ever really believed me.
“When I'd left Texas to join my boyfriend, I’d boarded Sally with a woman I knew, just for a little bit until I could ship her to Seattle. When I picked her up, she told me, ‘Hey, your girl is a sweetheart and a real beauty. If you ever want to sell, I know just the guy who would love to have her.’ She named a name and I said, ‘Hey, I know Tom!’ He was a guy I knew pretty well who had an afghan already. So I knew he’d take really good care of her. I couldn’t leave Sally with my boyfriend, you see. He didn’t like dogs. He never remembered to feed them when I was out late at school or anything. The afghans were totally my babies. So I called Tom, my friend, and we talked, and he was thrilled to buy Sally from me. It gave me just a little cash, you know, for moving expenses, and I knew he’d love her just as much as I did."
He was silent for a while. At last I rested my hand atop his. When he spoke again, it was with a shaky tremolo.
“So I said goodbye, and saw her off. That night my boyfriend came home. ‘Where’s the dog?’ he asked, and I told him Sally was gone.” Steve got quiet for a moment. “He was just standing there with his briefcase, and then he dropped it to the floor. It fell open and all his papers fell out. Then he burst into tears. Because it hit him right then, for the first time, that I was leaving and wasn’t coming back and that our relationship was really . . . over.”
I reached out and pulled Steve close to me, until his head rested on my shoulder. I was afraid to speak, but after a moment of respectful hush I murmured, “How did you feel, giving up your baby?”
“I knew Sally was going to a good home, and there was just no way I could take her with me, so. . . .” His voice trailed off into silence. “I still miss that dog.” He draped his arm over my chest, and kissed my nipple. “I don’t know why I told you that story. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone about my baby, before.”
I kissed the daddy’s boy on the head, and held him close while we both stared at the photograph in the darkening room.
Steve moved from the eastern seaboard to accept a job at a big hospital here in town. A friend of mine gave him my email address when he found out we lived only ten minutes apart; we’ve seen each other irregularly for a year, since, when his busy hospital schedule can accommodate a meeting. Much of his furniture’s still in storage, making his apartment a little sparse.
I’m not there to see the furniture, though.
The moment the door’s closed, he’s on me, moving my hands into his loose clothing. “Oh fuck, daddy,” he tells me. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“I’ve missed you too, son,” I whisper when I manage to tear my mouth from his.
“Do I look okay, daddy?" He's not pretending, with this question. He's earnest, and even worried a little. "I want to look good for you. I want to make you proud of me.”
Steve always looks great. His face has the strong chin, easy grin, and jock-like good features of a sportswear model. Sometimes he’ll greet me wearing nothing more than a t-shirt and tight underwear, or a tank top and some slack sweatpants. Sometimes he'll be wearing nothing. Today he's greeted me in a black jock and a tight-fitting wife-beater. “Oh yes,” I hiss, pushing him in the direction of the air mattress lying on his bedroom floor. He's still not managed to take the time to buy a bed. “You look very, very good, boy. I want you to show me how good you look.”
It’s ridiculous, this roleplay. He’s almost the same age as I. With his salt and pepper hair and dark brown eyes, he might even look older. No matter. He insinuates himself into my lap and has me slap his ass until it’s red, and snap the elastic of his jock to raise angry welts across his butt as he moans and writhes.
It would take only one word to break the illusion we sharing together. One word, one refusal, one mistimed snort of disbelief. “I want to make my daddy feel good,” he tells me, pushing me onto my back and straddling my hips. “I want to be daddy’s best boy.”
“Oh, you are daddy’s best boy,” I say. His hole is already lubed, loose, and ready. I wrap my fist around my cock and support it as he lowers himself down. Then I sigh as I sink deep into his warm, soft flesh. “You are making your daddy very proud, son.”
His eyes widen as they stare into mine, then close entirely. His mouth drops into a gasp. His head jerks backwards, and he says nothing more. Not for a long, long while. This is the payoff, for me. I wear the daddy mask just for this moment, when I see him so lost in the bliss of his fantasy, beyond words and the cares of the everyday, that his body shakes with pleasure.
After our long lovemaking, yesterday afternoon, I was drinking cold water from a glass mug as I looked at the largest of the photographs sitting atop his dresser. They're the only decoration I've ever seen in his spartan apartment; he must have dug them out fairly recently. The photo was of a young man with medium-length blond hair, handsome as hell, standing in a park with a hound at his side. The dog’s silky coat was glistening in the sunlight, falling around the dog's body like a pair of shaggy, bell-bottomed pajamas. There were matching glints in the young man’s wire-rimmed spectacles. “Is that you?” I asked Steve, letting the water soothe my raw and ragged throat.
“That’s me,” he replied, settling down by my side on the air mattress. He picked up the frame and studied the photograph. His face wore the somewhat sad, somewhat wistful expression of a man looking at the picture of an old friend he once loved but hadn’t seen in some time.
“The dog’s beautiful,” I told him.
“She really was,” he said. “She really was.” He paused, lost in thought, while I waited for more. “Sally was her name. She was an afghan. I had two afghans, once. Both were beautiful dogs. Total couch hogs. If they wanted up next to you when you were watching TV, they got their way. But they were my babies. Then I had to have one of them put to sleep because she had cancer.”
“I’m really sorry.” I waited a moment. “How old were you in that photo?”
“Twenty. . . .” He calculated on his fingers. “Between twenty-four and twenty-six. I forget exactly. Almost twenty years ago. Yeah, the first dog died of cancer just as I was at the end of my relationship with my first serious boyfriend. He was twenty years older than me. A librarian. We were living in Texas and he had two job opportunities—one in Ann Arbor, at the University of Michigan, you know, and the other in Seattle. So I went to Seattle with him and I realized . . . well, it was kind of strange. I realized I didn’t want to be with him any more. He was so settled and I was just young, you know. I wanted to travel and see things. I thought that's what it would mean to live my life. Going to Seattle to his home, with his furniture and his paintings and decorations—none of it mine—made me realize how much I was missing.
“So I told him that I was sorry, but I wanted to move out and see the world. He didn’t realize at first what I was saying. He thought he could kind of keep the home fires burning and that when I was tired of going new places, I’d come back and we’d live happily ever after. I kept telling him that I wouldn’t be coming back, but I don’t think he ever really believed me.
“When I'd left Texas to join my boyfriend, I’d boarded Sally with a woman I knew, just for a little bit until I could ship her to Seattle. When I picked her up, she told me, ‘Hey, your girl is a sweetheart and a real beauty. If you ever want to sell, I know just the guy who would love to have her.’ She named a name and I said, ‘Hey, I know Tom!’ He was a guy I knew pretty well who had an afghan already. So I knew he’d take really good care of her. I couldn’t leave Sally with my boyfriend, you see. He didn’t like dogs. He never remembered to feed them when I was out late at school or anything. The afghans were totally my babies. So I called Tom, my friend, and we talked, and he was thrilled to buy Sally from me. It gave me just a little cash, you know, for moving expenses, and I knew he’d love her just as much as I did."
He was silent for a while. At last I rested my hand atop his. When he spoke again, it was with a shaky tremolo.
“So I said goodbye, and saw her off. That night my boyfriend came home. ‘Where’s the dog?’ he asked, and I told him Sally was gone.” Steve got quiet for a moment. “He was just standing there with his briefcase, and then he dropped it to the floor. It fell open and all his papers fell out. Then he burst into tears. Because it hit him right then, for the first time, that I was leaving and wasn’t coming back and that our relationship was really . . . over.”
I reached out and pulled Steve close to me, until his head rested on my shoulder. I was afraid to speak, but after a moment of respectful hush I murmured, “How did you feel, giving up your baby?”
“I knew Sally was going to a good home, and there was just no way I could take her with me, so. . . .” His voice trailed off into silence. “I still miss that dog.” He draped his arm over my chest, and kissed my nipple. “I don’t know why I told you that story. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone about my baby, before.”
I kissed the daddy’s boy on the head, and held him close while we both stared at the photograph in the darkening room.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Speed Fuck
what time can you be here tonight? read the text.
Ordinarily the abruptness of such a message would have had me composing imaginary replies in my head along the lines of Well hello to you, too, fuckwad, but when I saw it had come from the Decorator, I softened a little. I like the Decorator. Whenever I see the Decorator, I always walk away sated, happy, and feeling as if I’ve gorged at a buffet of all my favorite foods.
The only problem was, this was last Monday night, and I’d banged Scruffy three times the night before, and had fed a load to the Mechanic in the park a few hours before at lunchtime. Additionally, the Mechanic had left me so buzzed and excited that I’d jacked off after I’d gotten home. I had a momentary doubt that I’d have enough jizz left for the Decorator, if I were to meet him that night.
But I dismissed those doubts almost immediately. It was right at half-past-six when he texted. I can be there at 7:30, I told him.
Damn have to be somewhere at 8, he sent back. I could be naked and bed by 7.
It’d be tight, but I wanted to see him. See you at 7 then, I tapped back. Then I dashed for the shower.
The Decorator lives only five minutes from me. I arrived at his place a good ten minutes early, but since he sent me a message saying he was in bed and ready right as I got there, it worked out well. I parked my car in his driveway, admired the tasteful mix of Halloween and autumn harvest accessories adorning his front porch, and let myself in the front door. Once I’d locked it behind me and made my way upstairs, I stopped in the bedroom doorway and let my eyes adjust.
The Decorator had set several candles at strategic places around the room. They smelled of vanilla, and citrus. It took me a moment to figure out where he was, in the dim and flickering light. Usually he lies in the middle of the bed, waiting for me with his face toward the bureau and his ass propped up by pillows. This time, however, he seemed to be lying beneath the covers. Or more accurately, I could see as I drew closer, he had wrapped himself from the waist down in some kind of blanket. When I knelt down at the bed’s side and began to pull it off of him, I found that it was made of some kind of luxurious fabric, soft and sleek to the touch—the sort of thing a pampered rich boy would want to feel next to his naked skin.
As always, he appeared to be sleeping. But when I slipped off the blanket and folded it into a neat square that I placed at the bed’s corner, he shifted slightly, rolling the muscles of his ass from one side to another in a fashion I couldn’t help but find inviting. I kicked off my sneakers; I shucked down my jeans and pulled off my shirt. If I’d had any doubts about being able to manage a stiff dick after Scruffy and the Mechanic in the preceding few hours, they vanished the moment my knees hit the floor and my hands separated his ass cheeks. I was rock hard by the time my tongue dipped into the valley of flesh and began teasing at his hole.
I love the taste of the Decorator’s pucker. It’s peculiarly metallic, perhaps because of the coppery color of his hair. Whatever it is, I couldn’t get enough of it. I knew I had to act fast, but on the ass-eating I didn’t cut corners. While he shifted and groaned and let out little soft sighs, I munched away at that hole, pausing occasionally to run my teeth over his butt and let my close-cropped beard rasp across his skin. I blew columns of cold air against it to make him raise his head. Then I’d dive back in until he squirmed.
The clock read ten minutes after seven when I rubbed spit over my dick and began to slide into him. He came up on his forearms as I entered, curving back his head. If someone had come into the room right then, it would have looked almost as if he were doing a push-up, and as if I were trying to push him right back down again. His head dropped; his forehead hit the mattress as my nuts pressed up against the base of his hole. I began to fuck him, softly for a few strokes, and then harder, quickly.
Usually my time with the Decorator falls more into the category of lovemaking than outright fucking. Due to his time constraints, however, I made the decision to fuck the hell out of him. Once I was sliding in and out of his hole nicely, I grabbed him by the hips and slammed him, letting my pelvis collide into the soft mounds of his ass. Then I’d withdraw and plunge right back in, over and over again, until every thrust seemed to draw out him a small noise. Sometimes a grunt, sometimes a yelp, sometimes the smallest of whimpers. He wasn’t producing them like a porn star might, making a show of every little noise. They were involuntary, and probably unconscious. His body simply couldn’t help it.
“You know I love breeding you,” I whispered in the vicinity of his ear as the first load came pouring out a few moments later. I could tell it wasn’t the largest load I’d ever delivered into him, but it was enough. I felt the warmth and slipperiness of it spread around my dick as I continued to fuck away at him. When I reached down and under, between his legs, his cock was not only rock hard, but coated with his own pre-cum. At first I thought my load had dripped out and managed to reach his meat, but no—a steady flow gushed from the tip of his dick. Like a faucet, it was. I dipped my forefinger into it and brought it to his mouth. He gobbled it down hungrily, and took the rest of my fingers into his mouth as well.
Together we rolled onto our right sides. I held him in my arms as we continued to fuck, and moved his left hand down until it touched his dick. He took the cue and began to stroke himself while I ground away at his hole. Save for the one sentence I’d whispered before I’d shot, we hadn’t spoken at all. The Decorator loves for me to play with his nipples as we fuck, though, and when I grabbed onto them and squeezed, hard, he exclaimed, “Fuck yes.”
I squeezed his nips as if I was milking them. I yanked and pinched and twisted them cruelly. Every new sensation made his ass clamp down on my still-stiff dick. The stickiness flowing from his own meat connected us as the tip flicked against the back of my wrist, over and over. His own gyrations gradually grew more vigorous. After a few minutes, he was fucking his own hole on my stick, drawing me in more deeply as he pleasured himself. I could tell he was getting closer to his orgasm when his breathing began to shorten. His body elongated. His arm reached around to the back of my head, pulling me close to him. When our lips met, he began to shake and quiver and spew semen all over the sheets.
The Decorator’s excitement spilled back to me. I came a few moments later, hanging onto him around his waist as though I were afraid he’d try to get away. Then we lay there for a moment, quiet.
It was 7:35. I had to go, I knew, if he were going to get to his event on time. Reluctantly, I withdrew. He didn’t move. I used the hand towel nearby to wipe the juices from his legs, and then parted his ass to get a good look at his hole. In the candlelight it was difficult to see, but he seemed red, and puffy, and well-used.
I couldn’t help myself. I knelt down at the bed’s edge and buried my face in his ass once again, licking at that hole and savoring the tastes of his metallic ring, the tang of my cum, and the lingering remains of my own saliva. He moaned and pushed back. A few more droplets of my sperm fell onto my waiting tongue.
After I’d rimmed him until I couldn’t taste any more of the loads I’d left inside, I sat up. “Thank you,” I said in hushed tones, as if I’d entered a cathedral and was determined to remain prayerful. “I really needed that.”
He said nothing, but rose to his knees and hovered over me like a painted angel by an Old Master. His kisses descended onto my ear, my shoulder . . . and then the back of my neck. My neck, the most sensitive place of my entire body, and the spot that craves attention it almost never gets.
“I need to go,” I protested. “You need to get ready. . . .”
He was having none of it. Just as I’d held him down moments before and rimmed his sore and used hole, he refused to let me get up from the bed. His mouth kissed my neck. His tongue licked at it. Together they worked in tandem to make me lean forward in surrender. I groaned, and buried my face in my hands. “God,” I whispered. “Oh god. Oh god.” Over and over I repeated the words as his mouth worked over those few square inches and sent shivers throughout my entire body.
It’s such a simple pleasure. Yet I could have sat there all night, hunched over with my hair spilling down around my face, letting him lick and chew over and around my nape. A few times I tried to protest, but he was having none of it.
It was 7:50 when he finished. “I need to go,” I repeated. When I stood up, though, I could barely keep on my feet. I stumbled, and grabbed for my shoes next to the place where they actually sat. Somehow, though, I managed to get my clothes back on. Without knowing really how I got there, I found myself sitting in my car five minutes later.
It’s not what a dedicated top man should admit—that he enjoyed ten minutes of having his neck munched even more than the forty minutes of fucking and felching that preceded it.
But there it is.
Ordinarily the abruptness of such a message would have had me composing imaginary replies in my head along the lines of Well hello to you, too, fuckwad, but when I saw it had come from the Decorator, I softened a little. I like the Decorator. Whenever I see the Decorator, I always walk away sated, happy, and feeling as if I’ve gorged at a buffet of all my favorite foods.
The only problem was, this was last Monday night, and I’d banged Scruffy three times the night before, and had fed a load to the Mechanic in the park a few hours before at lunchtime. Additionally, the Mechanic had left me so buzzed and excited that I’d jacked off after I’d gotten home. I had a momentary doubt that I’d have enough jizz left for the Decorator, if I were to meet him that night.
But I dismissed those doubts almost immediately. It was right at half-past-six when he texted. I can be there at 7:30, I told him.
Damn have to be somewhere at 8, he sent back. I could be naked and bed by 7.
It’d be tight, but I wanted to see him. See you at 7 then, I tapped back. Then I dashed for the shower.
The Decorator lives only five minutes from me. I arrived at his place a good ten minutes early, but since he sent me a message saying he was in bed and ready right as I got there, it worked out well. I parked my car in his driveway, admired the tasteful mix of Halloween and autumn harvest accessories adorning his front porch, and let myself in the front door. Once I’d locked it behind me and made my way upstairs, I stopped in the bedroom doorway and let my eyes adjust.
The Decorator had set several candles at strategic places around the room. They smelled of vanilla, and citrus. It took me a moment to figure out where he was, in the dim and flickering light. Usually he lies in the middle of the bed, waiting for me with his face toward the bureau and his ass propped up by pillows. This time, however, he seemed to be lying beneath the covers. Or more accurately, I could see as I drew closer, he had wrapped himself from the waist down in some kind of blanket. When I knelt down at the bed’s side and began to pull it off of him, I found that it was made of some kind of luxurious fabric, soft and sleek to the touch—the sort of thing a pampered rich boy would want to feel next to his naked skin.
As always, he appeared to be sleeping. But when I slipped off the blanket and folded it into a neat square that I placed at the bed’s corner, he shifted slightly, rolling the muscles of his ass from one side to another in a fashion I couldn’t help but find inviting. I kicked off my sneakers; I shucked down my jeans and pulled off my shirt. If I’d had any doubts about being able to manage a stiff dick after Scruffy and the Mechanic in the preceding few hours, they vanished the moment my knees hit the floor and my hands separated his ass cheeks. I was rock hard by the time my tongue dipped into the valley of flesh and began teasing at his hole.
I love the taste of the Decorator’s pucker. It’s peculiarly metallic, perhaps because of the coppery color of his hair. Whatever it is, I couldn’t get enough of it. I knew I had to act fast, but on the ass-eating I didn’t cut corners. While he shifted and groaned and let out little soft sighs, I munched away at that hole, pausing occasionally to run my teeth over his butt and let my close-cropped beard rasp across his skin. I blew columns of cold air against it to make him raise his head. Then I’d dive back in until he squirmed.
The clock read ten minutes after seven when I rubbed spit over my dick and began to slide into him. He came up on his forearms as I entered, curving back his head. If someone had come into the room right then, it would have looked almost as if he were doing a push-up, and as if I were trying to push him right back down again. His head dropped; his forehead hit the mattress as my nuts pressed up against the base of his hole. I began to fuck him, softly for a few strokes, and then harder, quickly.
Usually my time with the Decorator falls more into the category of lovemaking than outright fucking. Due to his time constraints, however, I made the decision to fuck the hell out of him. Once I was sliding in and out of his hole nicely, I grabbed him by the hips and slammed him, letting my pelvis collide into the soft mounds of his ass. Then I’d withdraw and plunge right back in, over and over again, until every thrust seemed to draw out him a small noise. Sometimes a grunt, sometimes a yelp, sometimes the smallest of whimpers. He wasn’t producing them like a porn star might, making a show of every little noise. They were involuntary, and probably unconscious. His body simply couldn’t help it.
“You know I love breeding you,” I whispered in the vicinity of his ear as the first load came pouring out a few moments later. I could tell it wasn’t the largest load I’d ever delivered into him, but it was enough. I felt the warmth and slipperiness of it spread around my dick as I continued to fuck away at him. When I reached down and under, between his legs, his cock was not only rock hard, but coated with his own pre-cum. At first I thought my load had dripped out and managed to reach his meat, but no—a steady flow gushed from the tip of his dick. Like a faucet, it was. I dipped my forefinger into it and brought it to his mouth. He gobbled it down hungrily, and took the rest of my fingers into his mouth as well.
Together we rolled onto our right sides. I held him in my arms as we continued to fuck, and moved his left hand down until it touched his dick. He took the cue and began to stroke himself while I ground away at his hole. Save for the one sentence I’d whispered before I’d shot, we hadn’t spoken at all. The Decorator loves for me to play with his nipples as we fuck, though, and when I grabbed onto them and squeezed, hard, he exclaimed, “Fuck yes.”
I squeezed his nips as if I was milking them. I yanked and pinched and twisted them cruelly. Every new sensation made his ass clamp down on my still-stiff dick. The stickiness flowing from his own meat connected us as the tip flicked against the back of my wrist, over and over. His own gyrations gradually grew more vigorous. After a few minutes, he was fucking his own hole on my stick, drawing me in more deeply as he pleasured himself. I could tell he was getting closer to his orgasm when his breathing began to shorten. His body elongated. His arm reached around to the back of my head, pulling me close to him. When our lips met, he began to shake and quiver and spew semen all over the sheets.
The Decorator’s excitement spilled back to me. I came a few moments later, hanging onto him around his waist as though I were afraid he’d try to get away. Then we lay there for a moment, quiet.
It was 7:35. I had to go, I knew, if he were going to get to his event on time. Reluctantly, I withdrew. He didn’t move. I used the hand towel nearby to wipe the juices from his legs, and then parted his ass to get a good look at his hole. In the candlelight it was difficult to see, but he seemed red, and puffy, and well-used.
I couldn’t help myself. I knelt down at the bed’s edge and buried my face in his ass once again, licking at that hole and savoring the tastes of his metallic ring, the tang of my cum, and the lingering remains of my own saliva. He moaned and pushed back. A few more droplets of my sperm fell onto my waiting tongue.
After I’d rimmed him until I couldn’t taste any more of the loads I’d left inside, I sat up. “Thank you,” I said in hushed tones, as if I’d entered a cathedral and was determined to remain prayerful. “I really needed that.”
He said nothing, but rose to his knees and hovered over me like a painted angel by an Old Master. His kisses descended onto my ear, my shoulder . . . and then the back of my neck. My neck, the most sensitive place of my entire body, and the spot that craves attention it almost never gets.
“I need to go,” I protested. “You need to get ready. . . .”
He was having none of it. Just as I’d held him down moments before and rimmed his sore and used hole, he refused to let me get up from the bed. His mouth kissed my neck. His tongue licked at it. Together they worked in tandem to make me lean forward in surrender. I groaned, and buried my face in my hands. “God,” I whispered. “Oh god. Oh god.” Over and over I repeated the words as his mouth worked over those few square inches and sent shivers throughout my entire body.
It’s such a simple pleasure. Yet I could have sat there all night, hunched over with my hair spilling down around my face, letting him lick and chew over and around my nape. A few times I tried to protest, but he was having none of it.
It was 7:50 when he finished. “I need to go,” I repeated. When I stood up, though, I could barely keep on my feet. I stumbled, and grabbed for my shoes next to the place where they actually sat. Somehow, though, I managed to get my clothes back on. Without knowing really how I got there, I found myself sitting in my car five minutes later.
It’s not what a dedicated top man should admit—that he enjoyed ten minutes of having his neck munched even more than the forty minutes of fucking and felching that preceded it.
But there it is.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Sunday Morning Questions: Exactly What Are We Saving All That Daylight For? Edition
After I finished yesterday's entry I thought to myself, Now these guys know more about my underwear than they really wanted to. But then I realized that you know more about where my bodily fluids are going than the average person. Why should you balk at my crummy underpants?
Do you guys feel extra-rested after your bonus hour of sleep last night? No, me neither. So let's get right to our usual Sunday morning tradition of rounding up questions I've gotten on formspring.me. As always, feel free to ask your questions anonymously (or not) there. If they're not super-repetitive or overly-invasive, I'll be glad to address them.
Who are your influences as a writer? And, if you could fuck any character from one of Shakespeare's plays, whom would it be?
When I am writing anything other than my journal, I can point to a number of influences at any given moment. When writing fiction, I can be influenced by classic literary writers, or modern American humorists, or whatever's appropriate for the mood or tone. In academic writing, I tend to emulate my father's methodical and rigorously-documented approach to writing.
In my personal journal, though, I can't say that I really consciously emulate anyone. That's just my own thought processes, trying to sketch broad outlines of what's occurred and to paint in a few details. That seems all me. Or at least, what I've learned about storytelling from everything I've read and incorporated as part of myself.
And I'd fuck Hotspur. You know he had a slammin' ass.
how many guys do you have waiting for you to fuck them? and how many of them are you dying to fuck?
I don't have an enumerated list! I hope there are a few. I have quite a few readers I've talked to that I find very attractive, and would love to get to know. Naked.
Cam4....do you have regular show times, or is it random? If regular, please tell me a time (I'm in Korea), I would love to see every inch of the guy that can write such sordid lines with such eloquence!
My show times tend to be random, but are often in the mornings, eastern time. My cam4 handle is steed48067.
If you do catch me on there, speak up and say something. Tell me you're a blog reader. I've had nice chats with several blog readers that way.
How tense do you get when you take an AIDS test? Panic at all, or are you ready for a poz result if it comes?
The first few times in my youth when I was tested, I had a distinct tendency to panic and obsess between the time the blood was drawn and the point when I'd get my results. With practice and time, I don't really think about it or tense up much.
do you use poppers?
I have never used poppers. I don't mind a bottom who does, though.
I have read about your many escapades with men, do you have any regular excursions with women as well?
I have encounters with women as well. Men are big sluts, though, and generally easier to land in bed.
You characterize men as big sluts who are easier to bed than women. Does that hold true for you? And do you prefer men or women?
It absolutely holds true for me. Some guys seem to assume that there's shame in having a strong libido--there's not. I'm happy to be a slut.
I prefer men. Usually with guys it's easier to get right to the good stuff.
If I had a cock in my bum, 2 in my mouth and one each ear, and you felt an urgent need to fuck me, what would you say or do to the 5 men already inside me?
"Move."
You've probably had this question before, but would you be willing to meet and breed a complete virgin?
Yes, and I've done it, too.
If it's not too personal a question, do you stick with your other half for stability/obligation/conformity, or because that's also a need you have that is fulfilled by that situation
I have never, ever, structured my adult life for the need of conformity. I did not undergo a relationship for the sake of it, not would I continue a relationship merely to blend in. Conformity is the least of my concerns or priorities.
Stability is a seductive influence, however. And once a relationship is undertaken, wouldn't you agree that obligation plays a role? It should.
Which sums up your view on sports: 1) interesting exercise for body (obviously) AND mind (strategies); 2) only as interesting as the bodies on display; 3) ho hum, period; 4) not-so-safe "sex" for hopeless closet cases; 5) other (specify)?
I'm fond of games. Particularly strategy games. So I appreciate some sports for the way they inspire players to think ahead, make decisions on the fly, and play strategically despite the fact that some of the choices they have to make need to occur in the blink of an eyelid. In my youth I was involved in competitive tennis and swimming, and later taught swimming to kids, so I also understand that sports can be a positive influence on some developing young minds and bodies.
That said, I find watching competitive sports a snooze. You couldn't pay me to sit through any kind of game on TV. And the amount of testosterone-filled posturing and jingoistic nonsense that sports events can attract is a menace.
I do like the Homoerotic Wrestling Channel that only seems to play at my neighborhood Mexican restaurant, though. I could watch that for hours.
When are your nipples hard?
When they're cold, or when they're chewed on. One of them I prefer more than the other.
Have you had conversations with your kid(s) about tolerance towards gays, or has the subject never come up? Do you think they could be homophobic?
When you have kids, in my philosophy, Big Topics aren't relegated solely to Big Conversations where you sit down with them and have the One Big Talk They'll Remember For The Rest Of Their Lives. The big stuff, like tolerance, should be addressed every day. Not only with conversation, but with example. Sure, sometimes it might be addressed directly, but my style is not to set aside a chunk of lecture time for the big topic of the day.
Homophobia isn't tolerated in my household. Nor is it a part of anyone's life here.
How old were you when you went to your first gay club/bar?
I never visited a gay establishment until I was in grad school. I would've been around twenty at the time, and a guy took me on a date to a little gay restaurant. I'd never been so uncomfortable in my entire life.
I never walked into my first gay bar until I was twenty-five or thereabouts. There really hadn't been any in the places I lived (of which I knew) until I moved to the midwest.
Do you guys feel extra-rested after your bonus hour of sleep last night? No, me neither. So let's get right to our usual Sunday morning tradition of rounding up questions I've gotten on formspring.me. As always, feel free to ask your questions anonymously (or not) there. If they're not super-repetitive or overly-invasive, I'll be glad to address them.
Who are your influences as a writer? And, if you could fuck any character from one of Shakespeare's plays, whom would it be?
When I am writing anything other than my journal, I can point to a number of influences at any given moment. When writing fiction, I can be influenced by classic literary writers, or modern American humorists, or whatever's appropriate for the mood or tone. In academic writing, I tend to emulate my father's methodical and rigorously-documented approach to writing.
In my personal journal, though, I can't say that I really consciously emulate anyone. That's just my own thought processes, trying to sketch broad outlines of what's occurred and to paint in a few details. That seems all me. Or at least, what I've learned about storytelling from everything I've read and incorporated as part of myself.
And I'd fuck Hotspur. You know he had a slammin' ass.
how many guys do you have waiting for you to fuck them? and how many of them are you dying to fuck?
I don't have an enumerated list! I hope there are a few. I have quite a few readers I've talked to that I find very attractive, and would love to get to know. Naked.
Cam4....do you have regular show times, or is it random? If regular, please tell me a time (I'm in Korea), I would love to see every inch of the guy that can write such sordid lines with such eloquence!
My show times tend to be random, but are often in the mornings, eastern time. My cam4 handle is steed48067.
If you do catch me on there, speak up and say something. Tell me you're a blog reader. I've had nice chats with several blog readers that way.
How tense do you get when you take an AIDS test? Panic at all, or are you ready for a poz result if it comes?
The first few times in my youth when I was tested, I had a distinct tendency to panic and obsess between the time the blood was drawn and the point when I'd get my results. With practice and time, I don't really think about it or tense up much.
do you use poppers?
I have never used poppers. I don't mind a bottom who does, though.
I have read about your many escapades with men, do you have any regular excursions with women as well?
I have encounters with women as well. Men are big sluts, though, and generally easier to land in bed.
You characterize men as big sluts who are easier to bed than women. Does that hold true for you? And do you prefer men or women?
It absolutely holds true for me. Some guys seem to assume that there's shame in having a strong libido--there's not. I'm happy to be a slut.
I prefer men. Usually with guys it's easier to get right to the good stuff.
If I had a cock in my bum, 2 in my mouth and one each ear, and you felt an urgent need to fuck me, what would you say or do to the 5 men already inside me?
"Move."
You've probably had this question before, but would you be willing to meet and breed a complete virgin?
Yes, and I've done it, too.
If it's not too personal a question, do you stick with your other half for stability/obligation/conformity, or because that's also a need you have that is fulfilled by that situation
I have never, ever, structured my adult life for the need of conformity. I did not undergo a relationship for the sake of it, not would I continue a relationship merely to blend in. Conformity is the least of my concerns or priorities.
Stability is a seductive influence, however. And once a relationship is undertaken, wouldn't you agree that obligation plays a role? It should.
Which sums up your view on sports: 1) interesting exercise for body (obviously) AND mind (strategies); 2) only as interesting as the bodies on display; 3) ho hum, period; 4) not-so-safe "sex" for hopeless closet cases; 5) other (specify)?
I'm fond of games. Particularly strategy games. So I appreciate some sports for the way they inspire players to think ahead, make decisions on the fly, and play strategically despite the fact that some of the choices they have to make need to occur in the blink of an eyelid. In my youth I was involved in competitive tennis and swimming, and later taught swimming to kids, so I also understand that sports can be a positive influence on some developing young minds and bodies.
That said, I find watching competitive sports a snooze. You couldn't pay me to sit through any kind of game on TV. And the amount of testosterone-filled posturing and jingoistic nonsense that sports events can attract is a menace.
I do like the Homoerotic Wrestling Channel that only seems to play at my neighborhood Mexican restaurant, though. I could watch that for hours.
When are your nipples hard?
When they're cold, or when they're chewed on. One of them I prefer more than the other.
Have you had conversations with your kid(s) about tolerance towards gays, or has the subject never come up? Do you think they could be homophobic?
When you have kids, in my philosophy, Big Topics aren't relegated solely to Big Conversations where you sit down with them and have the One Big Talk They'll Remember For The Rest Of Their Lives. The big stuff, like tolerance, should be addressed every day. Not only with conversation, but with example. Sure, sometimes it might be addressed directly, but my style is not to set aside a chunk of lecture time for the big topic of the day.
Homophobia isn't tolerated in my household. Nor is it a part of anyone's life here.
How old were you when you went to your first gay club/bar?
I never visited a gay establishment until I was in grad school. I would've been around twenty at the time, and a guy took me on a date to a little gay restaurant. I'd never been so uncomfortable in my entire life.
I never walked into my first gay bar until I was twenty-five or thereabouts. There really hadn't been any in the places I lived (of which I knew) until I moved to the midwest.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
The Pile of Last Resort
I noticed today that I have a lot of underwear.
It’s not, I hasten to add, because I’m an underwear fetishist. Far from it. The sight of a man in underwear might make me shift in my seat a little, in order to allow room for my boner to grow, but it’s the man I’ll be looking at. Not his shorts. I don’t collect underwear with funny or cute label names, or quasi-chemical mixtures of letters and numbers printed on their elastic waistbands. I don’t feel particularly more sexy when wearing an expensive pair of shorts over a pair I’ve gotten in a plastic-wrapped three-pack from a discount store.
No, my motivation for having a large drawer stuffed full of over fifty pairs of shorts is that I’m fundamentally lazy. Good as I am at changing out towels and sheets on the household’s beds every week, I really hate to do my own personal wash. I’ll launder every damned towel in the house—and sometimes it seems there’s more of those than of my underwear—and wash and iron every tablecloth and dishrag, too, by gum, before I’ll turn to the pile of cotton underthings moldering in the laundry basket in my closet.
I’m not as bad as my college freshman roommate, who managed to get through an entire semester of not washing his shorts by using an elaborate system of wearing each pair for several days and then turning it inside out and repeating the process, until finally they were all so disgusting that he would judge which was still freshest by going through his laundry bag and giving them the ‘sniff test.’ Those things were practically able to stand up on their own, by the time he took them home for his mom to wash over Christmas break.
But sometimes I feel like I’m on that edge.
I realized something today as I sorted out my fresh, clean shorts. Though I’d never consciously thought about it before, I sort my underwear into three distinct piles that I keep separate in my big bedroom chest.
There’s the Good Stuff pile. This is the largest of the three categories by far—the pile into which I fold my everyday decent foundation garments. None of them are stretched out, none of them are ill-fitting. If I were to be in an automobile accident and rushed the hospital, neither I nor my parents would be embarrassed to be cut out of them in the emergency room. Nor would I be ashamed of them if I walked into a trick’s house and dropped my jeans. I’ve got my Gap and Banana Republic stuff in here, as well as those comfortable little square-cut trunks I get from H&M, and a lot of other pairs I’ve accumulated over the past couple of years.
And then, I made the realization today, I have my Sex Shorts. These are the ones I deliberately set aside to wear on the days I think I’m going to get laid. None of my Sex Shorts are fancy, as my dad my say. But they’re nice. And I know that another man might enjoy removing them for me. Also in this category are the shorts that men have bought for me over the years, either to enjoy on my own, or to wear specifically for them.
And then—oh, I hesitate to mention them—there’s the Pile Of Last Resort. Gentlemen, am I incorrect in assuming we all have one of these? Into it go the underthings that I simply would rather not wear, and yet cannot bear to to throw away. There’s a parsimonious side to my Scottish heritage that won’t let me throw away these pairs of boxer briefs with which there is nothing physically wrong. Sure, some of them are butt-ugly. Yes, there are a couple of pairs of shorts that I might’ve gotten on Father’s day that have absolutely no support whatsoever and have a tendency to let my nuts plummet out, like some kind of free-fall amusement park ride, without the slightest notice. And yes, there are a couple of pairs of white shorts with mysterious black marks on them that never really have washed out. (Not skid marks. You guys are dirty-minded. Black marker marks.)
It’s there that you’ll find the baggy, shapeless pantaloons that the blind and even the fashion-averse would scorn to wear. The grampa panties. The Fruit of the Looms that must’ve been woven from sour grapes. It is the pile to which underwear crawls when it is ready to die.
I know I should toss them all out. I hate looking at them when I open the drawer. But then I think they might come in handy, sometime. Like, when I’m being lazy and not washing, which happens at least once a month.
Oh, Pile Of Last Resort. Your are my secret shame.
It’s not, I hasten to add, because I’m an underwear fetishist. Far from it. The sight of a man in underwear might make me shift in my seat a little, in order to allow room for my boner to grow, but it’s the man I’ll be looking at. Not his shorts. I don’t collect underwear with funny or cute label names, or quasi-chemical mixtures of letters and numbers printed on their elastic waistbands. I don’t feel particularly more sexy when wearing an expensive pair of shorts over a pair I’ve gotten in a plastic-wrapped three-pack from a discount store.
No, my motivation for having a large drawer stuffed full of over fifty pairs of shorts is that I’m fundamentally lazy. Good as I am at changing out towels and sheets on the household’s beds every week, I really hate to do my own personal wash. I’ll launder every damned towel in the house—and sometimes it seems there’s more of those than of my underwear—and wash and iron every tablecloth and dishrag, too, by gum, before I’ll turn to the pile of cotton underthings moldering in the laundry basket in my closet.
I’m not as bad as my college freshman roommate, who managed to get through an entire semester of not washing his shorts by using an elaborate system of wearing each pair for several days and then turning it inside out and repeating the process, until finally they were all so disgusting that he would judge which was still freshest by going through his laundry bag and giving them the ‘sniff test.’ Those things were practically able to stand up on their own, by the time he took them home for his mom to wash over Christmas break.
But sometimes I feel like I’m on that edge.
I realized something today as I sorted out my fresh, clean shorts. Though I’d never consciously thought about it before, I sort my underwear into three distinct piles that I keep separate in my big bedroom chest.
There’s the Good Stuff pile. This is the largest of the three categories by far—the pile into which I fold my everyday decent foundation garments. None of them are stretched out, none of them are ill-fitting. If I were to be in an automobile accident and rushed the hospital, neither I nor my parents would be embarrassed to be cut out of them in the emergency room. Nor would I be ashamed of them if I walked into a trick’s house and dropped my jeans. I’ve got my Gap and Banana Republic stuff in here, as well as those comfortable little square-cut trunks I get from H&M, and a lot of other pairs I’ve accumulated over the past couple of years.
And then, I made the realization today, I have my Sex Shorts. These are the ones I deliberately set aside to wear on the days I think I’m going to get laid. None of my Sex Shorts are fancy, as my dad my say. But they’re nice. And I know that another man might enjoy removing them for me. Also in this category are the shorts that men have bought for me over the years, either to enjoy on my own, or to wear specifically for them.
And then—oh, I hesitate to mention them—there’s the Pile Of Last Resort. Gentlemen, am I incorrect in assuming we all have one of these? Into it go the underthings that I simply would rather not wear, and yet cannot bear to to throw away. There’s a parsimonious side to my Scottish heritage that won’t let me throw away these pairs of boxer briefs with which there is nothing physically wrong. Sure, some of them are butt-ugly. Yes, there are a couple of pairs of shorts that I might’ve gotten on Father’s day that have absolutely no support whatsoever and have a tendency to let my nuts plummet out, like some kind of free-fall amusement park ride, without the slightest notice. And yes, there are a couple of pairs of white shorts with mysterious black marks on them that never really have washed out. (Not skid marks. You guys are dirty-minded. Black marker marks.)
It’s there that you’ll find the baggy, shapeless pantaloons that the blind and even the fashion-averse would scorn to wear. The grampa panties. The Fruit of the Looms that must’ve been woven from sour grapes. It is the pile to which underwear crawls when it is ready to die.
I know I should toss them all out. I hate looking at them when I open the drawer. But then I think they might come in handy, sometime. Like, when I’m being lazy and not washing, which happens at least once a month.
Oh, Pile Of Last Resort. Your are my secret shame.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Thursday Thanks
To the generous person who sent me a Target gift card this week from my Amazon wish list: many thanks. As always, I like to show my appreciation for gifts from my readers in a visual way.
In this case, draping the gift over my semi-erect dick seemed appropriate.
I already know what I'm doing with the gift. Sad to say, it's something entirely geeky.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
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