There are times in our lives in which everything snaps into focus. They're rare moments, precious and few, in which everything aligns; it's the twist of a key as the tumblers into place. It's the satisfying snap of the last piece of the jigsaw puzzle, the last resonant chord that lingers on long after the orchestra players have packed their cases. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, you know. There's no mistaking it for anything else.
For me and my self-image, that moment came several years ago when I grew a beard.
I've written before about how much time I spent—wasted, truth be told—not liking my face. For years and years I honestly never enjoyed looking at myself. I hated taking photographs, and generally would assume a rictus of absolute fear and loathing when someone pointed a camera my way.
My eyes always danced away when I walked by mirrors; if I absolutely had to assess myself in a reflective surface—after a haircut, say, or when combing my hair in the morning or seeing how a new pair of pants might fit—it was with the defeated attitude of, oh well, guess that’s the best it’ll ever get. I pissed away precious years worrying about piddly stuff no one really noticed—thinking my eyes were too small, my nose too big, my forehead too high, my skin too uneven, my lips too thin . . . the list could be endless, in the old days.
And it was a waste, of course, because now, when I look back at old photos of myself (grimacing, looking panic-stricken), all I do is shake my head and think what a babe I was. Attractive enough, sure. The number of guys chasing after me in the old days should have told me that. But a babe in a more literal sense, too. I was smooth-faced and bright-eyed and oh, so young. And stupid. Stupid that I frittered away time and energy hating my looks.
The turning point for me came several years ago when I grew a beard. Oh, I'd sported facial hair before. In college I walked around for a few weeks with an embarrassment of a moustache. It was so white and peach-fuzzy that it looked as if I'd bent over to sniff a dandelion and come away with it all over my upper lip. In the very early nineteen-nineties, long before they became ubiquitous in the midwest, I grew a goatee, kept it for a year, and after being teased relentlessly about it by all the same people who grew the very same configuration of facial hair three years later when it was popular, finally decided it didn't suit me.
When I left my full-time job at the university a half-dozen years ago, though, one of the first things I decided to do was grow a beard. Now, this was in the days (again!) before beards became the ubiquitous hipster recession accessory that they are now. I'd never considered having one before. I only knew about two people who weren't collecting social security checks who had one.
I waited until I'd taken the big step to stop working at an office job because growing facial hair when you're working full time is annoying, for one thing. One has to put up with jibes from co-workers who first want to know if you forgot to wash that first morning, then who have to put in their opinion on how your face is looking every day after. When I was working at home in my office and studio most of the day, no one was going to care if I looked a little scruffy.
So I did what I'd been advised to do, which was simply not to shave for four weeks. At the end of that time I cleaned up my neck, used my clippers to trim my Unabomber face down to a neat, trim, short beard, and looked into the mirror at the blond fur that was left.
And I just knew. Everything clicked; the camera came into sharp focus, the tumblers fell, the jigsaw puzzle fell into place. I stared at myself in the mirror that day, eyes wide, and realized that I should've had that damned beard all along.
The change has really meant a lot to me. I can't say I'm a total Narcissus. But my friends and family might. These days I'm thrusting myself into photographs when I'm not wanted, grinning like a fool. There are Japanese tourists at this moment reviewing their digital photos from Times Square last week and wondering who is that enormously tall white guy stooping down to smile along with them in their family poses. I can't walk around a Restoration Hardware or a Bed, Bath, and Beyond without checking myself out in every mirror in the damned place. Is my hair lookin' fly? Oh, it totally is. Is my face rockin’? Oh yeah, baby! And when I do a self-inspection, I’m practically winking at myself, cocking finger guns, and firing them at my reflection while leering, “Lookin’ good, handsome!”
Apparently having a beard makes me change my -ings to -in's, too.
I’m not one of those guys whose interest in someone is directly proportional to the amount of facial hair the chap is sporting. On other guys, I can take the stuff or leave it. On myself, though, it's simply right. It feels as if I've found a look that on the outside matches the way I feel inside, when I'm at my best.
Although I've had the beard for years now, I spent enough of my life in self loathing that getting a look at a handsome face in the mirror (and I'm talking about mine, of course) is still a nice, novel feeling. I’m happy finally to be living at least a part of my life without fearing the mirror and what I’ll see there.
I'm curious about the experiences of others. I know that a lot of us here have expressed our struggles with how we see ourselves. Was there ever a moment when everything suddenly shifted from wrong to right for you? What was it?
Monday, September 12, 2011
Sunday, September 11, 2011
A Quick Apology
I fear I wasn't able to post as much as usual, or as much as I wanted, this last week. Between a trip to the dermatologist and a continuing misery from my affliction, I didn't have a particularly great start to September. It doesn't help that the cure is about as annoying as the symptoms themselves.
Never in my life did I think the highlight of my day would be the showers I took, morning and night, to scald my skin in submission.
The good news is that I'm on the road to recovery, though, and intend to be posting more regularly this upcoming week.
Which brings me to something. I was lying in bed this week at four in the morning, wishing someone would skin me alive like Willow did to Warren on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, feeling itchy and sorry for myself, when it occurred to me how very kind many of my readers are. I've had readers send me emails wishing me well, and readers who've checked up on me on Twitter and Facebook, and readers who've texted me or helped me get through the long nights by chatting to me online, and readers who merely by speaking up with a cheerful word really managed to lift me out of the doldrums.
You guys are great. Thank you for your many kindnesses, and your patience. I've met some amazing people through this blog, and that makes everything worthwhile.
Never in my life did I think the highlight of my day would be the showers I took, morning and night, to scald my skin in submission.
The good news is that I'm on the road to recovery, though, and intend to be posting more regularly this upcoming week.
Which brings me to something. I was lying in bed this week at four in the morning, wishing someone would skin me alive like Willow did to Warren on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, feeling itchy and sorry for myself, when it occurred to me how very kind many of my readers are. I've had readers send me emails wishing me well, and readers who've checked up on me on Twitter and Facebook, and readers who've texted me or helped me get through the long nights by chatting to me online, and readers who merely by speaking up with a cheerful word really managed to lift me out of the doldrums.
You guys are great. Thank you for your many kindnesses, and your patience. I've met some amazing people through this blog, and that makes everything worthwhile.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Blind Items
During the last couple of weeks, I've had a famous artist in my very own field wooing me. When I say 'famous,' I'm perhaps exaggerating slightly. I could mention his name (and I won't) to five hundred people, and only perhaps one would say, "Oh yeah, isn't that the guy who did . . . ?" before pausing to supply a finish to that sentence.
Let's just say he's famous to me, and that you could find him on Wikipedia, and have done with it.
I'm more amused by the courtship than anything. He'll text me messages out of the blue, hot and heavy for a few hours at a time, like It's a great day to be backing up my ass to a big-dicked buddy, or I keep looking at your pics and I can't get any work done!, or Who's your agent? Then he'll promise he'll be taking me out to dinner when he gets back to the city, and I'll not hear from him again for several days.
My reaction to the sporadic attention is something along the lines of the owner of a precocious puppy who shamelessly does tricks to attract tummy-rubs from random strangers—only I'm the owner and the puppy, both. I'm both shameless, and I roll my eyes with amused tolerance at my own behavior. It's useless to try to claim I'm not a would-be starfucker. Apparently when the chips are down and there's a big name knocking at my door, I'm tossing it wide open, just so I can say I have. I know other friends who've bagged a lot of celebrities. Just discussing them makes me sound like a gossip columnist launching into his juicy bag of blind items. One very old close real-life friend did that double-Academy-Award-winning actor in the back of a limousine, when my friend was a Hollywood hustler. He also was involved for a hot minute with that other actor everyone knows about, who was hot back in the day. (I've seen the signed cards, people!)
Then that action-movie actor who had rumors swirling around him in the late nineteen-eighties that disappeared when he developed a professional career as a family man, both on and off the screen? I had another friend from college for whom the actor was a houseboy for a year and a half. And by 'houseboy' I mean the then-aspiring actor would go to my friends house and give him his dick. (I've seen the photos for that one, too. No, not of the dick.)
Sadly, I can only claim two celebrity fucks in my long sexual career. One of them isn't even a celebrity—he was a contestant on a competitive reality show, and although there might be a certain contingent of people who would recognize his name and exclaim, "Oh, he was so cuuuute!" when they learned I used to fuck him in when he was in high school, most of those people would also feel guilty about admitting they watch the show, afterward.
The other celebrity fuck, though—now his name you'd recognize. (And no. I won't be divulging it.) The only thing is that he only became famous a few years after I did him.
It happened in Toronto in 1998, at the old St. Marc's bathhouse. The St. Marc's was on the second floor of a commercial building on Yonge Street—I think it's changed hands and names since then. It was grungy, and run down, and in some spots had surfaces that seemed to defy antibacterials. But in the days before Toronto had its own Steamworks, the St. Marc was one of the better places to go. The action was good. The men were generally hot. And it had a couple of rooms with built-in gloryholes that opened onto a dark maze that could be rented for a few extra bucks.
I was wearing nothing but a towel and a pair of flip-flops and walking around the dark hallways, being obsessive about not touching anything made out of flesh, when I saw a versatile top guy I knew down the hall. I visited Toronto a lot, back in those days; the top and I had connected at the Bijou a couple of visits before. I'd been back to his place for a three-way at one point, and I was never surprised to see him haunting the same baths and clubs where I'd go to play. I nodded and was preparing to say hello to him when he grabbed my bicep, leaned over, and murmured a room number in my ear. "A-maaaaa-zing ass in there, taking all comers. Just go in and fuck it."
I thanked him for the tip. "Hey," he said, grabbing me again before I could take his advice. "You'll think this is funny: the kid's got a famous boyfriend." Then he named a name that just about everyone would recognize, but that would probably best have been appreciated by my dad.
I went into the room he named and found a guy flat on his back. He wore nothing but a pair of big black chunky leather boots with thick hiking socks poking out of the tops. Standard hardcore fuck gear for the late nineties. He was a bottle blond at the time, and only in his mid-twenties (an age to which he's been attempting to cling ever since). A couple of things about his face gave him the appearance of being handsome: his sweeping, thick eyebrows, and his big, broad smile. I saw a flash of the latter when I stepped into his door and opened my towel. He grinned at me, then turned over and raised his ass into the air.
His eyes were sleepy and slitted, though. When he looked over his shoulder at me and murmured an obscene invitation, I could tell immediately that he was high on something. I didn't care. The guy had a hot body that he obviously spent a lot of time taking care of, and his ass was round and firm. I didn't really give a shit who his boyfriend was. I just wanted that hole. We didn't waste much time in foreplay. This boy just wanted to be fucked. The beds of the St. Marc's were a little higher than average, and I remember I had some difficulty getting onto the narrow mattress with him in order to aim my head at his pucker. Finally, though, I started to work my spit-slick dick inside his hole. Other men's cum leaked out around my shaft when I got it all in. Knowing that this sexy little fuck—and he was little—had been taking anonymous cocks and loads all afternoon made me want to add my own sperm to him, in a big way.
With an open door, I pounded away for a few minutes while he drifted in and out of full awareness, and finally added my own juice to that which was still simmering in his hole. Two other men were lined up and waiting to take my place by the time I was done. I came back again a half-hour later and fucked the pretty boy's face while my top friend took his hole, and then dumped another load in his ass when my friend was done.
To be honest, I would've enjoyed the experience much more if the guy hadn't been so high, and if he'd been more aware of what he was doing and with whom. In those situations, though, you take what you get. Right?
I didn't think anything more about the guy after that day for another year, at least. In 1999, though, I was watching a fairly obscure cable television comedy show when I saw a pair of eyebrows and a big, toothy, gleaming white smile that I recognized. It was that guy from the bathhouse. The bottom whore. And he was substituting for the show's regular host. I was kind of surprised to discover that he had a natural talent for wisecracking affably. After that day, I had a name to associate with the face (and ass). I kept an eye out for him for a while, and wasn't too surprised when he lucked into a high-profile gig only a few years after that.
Would he remember me? Doubtful. I don't think he'd remember anyone from that afternoon. Am I better or better-connected person for having done it? Nah. Though it does make a good story with which to amuse guys in bed.
Am I glad I did it? Oh hell yes. That ass was hot.
(And a special note to any other celebrities who might be considering leaping between my sheets—I promise I'll give a similar thirteen-year moratorium on discussing our tryst in a public forum!)
Let's just say he's famous to me, and that you could find him on Wikipedia, and have done with it.
I'm more amused by the courtship than anything. He'll text me messages out of the blue, hot and heavy for a few hours at a time, like It's a great day to be backing up my ass to a big-dicked buddy, or I keep looking at your pics and I can't get any work done!, or Who's your agent? Then he'll promise he'll be taking me out to dinner when he gets back to the city, and I'll not hear from him again for several days.
My reaction to the sporadic attention is something along the lines of the owner of a precocious puppy who shamelessly does tricks to attract tummy-rubs from random strangers—only I'm the owner and the puppy, both. I'm both shameless, and I roll my eyes with amused tolerance at my own behavior. It's useless to try to claim I'm not a would-be starfucker. Apparently when the chips are down and there's a big name knocking at my door, I'm tossing it wide open, just so I can say I have. I know other friends who've bagged a lot of celebrities. Just discussing them makes me sound like a gossip columnist launching into his juicy bag of blind items. One very old close real-life friend did that double-Academy-Award-winning actor in the back of a limousine, when my friend was a Hollywood hustler. He also was involved for a hot minute with that other actor everyone knows about, who was hot back in the day. (I've seen the signed cards, people!)
Then that action-movie actor who had rumors swirling around him in the late nineteen-eighties that disappeared when he developed a professional career as a family man, both on and off the screen? I had another friend from college for whom the actor was a houseboy for a year and a half. And by 'houseboy' I mean the then-aspiring actor would go to my friends house and give him his dick. (I've seen the photos for that one, too. No, not of the dick.)
Sadly, I can only claim two celebrity fucks in my long sexual career. One of them isn't even a celebrity—he was a contestant on a competitive reality show, and although there might be a certain contingent of people who would recognize his name and exclaim, "Oh, he was so cuuuute!" when they learned I used to fuck him in when he was in high school, most of those people would also feel guilty about admitting they watch the show, afterward.
The other celebrity fuck, though—now his name you'd recognize. (And no. I won't be divulging it.) The only thing is that he only became famous a few years after I did him.
It happened in Toronto in 1998, at the old St. Marc's bathhouse. The St. Marc's was on the second floor of a commercial building on Yonge Street—I think it's changed hands and names since then. It was grungy, and run down, and in some spots had surfaces that seemed to defy antibacterials. But in the days before Toronto had its own Steamworks, the St. Marc was one of the better places to go. The action was good. The men were generally hot. And it had a couple of rooms with built-in gloryholes that opened onto a dark maze that could be rented for a few extra bucks.
I was wearing nothing but a towel and a pair of flip-flops and walking around the dark hallways, being obsessive about not touching anything made out of flesh, when I saw a versatile top guy I knew down the hall. I visited Toronto a lot, back in those days; the top and I had connected at the Bijou a couple of visits before. I'd been back to his place for a three-way at one point, and I was never surprised to see him haunting the same baths and clubs where I'd go to play. I nodded and was preparing to say hello to him when he grabbed my bicep, leaned over, and murmured a room number in my ear. "A-maaaaa-zing ass in there, taking all comers. Just go in and fuck it."
I thanked him for the tip. "Hey," he said, grabbing me again before I could take his advice. "You'll think this is funny: the kid's got a famous boyfriend." Then he named a name that just about everyone would recognize, but that would probably best have been appreciated by my dad.
I went into the room he named and found a guy flat on his back. He wore nothing but a pair of big black chunky leather boots with thick hiking socks poking out of the tops. Standard hardcore fuck gear for the late nineties. He was a bottle blond at the time, and only in his mid-twenties (an age to which he's been attempting to cling ever since). A couple of things about his face gave him the appearance of being handsome: his sweeping, thick eyebrows, and his big, broad smile. I saw a flash of the latter when I stepped into his door and opened my towel. He grinned at me, then turned over and raised his ass into the air.
His eyes were sleepy and slitted, though. When he looked over his shoulder at me and murmured an obscene invitation, I could tell immediately that he was high on something. I didn't care. The guy had a hot body that he obviously spent a lot of time taking care of, and his ass was round and firm. I didn't really give a shit who his boyfriend was. I just wanted that hole. We didn't waste much time in foreplay. This boy just wanted to be fucked. The beds of the St. Marc's were a little higher than average, and I remember I had some difficulty getting onto the narrow mattress with him in order to aim my head at his pucker. Finally, though, I started to work my spit-slick dick inside his hole. Other men's cum leaked out around my shaft when I got it all in. Knowing that this sexy little fuck—and he was little—had been taking anonymous cocks and loads all afternoon made me want to add my own sperm to him, in a big way.
With an open door, I pounded away for a few minutes while he drifted in and out of full awareness, and finally added my own juice to that which was still simmering in his hole. Two other men were lined up and waiting to take my place by the time I was done. I came back again a half-hour later and fucked the pretty boy's face while my top friend took his hole, and then dumped another load in his ass when my friend was done.
To be honest, I would've enjoyed the experience much more if the guy hadn't been so high, and if he'd been more aware of what he was doing and with whom. In those situations, though, you take what you get. Right?
I didn't think anything more about the guy after that day for another year, at least. In 1999, though, I was watching a fairly obscure cable television comedy show when I saw a pair of eyebrows and a big, toothy, gleaming white smile that I recognized. It was that guy from the bathhouse. The bottom whore. And he was substituting for the show's regular host. I was kind of surprised to discover that he had a natural talent for wisecracking affably. After that day, I had a name to associate with the face (and ass). I kept an eye out for him for a while, and wasn't too surprised when he lucked into a high-profile gig only a few years after that.
Would he remember me? Doubtful. I don't think he'd remember anyone from that afternoon. Am I better or better-connected person for having done it? Nah. Though it does make a good story with which to amuse guys in bed.
Am I glad I did it? Oh hell yes. That ass was hot.
(And a special note to any other celebrities who might be considering leaping between my sheets—I promise I'll give a similar thirteen-year moratorium on discussing our tryst in a public forum!)
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Sunday Morning Questions: The Itch Edition
Many of you guys have been concerned about my health, since I had to take off a few days, week before last. Thank you for your kind emails. Those of you who've written have been so solicitous and so discreet, in fact, that I gather from the way you handle me with kid gloves that you're all worried I have something fatal, and that I am slowly expiring by degrees on a fainting couch.
No, I don't have anything wasting. Nor do I have anything sexually transmitted, thank you. The truth is much more mundane. Ever since I moved to my new home, I've been breaking out in an itchy, blotchy rash that is intolerable enough during the daytime, but has been absolute torture by dark. Until I visited my doctor, I was averaging about three and a half hours of sleep a night. I visited the doctor after a particularly bad weekend in which I didn't sleep at all. He helpfully determined, as I've said, that I didn't have leprosy or scabies, and that I probably was having an allergy or a sensitivity to something in the environment—though he couldn't determine what.
So there you have it. No fainting couch. Just me and my new ultimate sexual fantasy of meeting a man with nicely-manicured fingernails who has a desire to do no more than crook his digits and just rrrrrrake them over my skin, starting with my feet and scrrrrrraaaaaatching his way up me, inch by vigorous inch. Oh yeah. The idea is giving me a hard-on, right now.
Let's get to some questions from formspring.me. (And if you have any, please visit the site and submit yours. You can do it anonymously!)
So, how are you adjusting to your new surroundings?
Slowly, but surely. I don't feel quite as homesick as I did last week, or the week before. I've managed to drive places without feeling totally lost. And I can navigate my way into the city on my own. Baby steps, right?
have u ever opened the bathroom door accidentally, while someone being naked inside or peeing?
No. Mostly because both in my current household, and in the household in which I grew up, no one ever shut the bathroom door unless we had company.
How do/would you handle being in social situations with an ex trick or fuck buddy that you're on good terms with but you have a new boyfriend who's not comfortable with your friendship?
In a situation like this, it's the new boyfriend who has the issue—not you or your former lover. Be cordial and let him work out his own issues.
Any chance of seeing more videos of your sexcapades sometime?
Very likely. When I find some willing partners to make them with me. And a camera person.
Are you still doing cam shows on cam4?
I do, but not with any particularly predictable schedule.
Thoughts on Edmund White and his work?
White is a highly influential artist and rightly one of the most venerated gay writers out there. His prose is often beautiful stuff.
Gay life has changed so much in the last thirty-five years, though, that a lot of his works seems awfully dated today. It's not just him—most gay writers of the era look antiquated, with the accelerated rate of change over our landscape in that time period. That doesn't make his books any the less interesting or beautiful, but their relevance to the modern reader is going to vary.
If the men's room isn't available (and it's a 1-seater), do you use the women's?
No, because the women get mightily upset at the notion a penis has invaded their territory. The only situation in which I'd even consider such a thing would be at a gay bar frequented primarily by men, in which the women's room was a mere formality.
Not to be rude, honestly: What's the most offensive question you've ever received?
The questions that I've received that have barely been able to veil their hostility have all been uniformly offensive to me. Usually they come in two forms: either they accuse me or heavily imply that I lie about my health and serostatus, or else they come laden with judgmental words like 'adulterer.'
It's a shame that people have to use anonymity in order to take jabs at people whom they've never met and who have no direct relation to their life. Sad, really.
No, I don't have anything wasting. Nor do I have anything sexually transmitted, thank you. The truth is much more mundane. Ever since I moved to my new home, I've been breaking out in an itchy, blotchy rash that is intolerable enough during the daytime, but has been absolute torture by dark. Until I visited my doctor, I was averaging about three and a half hours of sleep a night. I visited the doctor after a particularly bad weekend in which I didn't sleep at all. He helpfully determined, as I've said, that I didn't have leprosy or scabies, and that I probably was having an allergy or a sensitivity to something in the environment—though he couldn't determine what.
So there you have it. No fainting couch. Just me and my new ultimate sexual fantasy of meeting a man with nicely-manicured fingernails who has a desire to do no more than crook his digits and just rrrrrrake them over my skin, starting with my feet and scrrrrrraaaaaatching his way up me, inch by vigorous inch. Oh yeah. The idea is giving me a hard-on, right now.
Let's get to some questions from formspring.me. (And if you have any, please visit the site and submit yours. You can do it anonymously!)
So, how are you adjusting to your new surroundings?
Slowly, but surely. I don't feel quite as homesick as I did last week, or the week before. I've managed to drive places without feeling totally lost. And I can navigate my way into the city on my own. Baby steps, right?
have u ever opened the bathroom door accidentally, while someone being naked inside or peeing?
No. Mostly because both in my current household, and in the household in which I grew up, no one ever shut the bathroom door unless we had company.
How do/would you handle being in social situations with an ex trick or fuck buddy that you're on good terms with but you have a new boyfriend who's not comfortable with your friendship?
In a situation like this, it's the new boyfriend who has the issue—not you or your former lover. Be cordial and let him work out his own issues.
Any chance of seeing more videos of your sexcapades sometime?
Very likely. When I find some willing partners to make them with me. And a camera person.
Are you still doing cam shows on cam4?
I do, but not with any particularly predictable schedule.
Thoughts on Edmund White and his work?
White is a highly influential artist and rightly one of the most venerated gay writers out there. His prose is often beautiful stuff.
Gay life has changed so much in the last thirty-five years, though, that a lot of his works seems awfully dated today. It's not just him—most gay writers of the era look antiquated, with the accelerated rate of change over our landscape in that time period. That doesn't make his books any the less interesting or beautiful, but their relevance to the modern reader is going to vary.
If the men's room isn't available (and it's a 1-seater), do you use the women's?
No, because the women get mightily upset at the notion a penis has invaded their territory. The only situation in which I'd even consider such a thing would be at a gay bar frequented primarily by men, in which the women's room was a mere formality.
Not to be rude, honestly: What's the most offensive question you've ever received?
The questions that I've received that have barely been able to veil their hostility have all been uniformly offensive to me. Usually they come in two forms: either they accuse me or heavily imply that I lie about my health and serostatus, or else they come laden with judgmental words like 'adulterer.'
It's a shame that people have to use anonymity in order to take jabs at people whom they've never met and who have no direct relation to their life. Sad, really.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Reader Assets: #18
After my last couple of calls for readers to send in both front and back views of themselves for our regular exhibitionistic feature here, I received some really good email. The kind of email every guy likes to wake up to in his inbox. All I can say is that I have some super-hot readers.
If you'd like to join their ranks—or if you have sent in photos before and have some new ones you'd like to share—drop me a line. I post all body types here, all ages, and all shades of skin. The only thing I ask is that the photographs you contribute are of yourself, and aren't of some random hot guy you've lusted after on the internet. So fire up your mail client already and send an email to the address in the sidebar. Put the words 'MY ASSETS' or 'MY ASS' or 'MY COCK' somewhere in the subject line. And then give me the name you'd like me to use when I post them in my blog—or if you'd like to remain anonymous, tell me that, too.
Jelle
Our friend Jelle is from the Netherlands. Never have nether lands looked so good, right? (You'll have to excuse me. I home in on the bad pun, every damn time.)
But seriously—that's a juicy Whitman's sampler of images he's chosen to share with us. A beautiful deep hole, a hot stiff uncut dick, a pair of bulging balls, a long rope of sperm—it's like a five-course meal.
I love the photos, Jelle. I know my readers will, too—you've made a lot of fans today.
Filip
Continuing in our international journey today, we have Filip from France, showing off his best assets. Filip has not only included a video for my readers' pleasure, but has thoughtfully provided his email address so that you guys can contact him directly.
I'm a fan of the whole hooded-and-kidnapped theme, of course—but Filip has the beautiful, lean body to thoroughly pull off the cock-hungry and willing-to-do-anything look. Fucking beautiful, mon frere.
Let's hear it for him in the comments!
John
I like a guy who improvises. And John here is the MacGyver of sex toys. When his puppy outgrew his chain, what'd he do? Turned it into a nut harness. It says something about me that I totally see the logic of that one.
John's got a great tool there—but the balls are what I keep focusing on. They look full and heavy. A lot of my readers are totally going to want them in their mouths, or emptying in their holes. And I don't blame them!
Our friend Ethan appeared in our last installment of Reader Assets, but he's back with an entirely new set that will set your salivary glands on overdrive.
The last time, Ethan showed off a spectacular hole. In this batch, he's appearing with his boyfriend. Ethan showed off his ass the last time, but this week he's displaying his top skills as he plows his lucky boyfriend's hole. Both of these young men are 100% versatile. And 100% yummy, too.
What's nicer is that Ethan sent in these photos to cheer me up when I was feeling poorly last week. And you know what? That kind of thoughtfulness is the best possible palliative ever.
Send me more photos! And let our brave contributors know how much you appreciate them!
If you'd like to join their ranks—or if you have sent in photos before and have some new ones you'd like to share—drop me a line. I post all body types here, all ages, and all shades of skin. The only thing I ask is that the photographs you contribute are of yourself, and aren't of some random hot guy you've lusted after on the internet. So fire up your mail client already and send an email to the address in the sidebar. Put the words 'MY ASSETS' or 'MY ASS' or 'MY COCK' somewhere in the subject line. And then give me the name you'd like me to use when I post them in my blog—or if you'd like to remain anonymous, tell me that, too.
Jelle
Our friend Jelle is from the Netherlands. Never have nether lands looked so good, right? (You'll have to excuse me. I home in on the bad pun, every damn time.)
But seriously—that's a juicy Whitman's sampler of images he's chosen to share with us. A beautiful deep hole, a hot stiff uncut dick, a pair of bulging balls, a long rope of sperm—it's like a five-course meal.
I love the photos, Jelle. I know my readers will, too—you've made a lot of fans today.
Filip
Continuing in our international journey today, we have Filip from France, showing off his best assets. Filip has not only included a video for my readers' pleasure, but has thoughtfully provided his email address so that you guys can contact him directly.
I'm a fan of the whole hooded-and-kidnapped theme, of course—but Filip has the beautiful, lean body to thoroughly pull off the cock-hungry and willing-to-do-anything look. Fucking beautiful, mon frere.
Let's hear it for him in the comments!
John
I like a guy who improvises. And John here is the MacGyver of sex toys. When his puppy outgrew his chain, what'd he do? Turned it into a nut harness. It says something about me that I totally see the logic of that one.
John's got a great tool there—but the balls are what I keep focusing on. They look full and heavy. A lot of my readers are totally going to want them in their mouths, or emptying in their holes. And I don't blame them!
Our friend Ethan appeared in our last installment of Reader Assets, but he's back with an entirely new set that will set your salivary glands on overdrive.
The last time, Ethan showed off a spectacular hole. In this batch, he's appearing with his boyfriend. Ethan showed off his ass the last time, but this week he's displaying his top skills as he plows his lucky boyfriend's hole. Both of these young men are 100% versatile. And 100% yummy, too.
What's nicer is that Ethan sent in these photos to cheer me up when I was feeling poorly last week. And you know what? That kind of thoughtfulness is the best possible palliative ever.
Send me more photos! And let our brave contributors know how much you appreciate them!
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Planet of the Joannes
There were a couple of years in the late nineteen-eighties, as my desire to finish a doctorate in grad school fizzled, in which I took a clerical job to pay the bills. It wasn't a spectacularly high-paying position, nor was it all that dignified—it primarily involved sitting in a dank windowless room off a lost corridor, and transcribing dictaphone tapes made by various faculty at the university.
The cramped office stunk of tobacco, thanks to my alcoholic, bat-shit-crazy boss, a man of little education and even less couth. When he wasn't sitting in his desk chair blatantly reading Playboy and Hustler, he was making passes at secretaries in the building and then, when they'd scatter in fear at his approach, would proclaim them "goddamn lesbians." It was a tedious existence. I needed the money, though. And in the weeks after my sexual assault, my instinct was to shut out the world as much as possible, to wall myself away. That dark, smelly room was my cloister, and the mind-numbing droning of the faculty whenever I clamped on those headphones felt like sanctuary.
For a couple of months I worked alone, but then my tiny office was rearranged one day to accommodate another desk. Soon another transcriber invaded my monastic solitude. His name was Geoffrey. He was a narrow-shouldered guy who came up to my sternum, with a head full of strawberry-blond hair. On a big, bulbous nose rested a pair of very geeky horn-rimmed glasses. Elvis Costello glasses, they were. He was skittish of me at first and I of him. I had a paranoid few days in which I imagined our boss had planted him in there in order to keep an eye on me. I began to relax, though, when I realized that Geoffrey was gay; I heard him talk to what I had to assume was a significant other on the phone, a few times a day. I understood from his guarded, non-gendered references and carefully-neutral words that he was trying not to give away that he was seeing another man.
After that realization, I opened up and Geoffrey and I rapidly became friends. We were both the same age, and both had a particular disdain for our boss. "Fucking asshole," Geoffrey would mutter under his breath, whenever that Marlboro-scented storm cloud would loom on the horizon. We bonded over the strange bureaucracy of our division, too. The vice-president of our school was guarded by two administrative assistants and an academic services officer, all three of whom were named Joanne, and all three of whom were joined at the hip. They lunched together. They gossiped together during work hours. They all chattered in high-pitched, rapid voices. "Planet of the Joannes," I nicknamed the fourth floor one day, and Geoffrey started to laugh so hard that he had to slump against the wall with tears in his eyes.
After that we were constant work friends. We lunched outdoors, munching on sandwiches even in the coldest weather, to rid ourselves of the tobacco stink. "I have something to tell you," he said one day over our meal, perhaps a month into our acquaintance. "I'm into guys."
"I am too," I replied.
He seemed relieved, and commented that he'd thought so, but that he'd really had no way of telling. "And another thing," he said. And I remember the very formal way in which he said these following words, because the defensiveness and awkwardness of them struck me in a way that made me wonder how many times he'd said them before, and how badly they'd been received. "I have unfortunately been infected with the Human Immunodeficiency Virus."
“That’s okay,” I told him. “Thanks for telling me.”
Hearing him say the words was something of a shock. Yet I wasn’t surprised. Geoffrey and I sat close enough that even over the stink of cigarettes in that office I knew his smell. I’d grown up with a mother whose odor changed with every new pharmaceutical regimen. I knew how medicines change a person’s scent. Geoffrey’s pores exuded a sharp tang that I can only describe as being like the metallic overtones of a diarrhea smell, but without its organic nastiness. It wasn’t vile; it was merely sharp, and distinguishable. I knew he was taking pills for something. It didn’t surprise me that it was for HIV.
These were still the sad and early days of the AIDS crisis. Geoffrey was a novelty. Not for having HIV, but for admitting it. I’d known a couple of people by that point who’d died, but they’d gone off to New York or San Francisco and met their demises offstage, so to speak. I’d never known anyone living with it, day to day, before him.
I got to know Geoffrey’s daily routine with his pills. It seemed as if there were dozens of them that he’d take throughout the day when the timer on his watch would beep. By that point in our friendship he’d tell me what each of them was and what it was for, as he’d down them without water in our little back room. “Down you go,” he’d say, over and over again. “Do your dirty work!”
By that point we were seeing less and less of our boss. The university had instituted a no-smoking rule in its buildings, and he was spending a lot of time ‘working from home,’ which meant that Geoffrey and I were largely unsupervised. We’d do our tasks in the mornings, then sit in the back room and listen to alternative radio while we talked in the afternoons, or visit the Planet of the Joannes so that we could laugh at them later. Sometimes we’d just head out into the sunshine and wile away the hours. Our super-sneaky boss liked to throw in a phone call to the office at five minutes to five, on the days he worked at home, just to make sure we were still there; we’d creep back in the office just under the wire and pretend to have been good boys all the day long.
It was on one of our afternoon trips that Geoffrey gravely informed me that some singer we both liked—I think it might have been Annie Lennox, but I’m shaky on that point—had HIV. She’d announced it to the press and everything he told me. “Oh no,” I said. “Not her. She’s too good for that!”
He turned beet red. “So do you think that only bad people get the disease?” he snapped.
I never made that mental mistake again, ever.
Because Geoffrey was a sweet and good soul. He dearly loved his boyfriend, a man in Chicago who lacked the means to help him move there, and longed for the days they could finally be together. He had a gentle good humor and a prankster’s sense of fun that made our ventures to the Planet of the Joannes infinitely less painful than they could have been.
At the same time, he had a deep, voracious sexuality. At some point we began to compare sexual experiences and it came out that we both were fans of one of the restrooms on campus—a men’s room so notorious that researchers had installed one-way mirrors in it during the nineteen-fifties so they could study cruising behaviors (it was assumed by then that no one was watching through them, but who knew?). And gradually, on occasion, on our unsupervised afternoon tours around campus, we’d walk to the other end of the university and down into the basement together, and I’d watch him go hog wild.
The restroom was one of those places in the remote bowels of the building where very few people ventured. Anyone down there was looking for sex, plain and simple. I’d act as lookout so that Geoffrey could suck dick until he’d had his fill. Often he’d undo his shirt and kneel there on the floor with a cock in his mouth and another waiting nearby, its owner stroking and watching, while Geoffrey played with his own meat, stiffened by a cock ring. He had skin as pale as mine and the very lightest covering of blond hair on his body. When he sucked, it was with total abandon. His glasses would end up askew on his face. He’d have cum and sweat and saliva dripping down his neck and chest, and spattering his work shirt. He’d particularly go wild over black men, gargling and strangling over their tools with a gusto I haven’t seen outside of porn.
Then, when he was done, or there were no more cocks to service, he’d straighten his spectacles, wipe off his face with a damp paper towel, grin and thank me, and then catch up on whatever pills he’d missed during the session.
We never had sex. Geoffrey was more of a brother to me than anything, and though I didn’t mind being his lookout or even his pimp in the restroom, I never wanted anything more of him. I’m not sure I could have, even. I wasn’t so ignorant that I considered him off-limits or untouchable because of his medical condition, but I hadn’t yet made my peace with those risks. It was probably fortunate for us both that the attraction simply wasn’t there.
I didn’t know at the time how very badly off Geoffrey really was. Daytimes he was lucid and intelligent, creative and chatty. Nighttimes, when I didn’t see him, were apparently when things went south for him. I visited his house once and discovered that it was a maze of Post-It notes and scrawled reminders; apparently he had an advanced-enough case of dementia, combined with the effects of the drugs he was taking, that he would lose track of time, or which of his regimented tasks he was supposed to be doing. If he didn’t stick to a very strict schedule on his own, he could get stuck in a loop for hours.
“I think I’ve made dinner four times,” he would say over the phone to me, some evenings. “But I don’t remember eating at all.” Or, “I had a note to call my mother tonight, but she told me I’d already called her twice before.”
“Do you need me to come over?” I’d ask.
“No,” he’d say in a tiny voice, sometimes. Or sometimes he’d say nothing, and I’d drive up Woodward to his small home, and sit with him on the sofa watching television, until it was time for him to go to bed.
During the daytime he was funny and sweet and lucid. At night, though, with his hairy ankles sticking out of the feet of his pajamas, he looked like a little, lost boy.
We worked together for less than a year. Geoffrey’s symptoms were far enough along that they’d begun shaving away at his life. He had to give him up a beloved cat because of a toxoplasmosis scare. His good hours during the day became fewer, and out of fear of blackouts he had to leave earlier in the afternoons to drive home safely. Soon he stopped working altogether; his boyfriend in Chicago finally found the means to help him move. I got a letter from him the month after he left—a silly, bitchy breath of fresh air in which he asked me about the Planet of the Joannes and wished me sincere luck in coping with the alcoholic boss.
Then a few weeks after that, I heard he was gone. A twinkling little light in my life, extinguished, off stage.
I’m writing this memory of Geoffrey in the very small hours of the morning. I’ve been unable to sleep; the medicine the doctor prescribed for me last week doesn’t seem to be working.
All this restless night I’ve been thinking about Geoffrey, and his sweet and gentle presence, and how much I liked him as a friend. Both of us were wandering and a little alone, back there in that dim office in the building’s lost corridor. How could we have ended up there, else? And yet, for a time, I like to hope our companionship elevated us both—helping me step back into the sunshine again with tentative steps, and keeping him a few steps ahead of a darkness that at every turn threatened to swallow him whole.
I remember you, Geoffrey. It pains me to the core to think about your loss. But I remember.
The cramped office stunk of tobacco, thanks to my alcoholic, bat-shit-crazy boss, a man of little education and even less couth. When he wasn't sitting in his desk chair blatantly reading Playboy and Hustler, he was making passes at secretaries in the building and then, when they'd scatter in fear at his approach, would proclaim them "goddamn lesbians." It was a tedious existence. I needed the money, though. And in the weeks after my sexual assault, my instinct was to shut out the world as much as possible, to wall myself away. That dark, smelly room was my cloister, and the mind-numbing droning of the faculty whenever I clamped on those headphones felt like sanctuary.
For a couple of months I worked alone, but then my tiny office was rearranged one day to accommodate another desk. Soon another transcriber invaded my monastic solitude. His name was Geoffrey. He was a narrow-shouldered guy who came up to my sternum, with a head full of strawberry-blond hair. On a big, bulbous nose rested a pair of very geeky horn-rimmed glasses. Elvis Costello glasses, they were. He was skittish of me at first and I of him. I had a paranoid few days in which I imagined our boss had planted him in there in order to keep an eye on me. I began to relax, though, when I realized that Geoffrey was gay; I heard him talk to what I had to assume was a significant other on the phone, a few times a day. I understood from his guarded, non-gendered references and carefully-neutral words that he was trying not to give away that he was seeing another man.
After that realization, I opened up and Geoffrey and I rapidly became friends. We were both the same age, and both had a particular disdain for our boss. "Fucking asshole," Geoffrey would mutter under his breath, whenever that Marlboro-scented storm cloud would loom on the horizon. We bonded over the strange bureaucracy of our division, too. The vice-president of our school was guarded by two administrative assistants and an academic services officer, all three of whom were named Joanne, and all three of whom were joined at the hip. They lunched together. They gossiped together during work hours. They all chattered in high-pitched, rapid voices. "Planet of the Joannes," I nicknamed the fourth floor one day, and Geoffrey started to laugh so hard that he had to slump against the wall with tears in his eyes.
After that we were constant work friends. We lunched outdoors, munching on sandwiches even in the coldest weather, to rid ourselves of the tobacco stink. "I have something to tell you," he said one day over our meal, perhaps a month into our acquaintance. "I'm into guys."
"I am too," I replied.
He seemed relieved, and commented that he'd thought so, but that he'd really had no way of telling. "And another thing," he said. And I remember the very formal way in which he said these following words, because the defensiveness and awkwardness of them struck me in a way that made me wonder how many times he'd said them before, and how badly they'd been received. "I have unfortunately been infected with the Human Immunodeficiency Virus."
“That’s okay,” I told him. “Thanks for telling me.”
Hearing him say the words was something of a shock. Yet I wasn’t surprised. Geoffrey and I sat close enough that even over the stink of cigarettes in that office I knew his smell. I’d grown up with a mother whose odor changed with every new pharmaceutical regimen. I knew how medicines change a person’s scent. Geoffrey’s pores exuded a sharp tang that I can only describe as being like the metallic overtones of a diarrhea smell, but without its organic nastiness. It wasn’t vile; it was merely sharp, and distinguishable. I knew he was taking pills for something. It didn’t surprise me that it was for HIV.
These were still the sad and early days of the AIDS crisis. Geoffrey was a novelty. Not for having HIV, but for admitting it. I’d known a couple of people by that point who’d died, but they’d gone off to New York or San Francisco and met their demises offstage, so to speak. I’d never known anyone living with it, day to day, before him.
I got to know Geoffrey’s daily routine with his pills. It seemed as if there were dozens of them that he’d take throughout the day when the timer on his watch would beep. By that point in our friendship he’d tell me what each of them was and what it was for, as he’d down them without water in our little back room. “Down you go,” he’d say, over and over again. “Do your dirty work!”
By that point we were seeing less and less of our boss. The university had instituted a no-smoking rule in its buildings, and he was spending a lot of time ‘working from home,’ which meant that Geoffrey and I were largely unsupervised. We’d do our tasks in the mornings, then sit in the back room and listen to alternative radio while we talked in the afternoons, or visit the Planet of the Joannes so that we could laugh at them later. Sometimes we’d just head out into the sunshine and wile away the hours. Our super-sneaky boss liked to throw in a phone call to the office at five minutes to five, on the days he worked at home, just to make sure we were still there; we’d creep back in the office just under the wire and pretend to have been good boys all the day long.
It was on one of our afternoon trips that Geoffrey gravely informed me that some singer we both liked—I think it might have been Annie Lennox, but I’m shaky on that point—had HIV. She’d announced it to the press and everything he told me. “Oh no,” I said. “Not her. She’s too good for that!”
He turned beet red. “So do you think that only bad people get the disease?” he snapped.
I never made that mental mistake again, ever.
Because Geoffrey was a sweet and good soul. He dearly loved his boyfriend, a man in Chicago who lacked the means to help him move there, and longed for the days they could finally be together. He had a gentle good humor and a prankster’s sense of fun that made our ventures to the Planet of the Joannes infinitely less painful than they could have been.
At the same time, he had a deep, voracious sexuality. At some point we began to compare sexual experiences and it came out that we both were fans of one of the restrooms on campus—a men’s room so notorious that researchers had installed one-way mirrors in it during the nineteen-fifties so they could study cruising behaviors (it was assumed by then that no one was watching through them, but who knew?). And gradually, on occasion, on our unsupervised afternoon tours around campus, we’d walk to the other end of the university and down into the basement together, and I’d watch him go hog wild.
The restroom was one of those places in the remote bowels of the building where very few people ventured. Anyone down there was looking for sex, plain and simple. I’d act as lookout so that Geoffrey could suck dick until he’d had his fill. Often he’d undo his shirt and kneel there on the floor with a cock in his mouth and another waiting nearby, its owner stroking and watching, while Geoffrey played with his own meat, stiffened by a cock ring. He had skin as pale as mine and the very lightest covering of blond hair on his body. When he sucked, it was with total abandon. His glasses would end up askew on his face. He’d have cum and sweat and saliva dripping down his neck and chest, and spattering his work shirt. He’d particularly go wild over black men, gargling and strangling over their tools with a gusto I haven’t seen outside of porn.
Then, when he was done, or there were no more cocks to service, he’d straighten his spectacles, wipe off his face with a damp paper towel, grin and thank me, and then catch up on whatever pills he’d missed during the session.
We never had sex. Geoffrey was more of a brother to me than anything, and though I didn’t mind being his lookout or even his pimp in the restroom, I never wanted anything more of him. I’m not sure I could have, even. I wasn’t so ignorant that I considered him off-limits or untouchable because of his medical condition, but I hadn’t yet made my peace with those risks. It was probably fortunate for us both that the attraction simply wasn’t there.
I didn’t know at the time how very badly off Geoffrey really was. Daytimes he was lucid and intelligent, creative and chatty. Nighttimes, when I didn’t see him, were apparently when things went south for him. I visited his house once and discovered that it was a maze of Post-It notes and scrawled reminders; apparently he had an advanced-enough case of dementia, combined with the effects of the drugs he was taking, that he would lose track of time, or which of his regimented tasks he was supposed to be doing. If he didn’t stick to a very strict schedule on his own, he could get stuck in a loop for hours.
“I think I’ve made dinner four times,” he would say over the phone to me, some evenings. “But I don’t remember eating at all.” Or, “I had a note to call my mother tonight, but she told me I’d already called her twice before.”
“Do you need me to come over?” I’d ask.
“No,” he’d say in a tiny voice, sometimes. Or sometimes he’d say nothing, and I’d drive up Woodward to his small home, and sit with him on the sofa watching television, until it was time for him to go to bed.
During the daytime he was funny and sweet and lucid. At night, though, with his hairy ankles sticking out of the feet of his pajamas, he looked like a little, lost boy.
We worked together for less than a year. Geoffrey’s symptoms were far enough along that they’d begun shaving away at his life. He had to give him up a beloved cat because of a toxoplasmosis scare. His good hours during the day became fewer, and out of fear of blackouts he had to leave earlier in the afternoons to drive home safely. Soon he stopped working altogether; his boyfriend in Chicago finally found the means to help him move. I got a letter from him the month after he left—a silly, bitchy breath of fresh air in which he asked me about the Planet of the Joannes and wished me sincere luck in coping with the alcoholic boss.
Then a few weeks after that, I heard he was gone. A twinkling little light in my life, extinguished, off stage.
I’m writing this memory of Geoffrey in the very small hours of the morning. I’ve been unable to sleep; the medicine the doctor prescribed for me last week doesn’t seem to be working.
All this restless night I’ve been thinking about Geoffrey, and his sweet and gentle presence, and how much I liked him as a friend. Both of us were wandering and a little alone, back there in that dim office in the building’s lost corridor. How could we have ended up there, else? And yet, for a time, I like to hope our companionship elevated us both—helping me step back into the sunshine again with tentative steps, and keeping him a few steps ahead of a darkness that at every turn threatened to swallow him whole.
I remember you, Geoffrey. It pains me to the core to think about your loss. But I remember.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Faculty Party
When I was a kid during the nineteen-seventies, would occasionally throw end-of-semester Christmas parties in our home right before the holidays started.
Days before the party they'd start making a go of cleaning the living room, though tidiness was never either of their strong points. They weren't drinkers themselves, but the colleagues and students they'd invite to these yearly shindigs would show up laden with spirits. Our basement bathroom—a mildewy, forbidding place that seemed so much like the movie set of a serial killing that I'm still reluctant to enter it when I visit my dad's home—was filled with liquor bottles that we'd begin hauling up the night before, until the dining room table was crowded with liquids of different colors (and of dubious age). My mother's ash trays got a thorough cleaning and the good ones were strewn around strategic places; my dad would pull out a bunch of LPs and eight-track tapes and have them stacked by the stereo.
My mom would spend an afternoon in the kitchen with cans and an opener and a jar of mayonnaise and emerge with space-aged canapés. The cats were banished outdoors. After a cold dinner, and before the doorbell would ring, I'd be sent to my room for the evening. Faculty parties were not for the young.
They were exotic, especially when I was fairly young. From my room, with a book in my lap, I'd listen to the swinging strains of psychedelia on the stereo, often improbably mixed with Nat King Cole singing Christmas carols, or Peter, Paul, and Mary. I'd listen to the laughter and smell the cigarette smoke and the clink of the liquor bottles and the increasingly loud and inebriated conversation and think to myself, This is what being grown up is all about.
My parents' guests were usually two-thirds other faculty from the university, and the rest were upper-level undergrads or graduate students. One of the things I used to do as a ritual, after the party had started, would be to go through their coats. They all lay there on my parents' beds, taken upstairs and tossed on the mattresses upon entering. When it was quiet upstairs, I'd tiptoe out and into my parents' room and just examine what their colleagues and students were carrying in their pockets. Mostly it was boring stuff like keys, or small change, or cellophane-wrapped Kraft caramels. Once in a while I'd stumble upon cigarettes, or more frequently, tiny little unsmoked joints tucked away in breast pockets, acrid-smelling and spilling weed from their twisted ends.
I had to time my stealthy investigations right. More often than not I'd be interrupted, either by hapless students looking for the bathroom, or couples (not always married, not always of the same generation) looking for a private tryst among the coats. I wouldn't say that my parents' parties were orgies, exactly, but they had their share of fucking. In the bedroom, among the wraps. In the spare bedroom, on the rusty twin bed that had been my father's as a boy. Outside in the back yard, behind the massive brick nineteen-fifties barbecue. In the basement, or down the outside cellar steps.
And once, in my room.
I was pretty young the night that Dr. Jones came into my bedroom. It was late—late enough that I'd given up watching the little portable TV from the kitchen that my parents had lugged up to my room for me to watch that evening, and had gotten into bed, but not so late that I was asleep. I had a book in my lap, and my knees propped up, and had stripped down to a T-shirt and briefs. Then my door opened. "Anyone home?" asked a tall black man. He slipped in quietly, raised a finger to his mouth to indicate I not say anything, and then made a pantomime of tiptoeing to my bed.
I knew Dr. Jones from my dad's office. They were in the same department; I'd seen him a couple of times a year since I'd been five or six—enough to recognize the face and associate a name, but not enough that we'd ever actually spoken. I raised my eyebrows. I think I told him that the bathroom was on the other side of the upstairs hall.
"Oh, I'm not here for the bathroom," he said. The man sat down on the edge of my bed. He was in his forties or fifties, and had a grizzled beard limned with white; it looked like his halo had slipped over his head and around his neck. An oversized mole decorated his dark, dark skin on his forehead; he had a large, nineteen-seventies Afro shot with gray perched like a helmet on his head. "Just needed to get away from the party."
He reeked of alcohol. His eyes, though unwavering as he stared at me, had that liquid sheen of the thoroughly inebriated. I nodded, and waited for him to say something.
"So," he started, putting his hand on my knee. Then, finding that awkward, he removed it. "You're just . . . sitting up here, real quiet?" I told him I was. "Must be real nice to be up here, where it's . . . quiet."
Again, his hand landed on my leg. This time, it made its way up to my thigh. Dr. Jones might have been an expert in African history, but subtle he was not. "What you doing?" he asked, when he reached my hip.
"Nothing," I told him. Despite myself, my boner was raging beneath the covers.
"You must be doing something, if you're making me do this." He pulled down the sheets. "I didn't come up here thinking I was going to do this. Must be you making me do it."
Maybe that kind of talk worked on other young guys, but I saw through it. His big hands pulled apart my legs, right below the knee. I didn't resist "You are a real pretty boy," he told me. "Real, real pretty. You got that creamy skin I like so much." He talked like Barry White on a quiet storm radio station after midnight, and I have to confess that I was more aroused than anything. "You got those pretty blue eyes, looking at me like that. You're making me do this," he said. "It's ain't me, baby."
His lips were on my leg, then my groin, and then he was pulling up my T-shirt and yanking on my briefs. I heard the crackling of their elastic as he yanked them down, hard. My teen cock flopped out of the cotton and slapped audibly against my belly. "See what you gone and did?" he asked, breathing heavily on my twitching, hard flesh. "You made me do this."
Dr. Jones roughly grabbed my balls, almost making me yelp out in pain. Then his mouth engulfed my dick. I'd had sex by that point, a few times. Even in my limited experience I could tell he wasn't the best of my encounters. He used too much teeth; he created too much suction rather than let his mouth and lips travel up and down the shaft. He was simply too drunk to do much good.
But a blow job was a blow job, and I'd spent the evening waiting for the party to end so I could turn out my lights and masturbate and get to sleep. A stranger's mouth on me was even better than that. It didn't take very long before my young nuts were retracting and my dick started to pulse out a tiny load of semen. Dr. Jones swallowed it all. "Fuck," he said. "See what you did?"
He mumbled another sentence or two into my balls, as he nuzzled there. Then he was very, very still.
He was asleep, in fact.
Apparently no one from the party noticed he was missing for over an hour. Not until people were starting to drift off into the December night did my father come into my room. "Have you seen—?" he asked, and then saw himself what he was looking for. Dr. Jones, sprawled on his back, head lolling over the mattress edge, arms at his side, snoring loudly at the very bottom of the bed where I'd rolled him. "Oh, jeez," said my dad. He rolled his eyes.
I shrugged, trying to make it seem as if I were used to adults passing out on my bed every night of the week.
"Was he a pain?" My dad dipped down and grabbed his colleague beneath the arms, trying to stand him to his feet. I told him that he wasn't, not really. "Come on, Lamont," he said, shaking the older man. "Time to go home."
Dr. Jones hadn't woken up the entire time he'd slumbered, after the hasty blow job he'd given me. He opened his eyes in confusion, saw my dad, saw me, and then became very suddenly and drunkenly awake.
"It's okay," said my dad, gently escorting him from the room. "Come on. We'll get you some coffee."
And that was my one and only encounter with Dr. Jones. I got the impression he was never really sure of exactly what we'd done, if anything; his memory was probably hazy of those confused few minutes before he passed out. Whenever I'd pass him with one of my parents in the department offices, he'd blink at me and work his lips as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't quite decide what. I, in the meantime, would only smile in the same way I smiled at any of my parents' colleagues, without betraying what happened between us.
If he thought it was a fantasy—well, at least it was a good fantasy.
Days before the party they'd start making a go of cleaning the living room, though tidiness was never either of their strong points. They weren't drinkers themselves, but the colleagues and students they'd invite to these yearly shindigs would show up laden with spirits. Our basement bathroom—a mildewy, forbidding place that seemed so much like the movie set of a serial killing that I'm still reluctant to enter it when I visit my dad's home—was filled with liquor bottles that we'd begin hauling up the night before, until the dining room table was crowded with liquids of different colors (and of dubious age). My mother's ash trays got a thorough cleaning and the good ones were strewn around strategic places; my dad would pull out a bunch of LPs and eight-track tapes and have them stacked by the stereo.
My mom would spend an afternoon in the kitchen with cans and an opener and a jar of mayonnaise and emerge with space-aged canapés. The cats were banished outdoors. After a cold dinner, and before the doorbell would ring, I'd be sent to my room for the evening. Faculty parties were not for the young.
They were exotic, especially when I was fairly young. From my room, with a book in my lap, I'd listen to the swinging strains of psychedelia on the stereo, often improbably mixed with Nat King Cole singing Christmas carols, or Peter, Paul, and Mary. I'd listen to the laughter and smell the cigarette smoke and the clink of the liquor bottles and the increasingly loud and inebriated conversation and think to myself, This is what being grown up is all about.
My parents' guests were usually two-thirds other faculty from the university, and the rest were upper-level undergrads or graduate students. One of the things I used to do as a ritual, after the party had started, would be to go through their coats. They all lay there on my parents' beds, taken upstairs and tossed on the mattresses upon entering. When it was quiet upstairs, I'd tiptoe out and into my parents' room and just examine what their colleagues and students were carrying in their pockets. Mostly it was boring stuff like keys, or small change, or cellophane-wrapped Kraft caramels. Once in a while I'd stumble upon cigarettes, or more frequently, tiny little unsmoked joints tucked away in breast pockets, acrid-smelling and spilling weed from their twisted ends.
I had to time my stealthy investigations right. More often than not I'd be interrupted, either by hapless students looking for the bathroom, or couples (not always married, not always of the same generation) looking for a private tryst among the coats. I wouldn't say that my parents' parties were orgies, exactly, but they had their share of fucking. In the bedroom, among the wraps. In the spare bedroom, on the rusty twin bed that had been my father's as a boy. Outside in the back yard, behind the massive brick nineteen-fifties barbecue. In the basement, or down the outside cellar steps.
And once, in my room.
I was pretty young the night that Dr. Jones came into my bedroom. It was late—late enough that I'd given up watching the little portable TV from the kitchen that my parents had lugged up to my room for me to watch that evening, and had gotten into bed, but not so late that I was asleep. I had a book in my lap, and my knees propped up, and had stripped down to a T-shirt and briefs. Then my door opened. "Anyone home?" asked a tall black man. He slipped in quietly, raised a finger to his mouth to indicate I not say anything, and then made a pantomime of tiptoeing to my bed.
I knew Dr. Jones from my dad's office. They were in the same department; I'd seen him a couple of times a year since I'd been five or six—enough to recognize the face and associate a name, but not enough that we'd ever actually spoken. I raised my eyebrows. I think I told him that the bathroom was on the other side of the upstairs hall.
"Oh, I'm not here for the bathroom," he said. The man sat down on the edge of my bed. He was in his forties or fifties, and had a grizzled beard limned with white; it looked like his halo had slipped over his head and around his neck. An oversized mole decorated his dark, dark skin on his forehead; he had a large, nineteen-seventies Afro shot with gray perched like a helmet on his head. "Just needed to get away from the party."
He reeked of alcohol. His eyes, though unwavering as he stared at me, had that liquid sheen of the thoroughly inebriated. I nodded, and waited for him to say something.
"So," he started, putting his hand on my knee. Then, finding that awkward, he removed it. "You're just . . . sitting up here, real quiet?" I told him I was. "Must be real nice to be up here, where it's . . . quiet."
Again, his hand landed on my leg. This time, it made its way up to my thigh. Dr. Jones might have been an expert in African history, but subtle he was not. "What you doing?" he asked, when he reached my hip.
"Nothing," I told him. Despite myself, my boner was raging beneath the covers.
"You must be doing something, if you're making me do this." He pulled down the sheets. "I didn't come up here thinking I was going to do this. Must be you making me do it."
Maybe that kind of talk worked on other young guys, but I saw through it. His big hands pulled apart my legs, right below the knee. I didn't resist "You are a real pretty boy," he told me. "Real, real pretty. You got that creamy skin I like so much." He talked like Barry White on a quiet storm radio station after midnight, and I have to confess that I was more aroused than anything. "You got those pretty blue eyes, looking at me like that. You're making me do this," he said. "It's ain't me, baby."
His lips were on my leg, then my groin, and then he was pulling up my T-shirt and yanking on my briefs. I heard the crackling of their elastic as he yanked them down, hard. My teen cock flopped out of the cotton and slapped audibly against my belly. "See what you gone and did?" he asked, breathing heavily on my twitching, hard flesh. "You made me do this."
Dr. Jones roughly grabbed my balls, almost making me yelp out in pain. Then his mouth engulfed my dick. I'd had sex by that point, a few times. Even in my limited experience I could tell he wasn't the best of my encounters. He used too much teeth; he created too much suction rather than let his mouth and lips travel up and down the shaft. He was simply too drunk to do much good.
But a blow job was a blow job, and I'd spent the evening waiting for the party to end so I could turn out my lights and masturbate and get to sleep. A stranger's mouth on me was even better than that. It didn't take very long before my young nuts were retracting and my dick started to pulse out a tiny load of semen. Dr. Jones swallowed it all. "Fuck," he said. "See what you did?"
He mumbled another sentence or two into my balls, as he nuzzled there. Then he was very, very still.
He was asleep, in fact.
Apparently no one from the party noticed he was missing for over an hour. Not until people were starting to drift off into the December night did my father come into my room. "Have you seen—?" he asked, and then saw himself what he was looking for. Dr. Jones, sprawled on his back, head lolling over the mattress edge, arms at his side, snoring loudly at the very bottom of the bed where I'd rolled him. "Oh, jeez," said my dad. He rolled his eyes.
I shrugged, trying to make it seem as if I were used to adults passing out on my bed every night of the week.
"Was he a pain?" My dad dipped down and grabbed his colleague beneath the arms, trying to stand him to his feet. I told him that he wasn't, not really. "Come on, Lamont," he said, shaking the older man. "Time to go home."
Dr. Jones hadn't woken up the entire time he'd slumbered, after the hasty blow job he'd given me. He opened his eyes in confusion, saw my dad, saw me, and then became very suddenly and drunkenly awake.
"It's okay," said my dad, gently escorting him from the room. "Come on. We'll get you some coffee."
And that was my one and only encounter with Dr. Jones. I got the impression he was never really sure of exactly what we'd done, if anything; his memory was probably hazy of those confused few minutes before he passed out. Whenever I'd pass him with one of my parents in the department offices, he'd blink at me and work his lips as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't quite decide what. I, in the meantime, would only smile in the same way I smiled at any of my parents' colleagues, without betraying what happened between us.
If he thought it was a fantasy—well, at least it was a good fantasy.
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