Longer-term readers of mine might recall, from a couple of months ago, an entry entitled A Fucking Rock Star, in which I was pawed, manhandled, and all but assaulted by a drunk in a gay bar who thought I was the hottest thing since a spilled cup of McDonald's coffee. (And really, I'm perfectly ready to overlook the fact that he was stinking drunk and concede that he was perfectly able to make a totally accurate judgment call on that last point.)
To save you guys the trouble of running back to read the entire encounter, I'll just remind you that his sales pitch ran roughly, I've got a wallet full of money, I've got a 1992 Benz sitting outside, and I've got a real big dick, so you are gonna get in the back seat of my car and I'm gonna fuck you underneath the underpass down the street.
I know. Irresistible, right?
Well. I thought I'd lived down the gentle humiliation of that particular evening now that my friend's blow-by-blow Facebook postings of it have faded from his immediate timeline. But there we were again this week. Same bar. Same friend. And in walks the same guy.
I winced slightly at the sight of him. "Isn't that—?" I turned to ask my buddy. But my question was already answered when I saw him fishing for his phone and firing up Facebook.
I pretended not to have noticed the man for a few minutes while he stood in line for a drink. I pretended not to hear my friend tell me every single time the guy looked my way, in the interim. And then I pretended to be oblivious when Mr. Gooddick was making a beeline in my direction, drink in hand. I was prepared for the worst, actually.
And you know what? I was pleasantly surprised to get the best, instead.
The guy was actually pretty mortified at his behavior during our previous encounter. He seemed to remember every awful thing he'd said, and he stumbled over himself in an effort to apologize. He was sincere, and very low-key, and actually very humble about the whole thing—plus he was more than a little surprised that I remembered his name.
His humility was so overpowering that all I could do is laugh, hug the guy, and tell him that of course I didn't bear any ill-will about him, or think any the less about the stuff he'd said. I told him that I was flattered he thought me fuckable, and didn't let him leave until it was clear all was well between us.
"I know you said you were taken," he said, nodding at the ring on my finger. "Your significant other must be an awfully good sport."
"Well," I drawled, with mock arrogance. I used my hand to indicate my hair, my clothes, my body, the whole Breeder package. "When you're married to a trophy stud like this, you've kind of got to be, right?"
Laughter is the cure for a whole lot of ills, I tell you.
Let's get to some questions collected from my formspring.me outings, shall we?
Have you ever had sex with a guy and you both left your shoes, boots or sneakers still on?
Oh, so many times. I love just to drop my pants around my ankles and go at it.
The daddy/son fantasy, turn on? or wrong?
If it's wrong, then about 95% of the men out there are pretty sick bastards.
Fantasy is just fantasy. In sex, fantasy is supposed to provide an element of excitement and fun. If no one's getting hurt and everyone's into the same fantasy, why question it? Just enjoy yourself.
Have you ever been someones' first? Was taking their cherry anything like when you lost yours?
I've had a lot of cherries. Some I knew about and tried to make as good as possible. Some I didn't know until afterward, when I'd find out they'd bluffed their way through because they didn't want me to think badly of them for not having bottomed before.
For most, the experience has been satisfying. I've had a couple who let their fear overtake them, and that always leads to a sore hole and a less-than-optimal fuck for the both of us.
You're on Craigslist checking out m4m adds, you are a bit horny. Some guy is in a hotel room blindfold and wanting to get fucked. When you get there you realize he's you best friend, do you fuck him? Do you let him know it's you, before or after you cum?
If he's blindfolded, obviously he doesn't want to know. Of course I'd fuck him, but he'd never hear it from me.
Favorite male celebrity you'd love to make your bottom boy? Top three?
I'm usually not attracted to the Hollywood prettyboy type—though I have had an attraction for Bradley Cooper since his 'Alias' days.
The typical male actors for which I fall are usually scruffy and have a certain hangdog expression. Jake M. Johnson of 'New Girl' is pretty much my dream beau. I get more of a crush on him every time I watch the show.
Chris D'Elia of 'Whitney' is also dreamy (and it's a shame that I find his show unwatchable).
I also have a huge crush on Andrew Lee-Potts of Primeval. I'll put his little rabbit teeth to good use.
For what celebrities do you guys have the hots?
Do you like watersports? Have you ever pissed in someone's mouth?
I do, and I have, quite often.
I won't do WS with someone on a first meeting, generally. There have been exceptions.
What is one thing that you have done sexually that makes you blush when you think about it?
There's not really any particular act of which I'm embarrassed. If you're ashamed of something, just don't do it—or learn not to be ashamed of the things you enjoy. Life is too short for that shit.
There are, however, many things I've done sexually that bring blushes to the cheeks of other people when I admit to them.
Top tips for organizing/participating in an orgy?
My first question is, are you sure you want to organize one? I know it sounds like an awesome amount of fun, but the organizer usually isn't enjoying himself as much as he thinks he will be.
Consider where you want to hold it, first of all. If it's at your home, even if you think you know and can trust the guys, you're going to have to be constantly on guard that no one's making off with your valuables. Have the party in a space in your home that's relatively blocked off and self-sufficient, to minimize people wandering off. A bedroom suite with its own bathroom and perhaps a mini-fridge or a cooler with drinks works, or a basement playroom with a bathroom.
If you're uncomfortable about having people into your home in those circumstances, consider a hotel or bathhouse orgy. You'll still have to be on guard about your personal items, but it's a good way to get your toes wet with hosting an orgy.
Think about who you'll be inviting. It's often difficult to find total tops to attend a party, so at least get a few guys who enjoy switch-hitting so that you don't have a bunch of bottoms sitting around staring at each other.
Make sure the men you invite are going to show up. Avoid inviting freaks and weirdos, or guys who are simply going to stand around, never undress, and never participate.
And most of all, it helps if you ask a very good buddy to act as your backup host, so that you can enjoy the proceedings from time to time.
After a hook-up, have you ever received the line "I think we're too different/incompatible"? Have you ever used it?
If I'd heard those words from some guys that, in my younger years, I chased after only to get a rebuff of silence, it would've been a mercy. I'd rather get the news straight out like that, than be kept on the hook and never let off except with repeated disappointment.
I've never used exactly those words when the vibe hasn't been right with someone. I have, however, said, "I don't think this is working out" and taken my leave, politely. And when a guy has been after me to see him again and I haven't wanted to, I've often told him that I didn't think we were really a good match for the other.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Friday, February 3, 2012
Allan, Part 2
(This entry is a continuation of the previous post, Allan, Part 1.)
I’d never known anyone to experience anal orgasms before I met Allan. I encountered the phenomenon not at the baths, when he’d be slamming his chute backward onto any stiff cock that appeared behind it, but alone, at his house.
Allan lived on a curious little edge of town, only a few steps from one of the busiest intersections in the city. It was listed, year after year, as one of the most dangerous cross-streets in the metropolitan area; even I’d witnessed, on my visits out there, cars careening heedlessly through red lights and out into the intersections, to meet onrushing traffic with the sound of squealing tires. The first time I drove out to visit Allan at home, I missed his house no less than three times. But there it was, beyond a major car repair facility and a discount jeweler—the tiniest of houses, tucked away on the tiniest of lots, behind a couple of parking lots and a car wash.
Allan had inherited the house from his late grandmother, who’d apparently wanted him to be able to get away from the family. It was his, free and clear; I remember being impressed that someone I knew had a mortgage-free home at such a young age. Back around the millennium, when we were first fucking, it was obvious he hadn’t cleared out any of his grandmother’s furniture. The living room was filled with fussy old sofas with faux-antique scrollwork, with filigreed plant stands and metal wall hangings straight out of a dentist’s office from the Eisenhower era.
We would fuck in the living room, either on a sofa over which he’d draped one of his grandmother’s afghans, or right there on the floor. We never went at it for anything less than hours, when I was there. No short pump-’n’-dumps for us. He would sit me on the floor with my back against the sofa’s seat, straddle me, and ride me for hours.
The fucks were epic. I’d hang onto his hips and just let him ride, up and down, forward and back, around and around. To a big extent I was nothing but a living dildo attached to some guy’s body, when I met Allan back in those days. He wasn’t interested in giving me pleasure. He was just after using my dick with his hole—and unlike the vast majority of guys who are only after that, I didn’t resent it with him. Mostly because I was getting a tremendous amount of satisfaction, as a side effect.
Once we fucked like that, like animals on the floor, for over two hours before I had my first orgasm. He, in the meantime, had enjoyed over a half-dozen. I never once saw Allan shoot a load, but he experienced what he described to me as anal orgasms.
I had no doubt that he was having them. I could see the effects. He’d be bouncing up and down on me and I’d hear his breathing quicken. His nipples would contract from flat, quarter-sized planes into points so sharp and hard they could have carved diamond. His head would tilt back. I’d watch in the low afternoon light filtering through the blinds as a red flush would travel from his face to his chest, and then down his sides to his hips. It was so plain and visible that it was as if someone had poured a tin of watercolors over his head. His hole would tighten around my meat, growing increasingly more insistent. Then he’d gasp. His soft cock would flop around as his body went into spasms. For a good thirty-seconds, he’d shake and quiver like a rag doll.
Then I’d hear him gulp, and try to bring moisture back into his mouth. He’d laugh quietly to himself. “No one else makes me come like that,” he’d say, every time. His ass would relax until it was soft and warm on my cock. His nipples would soften, and spread. The flush would recede, first from his lower regions, and then his chest, and finally his face, until once more his skin was as pale as fallen snow. He’d keep riding—he never stopped riding. But it would be more relaxed, and less frenzied and insistent.
For a long time, the sex with Allan was dreamy and hot, uncomplicated and sweet in its essence. Even thinking of it now, my dick grows stiff at the memory. No matter what the weather, fucking him was like sex on a hot summer’s day. Slow. Unhurried. Sweat would cascade from our bodies, but we didn’t give a fuck. No one was going to see us. I’d leave the house with crazy sex hair that I’d regret later, but I didn’t even notice it with him. His world when we fucked consisted solely of my dick and the sensations it created for him. My world was watching him, and his pretty face, and marveling at his rapture.
I didn’t know much about Allan. Every couple of Saturdays I’d spend at his little house, for close to a year before he told me anything personal about himself. It was as if he’d made the decision, decided to go through with it, and needed to do it. “I have to show you something,” he said one day. He took me by the hand and led me down the hallway. Allan’s house was small, I’ve mentioned. It had a living room, a tiny kitchen, a bathroom the size of a postage stamp, and two small bedrooms. I’d never seen the insides of the bedrooms. The doors were always closed; we always fucked on the living room floor.
When he opened the door to the master bedroom, I blinked a few times. There were dresses all over the room. For a moment I thought they were his grandmother’s, and that he’d still not gotten around to clearing out the memory of her. Really, though, the room looked like a touring company of Hello, Dolly! had exploded within. The dresses were not very grandmotherly, unless your grandmother happened to be a Las Vegas showgirl. But then he pulled me over to a vanity where makeup mirrors sat at three different angles, and picked up a framed photo of a very blond, very cruel-looking, very ponytailed-like-Madonna-in-Truth-or-Dare with Divine’s eye makeup drag queen.
“This is me,” he said shyly.
I was kind of stunned.
I’d gone through a phase in high school and college in which I was afraid to be seen with effeminate men. I’d dated a couple of perfectly nice guys in grad school whose only fault was that they had lilting voices and less-than-butch mannerisms. I used to wear a permanent blush of embarrassment with one guy in particular, a hairdresser who referred to other gay men as ‘she’ and used to poke me in public and say, “Girrrrrrl!”
He was something of a revelation for me. My embarrassment, I realized when I was with him, was my problem, not his. So I made myself go out with him just so I could get over it—and by and large, it worked.
By the time I knew Allan, I regarded drag queens as the fiercest and one of the most admirable portions of the gay population—out in front and taking a lot of the bullets for the rest of us. I didn’t know any personally, though. So when I realized what Allan was telling me, my jaw dropped. Then I grinned. “Oh my gosh,” I remember saying. “You are amazing.”
He was shy and pleased at that. I’d known him for a long time, but this was the first time he really ever told me anything about himself. He sat down at his mirror and showed me some of his wigs, and other photos, as he told me about he’d started doing drag in his teens. I’ve forgotten his drag name, unfortunately, but it was something sharp and clever.
And I remember standing there beside Allan that afternoon, watching him fiddle with all these accoutrements of femininity that I’d never associated with him before, and thinking that it felt exactly like living in a house for so long that one is familiar with every knot in the pine paneling and scrape on the wainscot, only find an entire unexplored secret room one never knew existed. It was fascinating, and sweet, and felt like a breath of fresh air in that fusty little bungalow.
In performance, his persona was just as assertive. I saw him exactly once, on a birthday of mine, at a club on the city’s east side. He worked his way through the crowd, reading people up and down. When he spied me, I thought I was in for some sharp-tongued remarks. Instead, Allan sat down on my lap, put one of his spangled arms around my neck, and proceeded to do most of the rest of his show facing the audience, but with his ass firmly seated on me. My friends thought it was hilarious that I’d attracted the exclusive attentions of a drag queen. I hadn’t told them I knew the man behind the woman.
Right before he left my lap for the night, Allan made the crowd laugh and applaud by planting an enormous kiss on my lips that left his lipstick smudged for the rest of the night. I loved him for that.
We never talked about his side career as a drag performer, while we fucked—any more than we talked about my job, or my life outside the home. But I was both touched and pleased that he’d let me in on that confidence. I got the impression he didn’t talk about it to many people.
I was really fond of Allan, in fact, but we ended up seeing each other for only two years, around the turn of the century. My biggest gripe with him was that he was a big pothead. When we’d fuck, it was always hot sex—but we were having it while he was constantly rolling a joint, smoking it, helping himself to a Chiclet, smoking a cigarette, then having another Chiclet, then rolling a joint. . . . He had the capacity to pleasure himself atop me, but he was never really there. That part was tiresome to me.
Sometime in our second year of fucking he started making drug deals at the house, through the mail slot. The boy who’d only climb off my dick when he’d gotten four or five loads from it suddenly was clambering off me and scampering to his front door in the nude. People would shove money through his mail slot and he’d slip them little dime bags of pot. When these transactions started happening, it was pretty much the last straw for me. Good as the sex was, I didn’t need to be caught up in some drug bust.
I simply ceased going over, and stopped calling.
I didn’t see Allan again. Not at the tubs, not at his home. From time to time I’d run across someone who knew him from the baths, but I thought about him less and less.
Until I ran across him again, almost eight years later.
(To be continued, and concluded, in another entry.)
I’d never known anyone to experience anal orgasms before I met Allan. I encountered the phenomenon not at the baths, when he’d be slamming his chute backward onto any stiff cock that appeared behind it, but alone, at his house.
Allan lived on a curious little edge of town, only a few steps from one of the busiest intersections in the city. It was listed, year after year, as one of the most dangerous cross-streets in the metropolitan area; even I’d witnessed, on my visits out there, cars careening heedlessly through red lights and out into the intersections, to meet onrushing traffic with the sound of squealing tires. The first time I drove out to visit Allan at home, I missed his house no less than three times. But there it was, beyond a major car repair facility and a discount jeweler—the tiniest of houses, tucked away on the tiniest of lots, behind a couple of parking lots and a car wash.
Allan had inherited the house from his late grandmother, who’d apparently wanted him to be able to get away from the family. It was his, free and clear; I remember being impressed that someone I knew had a mortgage-free home at such a young age. Back around the millennium, when we were first fucking, it was obvious he hadn’t cleared out any of his grandmother’s furniture. The living room was filled with fussy old sofas with faux-antique scrollwork, with filigreed plant stands and metal wall hangings straight out of a dentist’s office from the Eisenhower era.
We would fuck in the living room, either on a sofa over which he’d draped one of his grandmother’s afghans, or right there on the floor. We never went at it for anything less than hours, when I was there. No short pump-’n’-dumps for us. He would sit me on the floor with my back against the sofa’s seat, straddle me, and ride me for hours.
The fucks were epic. I’d hang onto his hips and just let him ride, up and down, forward and back, around and around. To a big extent I was nothing but a living dildo attached to some guy’s body, when I met Allan back in those days. He wasn’t interested in giving me pleasure. He was just after using my dick with his hole—and unlike the vast majority of guys who are only after that, I didn’t resent it with him. Mostly because I was getting a tremendous amount of satisfaction, as a side effect.
Once we fucked like that, like animals on the floor, for over two hours before I had my first orgasm. He, in the meantime, had enjoyed over a half-dozen. I never once saw Allan shoot a load, but he experienced what he described to me as anal orgasms.
I had no doubt that he was having them. I could see the effects. He’d be bouncing up and down on me and I’d hear his breathing quicken. His nipples would contract from flat, quarter-sized planes into points so sharp and hard they could have carved diamond. His head would tilt back. I’d watch in the low afternoon light filtering through the blinds as a red flush would travel from his face to his chest, and then down his sides to his hips. It was so plain and visible that it was as if someone had poured a tin of watercolors over his head. His hole would tighten around my meat, growing increasingly more insistent. Then he’d gasp. His soft cock would flop around as his body went into spasms. For a good thirty-seconds, he’d shake and quiver like a rag doll.
Then I’d hear him gulp, and try to bring moisture back into his mouth. He’d laugh quietly to himself. “No one else makes me come like that,” he’d say, every time. His ass would relax until it was soft and warm on my cock. His nipples would soften, and spread. The flush would recede, first from his lower regions, and then his chest, and finally his face, until once more his skin was as pale as fallen snow. He’d keep riding—he never stopped riding. But it would be more relaxed, and less frenzied and insistent.
For a long time, the sex with Allan was dreamy and hot, uncomplicated and sweet in its essence. Even thinking of it now, my dick grows stiff at the memory. No matter what the weather, fucking him was like sex on a hot summer’s day. Slow. Unhurried. Sweat would cascade from our bodies, but we didn’t give a fuck. No one was going to see us. I’d leave the house with crazy sex hair that I’d regret later, but I didn’t even notice it with him. His world when we fucked consisted solely of my dick and the sensations it created for him. My world was watching him, and his pretty face, and marveling at his rapture.
I didn’t know much about Allan. Every couple of Saturdays I’d spend at his little house, for close to a year before he told me anything personal about himself. It was as if he’d made the decision, decided to go through with it, and needed to do it. “I have to show you something,” he said one day. He took me by the hand and led me down the hallway. Allan’s house was small, I’ve mentioned. It had a living room, a tiny kitchen, a bathroom the size of a postage stamp, and two small bedrooms. I’d never seen the insides of the bedrooms. The doors were always closed; we always fucked on the living room floor.
When he opened the door to the master bedroom, I blinked a few times. There were dresses all over the room. For a moment I thought they were his grandmother’s, and that he’d still not gotten around to clearing out the memory of her. Really, though, the room looked like a touring company of Hello, Dolly! had exploded within. The dresses were not very grandmotherly, unless your grandmother happened to be a Las Vegas showgirl. But then he pulled me over to a vanity where makeup mirrors sat at three different angles, and picked up a framed photo of a very blond, very cruel-looking, very ponytailed-like-Madonna-in-Truth-or-Dare with Divine’s eye makeup drag queen.
“This is me,” he said shyly.
I was kind of stunned.
I’d gone through a phase in high school and college in which I was afraid to be seen with effeminate men. I’d dated a couple of perfectly nice guys in grad school whose only fault was that they had lilting voices and less-than-butch mannerisms. I used to wear a permanent blush of embarrassment with one guy in particular, a hairdresser who referred to other gay men as ‘she’ and used to poke me in public and say, “Girrrrrrl!”
He was something of a revelation for me. My embarrassment, I realized when I was with him, was my problem, not his. So I made myself go out with him just so I could get over it—and by and large, it worked.
By the time I knew Allan, I regarded drag queens as the fiercest and one of the most admirable portions of the gay population—out in front and taking a lot of the bullets for the rest of us. I didn’t know any personally, though. So when I realized what Allan was telling me, my jaw dropped. Then I grinned. “Oh my gosh,” I remember saying. “You are amazing.”
He was shy and pleased at that. I’d known him for a long time, but this was the first time he really ever told me anything about himself. He sat down at his mirror and showed me some of his wigs, and other photos, as he told me about he’d started doing drag in his teens. I’ve forgotten his drag name, unfortunately, but it was something sharp and clever.
And I remember standing there beside Allan that afternoon, watching him fiddle with all these accoutrements of femininity that I’d never associated with him before, and thinking that it felt exactly like living in a house for so long that one is familiar with every knot in the pine paneling and scrape on the wainscot, only find an entire unexplored secret room one never knew existed. It was fascinating, and sweet, and felt like a breath of fresh air in that fusty little bungalow.
In performance, his persona was just as assertive. I saw him exactly once, on a birthday of mine, at a club on the city’s east side. He worked his way through the crowd, reading people up and down. When he spied me, I thought I was in for some sharp-tongued remarks. Instead, Allan sat down on my lap, put one of his spangled arms around my neck, and proceeded to do most of the rest of his show facing the audience, but with his ass firmly seated on me. My friends thought it was hilarious that I’d attracted the exclusive attentions of a drag queen. I hadn’t told them I knew the man behind the woman.
Right before he left my lap for the night, Allan made the crowd laugh and applaud by planting an enormous kiss on my lips that left his lipstick smudged for the rest of the night. I loved him for that.
We never talked about his side career as a drag performer, while we fucked—any more than we talked about my job, or my life outside the home. But I was both touched and pleased that he’d let me in on that confidence. I got the impression he didn’t talk about it to many people.
I was really fond of Allan, in fact, but we ended up seeing each other for only two years, around the turn of the century. My biggest gripe with him was that he was a big pothead. When we’d fuck, it was always hot sex—but we were having it while he was constantly rolling a joint, smoking it, helping himself to a Chiclet, smoking a cigarette, then having another Chiclet, then rolling a joint. . . . He had the capacity to pleasure himself atop me, but he was never really there. That part was tiresome to me.
Sometime in our second year of fucking he started making drug deals at the house, through the mail slot. The boy who’d only climb off my dick when he’d gotten four or five loads from it suddenly was clambering off me and scampering to his front door in the nude. People would shove money through his mail slot and he’d slip them little dime bags of pot. When these transactions started happening, it was pretty much the last straw for me. Good as the sex was, I didn’t need to be caught up in some drug bust.
I simply ceased going over, and stopped calling.
I didn’t see Allan again. Not at the tubs, not at his home. From time to time I’d run across someone who knew him from the baths, but I thought about him less and less.
Until I ran across him again, almost eight years later.
(To be continued, and concluded, in another entry.)
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Allan, Part 1
I tuned into RuPaul’s Drag Race, Monday night, with great anticipation. It’s simultaneously one of the sharpest and silliest programs on television, and I’ve loved it since the first season. My favorite of all the seasons was its third, though, and that’s because it’s the season I watched with Spencer.
When I was on my own for all those months and Spencer had basically taken up residence in my bed, refrigerator, and house, Drag Race night was the evening we most looked forward to. We’d make dinner, make love, and then cuddle up on the sofa to watch our favorite show. During the commercial breaks we’d argue about our favorites (we both loved Raja), and hiss at the villains (Mimi Imfurst!), and pick out our drag names (his would change every week, but mine has always been and will always be Pansy Potts, because I saw them advertised at a garden store once and said, "That would be my perfect drag name.").
Last night I turned on the show, was excited for about the first three minutes, and then I was so overcome with longing for Spencer and those long winter nights that I developed an enormous lump in my throat and had to excuse myself from the room for a few minutes in order to compose myself.
But Drag Race reminds me not only of Spencer, but of another lost boy, Allan, whom I knew many years ago, and with whom by chance I reconnected again years later. It’s Allan that I’d like to talk about in the next couple of entries.
In the Detroit area there were two bathhouses I’d visit. One was newer, but because it had been put into an old auto body shop, it was grungier and grittier. The steam room was large and capacious, but the private rooms seemed like an afterthought, the carpets were always frayed and dirty, and in a good rain, the entire place became wet and marshy underfoot. There was a hot tub, but it always gave the impression of being a bacterial stew . . . when it was working. The staff cleaned the place in a perfunctory manner if at all. On the other hand, it was close to the freeway, it attracted an infinitely more sizable crowd, and the guys generally tended to skew younger.
The other bathhouse was in a much older building. It had taken over a Jewish health club and had a really solid, good facility—an Olympic-sized pool, a tiled in-ground hot tub, a screened outdoor nude tanning deck, massage rooms, a dry sauna in addition to the steam room, and two comfortable-ish movie rooms. Despite its age, and despite the fact that it attracted an older and sparser crowd, I actually liked this facility better for many years. The men were friendlier, the sex was wilder, and the place was infinitely cleaner than its rival. I sponsored many a member there.
In the mid-2000s, though, the club’s owner got into the habit of commandeering the public address system for fifteen minutes to a half-hour at a time so that he could go on what sounded like meth-fueled rants about the local gay and lesbian organizations and how they were full of Nazis and assholes. And the last thing one really needs when one’s trying to sink one’s dick into a hot young buck is some addled, slurring idiot shouting obscenities into a microphone at the top of his voice. You know?
The final straw for me with the older bathhouse was one afternoon when I’d spent several hours there. I’d turned in my bedclothes, checked out my key, and gotten back my lifetime membership card. The clerk had buzzed me out the door, and I’d exited into the foyer. I was heading to the door out and, because my breath needed a minty boost, I’d withdrawn from the back pocket of my jeans a stick of Orbit gum.
Well. I hadn't unwrapped it. I wasn't going to put it into my mouth until I'd reached my car. But you’d have thought that instead of an inch-long sugar-free mojito-flavored chewing gum, I’d pulled out a loaded gun. The clerk and owner started screaming at me at the top of their lungs, through the bullet-proof plexiglass through which one had to check in. Gum was forbidden on the premises! What did I think they were, made out of money? What was my name again? They were going to take my membership and put a black mark on it! No! I was going to come right back in and they were going to give me a scraper and I was going to have to scrape every seat in the movie theater, bed in the rooms, and gum mark off the floor, right then and there!
They were serious. I stared at them in amazement, said, “Fuck you,” and walked out. I never ever went back. I told everyone I knew who was thinking of joining to keep away. (And I recommend you do the same.)
When I first joined that particular bathhouse, it was a few years after it had been more or less gutted in a fire. A cigarette left burning in one of the rooms had cleared out three-quarters of the bathhouse, so that it had no private changing rooms (they’re euphemistically called)—only a vast, dark, warehouse-like area hung with drapes. During the years before the rooms were rebuilt, the big empty space was called ‘tent city’ because the owner had put down a couple of dozen pup tents on the floor for men to fuck in.
I loved the arrangement better than the private rooms that later supplanted them, to be honest. No one could really vanish into a room with a locked door, in that arrangement. All the sex was public, or at least semi-; you could hear everything through the thin material of the pup tents, listen to entire conversations, hear every grunt and thrust and slickness. There was always a chance that you’d be leading a man into a pup tent and get down on your knees and crawl in, only to find some fucker already waiting inside with his legs up, or another couple screwing. Sometimes they’d invite you to stay, anyway.
I met Allan in one of the tents. He was one of those sluts who would spend an entire afternoon on his back on those cement floors, legs in the air, taking dick after dick. We fucked once and enjoyed each other. I recognized him another day by the taste of his kisses—he was addicted to a certain strong mint, between fucks—and the glowing red tip of his cigarette in the dark. I always sought him out after that.
When I first met him right around the century mark, Allan was no more than twenty-five. He was tall, and lean, blue-eyed, and had the blondest natural shock of hair. He was so fair-skinned that as he got fucked, a flush would form first over his face and then would spread down his neck and chest, until all those areas were a bright red. And he had a much-used ass with a natural rosebud from so much fucking.
One of the reasons I liked Allan so much was that he was up for anything. I could take him to one of the public areas and fuck him while men watched, and he’d put on as much of a show as I. He’d arch his back, and groan, and make it look as if I was giving him the fuck of his life. When I was in him, his eyes would be half-closed, but they’d be fully-focused on my own. He’d kiss me passionately, and ride my dick for as long as I cared to give it to him. He’d never get enough.
After a few encounters, he made it clear that I was his special territory. He’d fight off other, lesser bottoms to get to my cock, then work hard to keep my attention focused on him. I’d shoot a load in him, then he’d squat over one of the floor mats, squirt it out of his ass, and lick it up—all for my voyeuristic pleasure. Then, while I’d lean back against the wall and relax, he’d pick another man out of the crowd, put his ass into the air, and take the anonymous fuck while I watched. The minute the guy had dumped a load inside him, Allan would scramble off him, crawl to me, and then slide his cum-filled chute down and over my dick, so I could fuck him in the stranger’s load.
He worked as a waiter nights, I knew, so the only time I saw Allan at the baths was during the day. Every time I saw him, he’d collect loads for me to fuck in. Then when I told him I’d have to be going soon, he’d give me the most determined, aggressive sex I’d had to that point. His hole was on my dick, but from the way he went at it—straddling me, grinding at me and snatching my dick with his cunt, his jaw jutted out and a snarl on his face until he got the load he needed from me—it was more as if he was fucking me than the reverse.
I loved sex with Allan. So when he suggested we save our money and just start fucking at his place, I didn’t hesitate. Hell yes, I wanted to see him. And for a good year, I did.
(To be continued.)
When I was on my own for all those months and Spencer had basically taken up residence in my bed, refrigerator, and house, Drag Race night was the evening we most looked forward to. We’d make dinner, make love, and then cuddle up on the sofa to watch our favorite show. During the commercial breaks we’d argue about our favorites (we both loved Raja), and hiss at the villains (Mimi Imfurst!), and pick out our drag names (his would change every week, but mine has always been and will always be Pansy Potts, because I saw them advertised at a garden store once and said, "That would be my perfect drag name.").
Last night I turned on the show, was excited for about the first three minutes, and then I was so overcome with longing for Spencer and those long winter nights that I developed an enormous lump in my throat and had to excuse myself from the room for a few minutes in order to compose myself.
But Drag Race reminds me not only of Spencer, but of another lost boy, Allan, whom I knew many years ago, and with whom by chance I reconnected again years later. It’s Allan that I’d like to talk about in the next couple of entries.
In the Detroit area there were two bathhouses I’d visit. One was newer, but because it had been put into an old auto body shop, it was grungier and grittier. The steam room was large and capacious, but the private rooms seemed like an afterthought, the carpets were always frayed and dirty, and in a good rain, the entire place became wet and marshy underfoot. There was a hot tub, but it always gave the impression of being a bacterial stew . . . when it was working. The staff cleaned the place in a perfunctory manner if at all. On the other hand, it was close to the freeway, it attracted an infinitely more sizable crowd, and the guys generally tended to skew younger.
The other bathhouse was in a much older building. It had taken over a Jewish health club and had a really solid, good facility—an Olympic-sized pool, a tiled in-ground hot tub, a screened outdoor nude tanning deck, massage rooms, a dry sauna in addition to the steam room, and two comfortable-ish movie rooms. Despite its age, and despite the fact that it attracted an older and sparser crowd, I actually liked this facility better for many years. The men were friendlier, the sex was wilder, and the place was infinitely cleaner than its rival. I sponsored many a member there.
In the mid-2000s, though, the club’s owner got into the habit of commandeering the public address system for fifteen minutes to a half-hour at a time so that he could go on what sounded like meth-fueled rants about the local gay and lesbian organizations and how they were full of Nazis and assholes. And the last thing one really needs when one’s trying to sink one’s dick into a hot young buck is some addled, slurring idiot shouting obscenities into a microphone at the top of his voice. You know?
The final straw for me with the older bathhouse was one afternoon when I’d spent several hours there. I’d turned in my bedclothes, checked out my key, and gotten back my lifetime membership card. The clerk had buzzed me out the door, and I’d exited into the foyer. I was heading to the door out and, because my breath needed a minty boost, I’d withdrawn from the back pocket of my jeans a stick of Orbit gum.
Well. I hadn't unwrapped it. I wasn't going to put it into my mouth until I'd reached my car. But you’d have thought that instead of an inch-long sugar-free mojito-flavored chewing gum, I’d pulled out a loaded gun. The clerk and owner started screaming at me at the top of their lungs, through the bullet-proof plexiglass through which one had to check in. Gum was forbidden on the premises! What did I think they were, made out of money? What was my name again? They were going to take my membership and put a black mark on it! No! I was going to come right back in and they were going to give me a scraper and I was going to have to scrape every seat in the movie theater, bed in the rooms, and gum mark off the floor, right then and there!
They were serious. I stared at them in amazement, said, “Fuck you,” and walked out. I never ever went back. I told everyone I knew who was thinking of joining to keep away. (And I recommend you do the same.)
When I first joined that particular bathhouse, it was a few years after it had been more or less gutted in a fire. A cigarette left burning in one of the rooms had cleared out three-quarters of the bathhouse, so that it had no private changing rooms (they’re euphemistically called)—only a vast, dark, warehouse-like area hung with drapes. During the years before the rooms were rebuilt, the big empty space was called ‘tent city’ because the owner had put down a couple of dozen pup tents on the floor for men to fuck in.
I loved the arrangement better than the private rooms that later supplanted them, to be honest. No one could really vanish into a room with a locked door, in that arrangement. All the sex was public, or at least semi-; you could hear everything through the thin material of the pup tents, listen to entire conversations, hear every grunt and thrust and slickness. There was always a chance that you’d be leading a man into a pup tent and get down on your knees and crawl in, only to find some fucker already waiting inside with his legs up, or another couple screwing. Sometimes they’d invite you to stay, anyway.
I met Allan in one of the tents. He was one of those sluts who would spend an entire afternoon on his back on those cement floors, legs in the air, taking dick after dick. We fucked once and enjoyed each other. I recognized him another day by the taste of his kisses—he was addicted to a certain strong mint, between fucks—and the glowing red tip of his cigarette in the dark. I always sought him out after that.
When I first met him right around the century mark, Allan was no more than twenty-five. He was tall, and lean, blue-eyed, and had the blondest natural shock of hair. He was so fair-skinned that as he got fucked, a flush would form first over his face and then would spread down his neck and chest, until all those areas were a bright red. And he had a much-used ass with a natural rosebud from so much fucking.
One of the reasons I liked Allan so much was that he was up for anything. I could take him to one of the public areas and fuck him while men watched, and he’d put on as much of a show as I. He’d arch his back, and groan, and make it look as if I was giving him the fuck of his life. When I was in him, his eyes would be half-closed, but they’d be fully-focused on my own. He’d kiss me passionately, and ride my dick for as long as I cared to give it to him. He’d never get enough.
After a few encounters, he made it clear that I was his special territory. He’d fight off other, lesser bottoms to get to my cock, then work hard to keep my attention focused on him. I’d shoot a load in him, then he’d squat over one of the floor mats, squirt it out of his ass, and lick it up—all for my voyeuristic pleasure. Then, while I’d lean back against the wall and relax, he’d pick another man out of the crowd, put his ass into the air, and take the anonymous fuck while I watched. The minute the guy had dumped a load inside him, Allan would scramble off him, crawl to me, and then slide his cum-filled chute down and over my dick, so I could fuck him in the stranger’s load.
He worked as a waiter nights, I knew, so the only time I saw Allan at the baths was during the day. Every time I saw him, he’d collect loads for me to fuck in. Then when I told him I’d have to be going soon, he’d give me the most determined, aggressive sex I’d had to that point. His hole was on my dick, but from the way he went at it—straddling me, grinding at me and snatching my dick with his cunt, his jaw jutted out and a snarl on his face until he got the load he needed from me—it was more as if he was fucking me than the reverse.
I loved sex with Allan. So when he suggested we save our money and just start fucking at his place, I didn’t hesitate. Hell yes, I wanted to see him. And for a good year, I did.
(To be continued.)
Monday, January 30, 2012
The Pimp
“Your brother told me you had a big dick,” said the man. My jeans were half-off , the waist clinging to my thighs just above the knee. I had a pair of black trunks on. Their elastic band still clung to my left hip. He’d pulled down the right side, though, exposing my cock. “He was right.”
I was still stiff from the last half-hour, during which we’d wrestled for dominance on his bed. We’d kissed, and pinned down each other’s arms and attacked each other’s necks and lobes and chins with our mouths and tongues. We’d ground our privates against each other until they hurt. I’d been pumping out precum during that entire time. I could feel the cold wet patch against the skin of my leg. “My brother’s not a liar,” I said, by way of not seeming to want to be big-headed and agree with him.
“Fuck,” he said, going down on me. His mouth was full of my dick for several long moments before he came up for air again. “I’m glad he told me to get in touch with you.” He was about to go down on me again, but he paused. “Does he pimp you out like this often?”
One of the things that Mikey will do, from time to time, is to run across some guy online that he thinks of as absolutely perfect for my tastes. After all, who knows me better? There’ve been a few occasions when he’ll simply give me a profile name to look at and leave it at that. But most of the time, he seems to know that I prefer to be the pursued than the pursuer, and he’ll go straight to the guy and extol my virtues. I haven’t had the privilege of actually reading any of these missives, but I kind of imagine they’re a lot like my agent writes when she’s trying to sell one of my works. Fantastic strength! Broad appeal! Available cheap!
I know it’s happened when I get an email out of the blue. Hey, it’ll be titled, or I know this sounds weird. Then the first line will be, Your brother contacted me on here and he said you and I should get together.
Yeah. Mikey pimps me out pretty often.
He has a good eye, too. He’s hooked me up with slutty boys who haven’t yet outgrown their abuse of Axe body spray, and sexy silver foxes who make me weak the knees. He’s hooked me up with piggy bears I’ve found super-attractive, and handsome muscle gods whose attentions made me nervous, but who were so turned on by one brother pimping another that they couldn’t resist giving me a try.
When they contact me, these men, I always feel obligated to apologize first. Oh jeez, I’m sorry, I’ll say. He really shouldn’t do that. He’s just trying to look out for me, especially now that we’re a thousand miles apart. Apologies seem to be unnecessary, really. Most men find it perversely hot, or at least don’t mind that Mikey’s pointed them in my direction.
An agent would take her fifteen percent, of course. When I lived in Michigan, close to Mikey, his cut would be the pleasure of hearing me replay the encounter for him in person, when we were alone and exchanging confidences. If he could, he’d try to get into the guy’s pants himself. This year, though, he has to be content with chatting to me about it online, or remotely, or hearing about it from the guy himself, if I’ve been busy.
This guy was one of the silver foxes—a tall and handsome older guy who lived with his lover in a big house not far from me. He turned out to be a good lovemaker, once I got him to shut up talking about taking down his Christmas decorations and the weather. I fucked him three times and was in an almost-unconscious bliss for a half-hour when he treated me to a back and neck rub. Then I went down on my knees, right before I left, and sucked him off—start to finish, in less than two minutes.
“Holy shit,” he said, staggering back into the wall so hard that his tchotchkes leapt alarmingly on the ornamental shelves behind him. “Your brother didn’t tell me you could do that.”
Apparently I need to get Mikey to write some better agent letters.
I was still stiff from the last half-hour, during which we’d wrestled for dominance on his bed. We’d kissed, and pinned down each other’s arms and attacked each other’s necks and lobes and chins with our mouths and tongues. We’d ground our privates against each other until they hurt. I’d been pumping out precum during that entire time. I could feel the cold wet patch against the skin of my leg. “My brother’s not a liar,” I said, by way of not seeming to want to be big-headed and agree with him.
“Fuck,” he said, going down on me. His mouth was full of my dick for several long moments before he came up for air again. “I’m glad he told me to get in touch with you.” He was about to go down on me again, but he paused. “Does he pimp you out like this often?”
One of the things that Mikey will do, from time to time, is to run across some guy online that he thinks of as absolutely perfect for my tastes. After all, who knows me better? There’ve been a few occasions when he’ll simply give me a profile name to look at and leave it at that. But most of the time, he seems to know that I prefer to be the pursued than the pursuer, and he’ll go straight to the guy and extol my virtues. I haven’t had the privilege of actually reading any of these missives, but I kind of imagine they’re a lot like my agent writes when she’s trying to sell one of my works. Fantastic strength! Broad appeal! Available cheap!
I know it’s happened when I get an email out of the blue. Hey, it’ll be titled, or I know this sounds weird. Then the first line will be, Your brother contacted me on here and he said you and I should get together.
Yeah. Mikey pimps me out pretty often.
He has a good eye, too. He’s hooked me up with slutty boys who haven’t yet outgrown their abuse of Axe body spray, and sexy silver foxes who make me weak the knees. He’s hooked me up with piggy bears I’ve found super-attractive, and handsome muscle gods whose attentions made me nervous, but who were so turned on by one brother pimping another that they couldn’t resist giving me a try.
When they contact me, these men, I always feel obligated to apologize first. Oh jeez, I’m sorry, I’ll say. He really shouldn’t do that. He’s just trying to look out for me, especially now that we’re a thousand miles apart. Apologies seem to be unnecessary, really. Most men find it perversely hot, or at least don’t mind that Mikey’s pointed them in my direction.
An agent would take her fifteen percent, of course. When I lived in Michigan, close to Mikey, his cut would be the pleasure of hearing me replay the encounter for him in person, when we were alone and exchanging confidences. If he could, he’d try to get into the guy’s pants himself. This year, though, he has to be content with chatting to me about it online, or remotely, or hearing about it from the guy himself, if I’ve been busy.
This guy was one of the silver foxes—a tall and handsome older guy who lived with his lover in a big house not far from me. He turned out to be a good lovemaker, once I got him to shut up talking about taking down his Christmas decorations and the weather. I fucked him three times and was in an almost-unconscious bliss for a half-hour when he treated me to a back and neck rub. Then I went down on my knees, right before I left, and sucked him off—start to finish, in less than two minutes.
“Holy shit,” he said, staggering back into the wall so hard that his tchotchkes leapt alarmingly on the ornamental shelves behind him. “Your brother didn’t tell me you could do that.”
Apparently I need to get Mikey to write some better agent letters.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Sunday Morning Questions: Subtlety Edition
I know, subtle, ain't it? My birthday's a week from tomorrow. Don't worry, I'm not hinting for expensive gifts! (Though if you were in that kind of mood, I've got an Amazon wish list you can always browse.) I'm not demanding that a porn star give me the fuck of a lifetime. I'm a low-maintenance kind of guy.
You know what I would like, though? Photos of you all, if you wish to share 'em. Male, female, young, old. I don't care. Just take a pic of your sexy body with a sheet of paper on which you've scrawled a birthday wish. Or take a snapshot of your face and your pretty smile while you're holding up your phone to show me you've typed out a birthday greeting in big bold type. Make a really short movie in which you're yelling happy birthday! at me. Be creative! Email them to the address in my sidebar! Seriously, nothing would make me happier.
I won't share them with anyone. Honest. I will bask in a glow warmer than any of my impending for-mmph-mmph birthday candles could create, though.
Let's get to some questions from formspring.me , shall we? For those of you who made an effort this week and last to come up with some truly unique questions for me, I'm grateful. They were interesting!
Your first time: with a man vs woman. Which was better / more memorable?
My first time with a man was special. It was with someone I knew and adored, and scary though it was, I trusted him enough to guide the situation and not let me come to harm.
My first time with a woman I've written about in my blog. It was supervised by someone I trusted, but involved a couple I didn't know, neither of whom had inviting personalities. I might've gotten the job done, but it was an act more of corruption than of pleasure.
Have you ever eaten anything special or different in an attempt to make your cum taste better?
I have not, though I once had someone try to make me experiment with pineapple juice to see if it made my loads sweeter, as it was suggested it would.
I did used to take zinc supplements to see if it would give my loads more volume, but I found that simply keeping well hydrated did that trick.
And I have consumed beer, which I don't particularly like, in order to make my piss taste different, for some men.
What do you do when you can't sleep?
When I played World of Warcraft, I would get up from bed and work on my fishing. That was such a dull and tranquil experience that I'd be ready to go to sleep in no time.
I no longer play, though. So usually I will get up and either browse web pages, or I'll lie in bed and read on my iPad. I find that if I just do something for an hour other than think about sleeping, I'll fall back to sleep. And if I don't . . . well, it's only a night.
Blindfolded, butt up, door unlocked. Hot, or not? And should the blindfold stay on until you leave?
That's very, very hot to me. If the blindfold stays on, even better. I love that scenario.
Open Relationships, are you a fan or do you disagree with them? Why?
Everyone in a relationship should feel not only the freedom to be able to express himself to his partner, but with his partner to set the course of the relationship. For some couples, that will mean a sexually open relationship. For others, it'll mean monogamy. Both of those—and every variation between—can be good options.
I'm a big fan of people taking control of their own lives and relationships and working with their partners to make life not only agreeable, but fulfilling. No matter what the details happen to be.
If you only had one night in Toronto, (Say, for instance, on a Thursday) where would you go to find a hole or three?
Steamworks. It's clean enough, centrally located, and attracts not only a good number of guys, but a good quality of men as well.
Years ago I would've suggested the Bijou or The Barracks, but sadly, they are long gone. I loved those spots.
How close has lightning ever struck near you? Were you outdoors or in?
I once had lightning strike the electrical transformer behind the garage of my previous house—about thirty feet from where I was inside. It shorted out all the electronics (except for those I'd unplugged because of the storm) and set off the house's alarm system in a way that it couldn't be turned off. Fun.
Whenever you read a profile on A4A or other hook-up sites that says "I'm just looking to make friends," do you ever mentally add "...with my cock/ass"?
Quite a lot. I also look at the ads that say 'I'm not here to hook up!' and mentally add, '...unless I'm horny.'
Do you ever have a hook up turn into a meanful active friendship?
Quite often. When I lived in Michigan, I had active and meaningful friendships (and continuing sexual relationships, in many cases) with several guys whom I originally met for a hookup. My intense relationship with Spencer, which I documented in my journal in the latter part of 2010 and early 2011 and which lasted for the better part of a year, until I moved, began as a hookup.
The longest-lasting relationship of my life started as a one-night stand. I'm pretty adept at making friends with my fucks.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Runt
This kid is hot. He’s a runt—small and skinny. But he’s a beautiful runt. His eyebrows are dark and thick, and give the impression he’s got a long way to go, to grow into them. His hair’s a mess, but only because I’ve been running my hands through it, just to enjoy the sensations of its length flicking across the sensitive webs of my fingers. His features are dark. He’s told me his mother was Brazilian. But his skin is pale and white, almost ghostly in the dark.
When he kisses, he keeps his eyes closed. He looks like he’s dreaming.
We’re in the back of my car. It’s not night, but it’s dark. Pitch black before six in the evening. I’ve been to this parking lot before with the Latin boy in the truck, last autumn. There’s almost no traffic coming in and out of the entrance from the sleepy neighborhood street nearby. That suits my purposes just fine.
I’m driving into his hole. He’s kicked off his pants, but he still has on a pair of thick, woolen socks. His thin legs wave helplessly in the air as I enter his hole. He’s tight, but I can tell from the way his chute opens and cedes to my stiff meat that he’s been used before. “That’s it,” I whisper to him.
He sighs. He’s happy. His legs crook and clasp around my back. His eyes are still closed as he surrenders his mouth to mine. My perch on the back seat is tenuous at best, but I make the best of it, and push in as hard as I can, until he gasps, and opens those big, brown eyes.
When he looks at me, it’s through a haze of lust and sensation. He probably doesn’t even remember my name. I don’t really give a shit. “You like that?” I ask. The words seem obscenely out of place as they break the stillness.
“Yes,” he says. He licks his lips and swallows. “Dude, don’t stop.”
I have no intentions of stopping.
I’ve complained before about Grindr in my area—that app that’s become the ubiquitous hookup tool for gay men with smartphones and GPS has never really worked for me. Once I get into Manhattan, I’m barraged by hookup requests. But out in the ‘burbs, where I live, it’s not of much use. I’ve had more hookups through Instagram, a photo-sharing app, than I have through Grindr. (And it’s not like the arty snapshots I post on Instagram are racy in tone, either.) But this guy contacted me through Grindr only a couple of hours before. He had no photo. He told me he had no place to fuck. And no car. It was the trifecta of loserishness, basically—and then he sent me his photos.
The first was of himself sitting on a sofa, head bowed to show off his thick dark hair. He wore nothing but a red plaid shirt and a pair of tighty-whities. His pale legs were crossed, and made even whiter by the proximity of the flash. Then he sent me a photo of his face. He’s a beautiful boy. So I said yes.
Fucking in the back seat of a car is the compromise we’re making. He doesn’t care. He just wants the cock. My cords are around my ankles, my boots still on. I’ve got my flannel shirt unbuttoned. It hangs around his hips and chest, as he jerks and twitches and pulls every bottom’s trick in the book to get my shaft deeper into his hole. Every once in a while the angle at which I’m hitting him will shift. He’ll grunt with pain. I’ll see it flicker across his face, feel his body flinch. But he doesn’t stop. Even when it hurts, he still wants to be filled. He needs to be used.
The knowledge makes me stab him hard. My dick seems to double in size. “So why can’t you host?” I ask him. “Think how hot this would be in a bed.”
The runt’s head is lolling like a broken doll. With every thrust, it bangs against the door. He’s panting slightly. His little dick, uncut and definitely a bottom’s cock, is oozing a snail’s trail across his hoodie. “I . . . live . . . with . . . people,” he pants out, a little at a time.
Lives with his fucking parents, I’m thinking to myself, but I don’t say anything. It’s not like I really give a crap. All I really care about is keeping the screw going. The car was warm mere minutes before, all the way from where I’d picked him up downtown and on the drive here, but with the motor off, its interior was growing steadily chillier and damper from our heavy breathing. The windows are fogging up, around the bottoms.
“God, you’re so . . . big!” he grunts. He looks like he’s in pain. I like that look on his face. Because no matter how much distress is causing him, he still wants more and more of it. He’s got one hand on the back of the driver’s seat, and the other helplessly clutching a seatbelt. He uses the leverage to lift up his hips and drive them against me, trying to get more dick, more sensation, more pain. His face contorts when I shove my cold fingers up beneath his clothing and twist his nipples. He looks like he needs a bullet to bit, or a wad of leather to shove between his teeth to cope with the pain. He wants it though. Every twist of his hips tells me that, every gasp and labored breath writes that story plain.
To an observer, it might look as if he’s trying to wrestle me off. He’s still trying to get me in deeper, though. His hands shove at me, but it’s so he can position me in a way he can lie more on his back. His skinny hips buck me, but not to shove me away. He’s not in control, though. I am. I drive home and hold it there, sadistically swelling my meat to make him gasp.
Too much. He’s shooting. There’s no warning. One moment he’s trying to cope with my big dick, the next he’s spilling a load all over his sweatshirt. The sensation of his ass contorting around my dick makes me decide it’s time. I’m close. “You want the load?” I ask him.
“Yes,” he says, eyes closed. There’s need in his voice.
“Where do you want it?” I ask. He doesn’t have much of an option. I just want to hear him say the words.
“In my ass,” he whimpers. “Please. Come in me.”
I’m closer still. “If you want this load, tell me who you live with,” I say.
"I—"
"Tell me," I growl.
“With my folks,” he admits. “I still live with my folks.”
The information’s irrelevant by now. I don’t care. All I know is that my dick’s on fire. My load gushes out almost painfully, filling the boy’s ass. He welcomes it with a smile and a half-laugh, as if he can’t believe he got exactly what he wanted. I feel his fingers scrabbling around the outside of his hole, where my dick is slopping him up. “Fuck yes,” he whispers. “Fuck yes.” Then he says the words over and over, in a soft, appreciative sigh. Fuckyesfuckyesfuckyes, until his lips make the words without sound.
The car smells like semen when I drive him home. I feel something on my shoulder. His head rests on me. His beautiful eyes are closed, dreaming again. He’s soft, and seems to weigh no more than a feather.
I let him doze. He stays there almost all the way home.
When he kisses, he keeps his eyes closed. He looks like he’s dreaming.
We’re in the back of my car. It’s not night, but it’s dark. Pitch black before six in the evening. I’ve been to this parking lot before with the Latin boy in the truck, last autumn. There’s almost no traffic coming in and out of the entrance from the sleepy neighborhood street nearby. That suits my purposes just fine.
I’m driving into his hole. He’s kicked off his pants, but he still has on a pair of thick, woolen socks. His thin legs wave helplessly in the air as I enter his hole. He’s tight, but I can tell from the way his chute opens and cedes to my stiff meat that he’s been used before. “That’s it,” I whisper to him.
He sighs. He’s happy. His legs crook and clasp around my back. His eyes are still closed as he surrenders his mouth to mine. My perch on the back seat is tenuous at best, but I make the best of it, and push in as hard as I can, until he gasps, and opens those big, brown eyes.
When he looks at me, it’s through a haze of lust and sensation. He probably doesn’t even remember my name. I don’t really give a shit. “You like that?” I ask. The words seem obscenely out of place as they break the stillness.
“Yes,” he says. He licks his lips and swallows. “Dude, don’t stop.”
I have no intentions of stopping.
I’ve complained before about Grindr in my area—that app that’s become the ubiquitous hookup tool for gay men with smartphones and GPS has never really worked for me. Once I get into Manhattan, I’m barraged by hookup requests. But out in the ‘burbs, where I live, it’s not of much use. I’ve had more hookups through Instagram, a photo-sharing app, than I have through Grindr. (And it’s not like the arty snapshots I post on Instagram are racy in tone, either.) But this guy contacted me through Grindr only a couple of hours before. He had no photo. He told me he had no place to fuck. And no car. It was the trifecta of loserishness, basically—and then he sent me his photos.
The first was of himself sitting on a sofa, head bowed to show off his thick dark hair. He wore nothing but a red plaid shirt and a pair of tighty-whities. His pale legs were crossed, and made even whiter by the proximity of the flash. Then he sent me a photo of his face. He’s a beautiful boy. So I said yes.
Fucking in the back seat of a car is the compromise we’re making. He doesn’t care. He just wants the cock. My cords are around my ankles, my boots still on. I’ve got my flannel shirt unbuttoned. It hangs around his hips and chest, as he jerks and twitches and pulls every bottom’s trick in the book to get my shaft deeper into his hole. Every once in a while the angle at which I’m hitting him will shift. He’ll grunt with pain. I’ll see it flicker across his face, feel his body flinch. But he doesn’t stop. Even when it hurts, he still wants to be filled. He needs to be used.
The knowledge makes me stab him hard. My dick seems to double in size. “So why can’t you host?” I ask him. “Think how hot this would be in a bed.”
The runt’s head is lolling like a broken doll. With every thrust, it bangs against the door. He’s panting slightly. His little dick, uncut and definitely a bottom’s cock, is oozing a snail’s trail across his hoodie. “I . . . live . . . with . . . people,” he pants out, a little at a time.
Lives with his fucking parents, I’m thinking to myself, but I don’t say anything. It’s not like I really give a crap. All I really care about is keeping the screw going. The car was warm mere minutes before, all the way from where I’d picked him up downtown and on the drive here, but with the motor off, its interior was growing steadily chillier and damper from our heavy breathing. The windows are fogging up, around the bottoms.
“God, you’re so . . . big!” he grunts. He looks like he’s in pain. I like that look on his face. Because no matter how much distress is causing him, he still wants more and more of it. He’s got one hand on the back of the driver’s seat, and the other helplessly clutching a seatbelt. He uses the leverage to lift up his hips and drive them against me, trying to get more dick, more sensation, more pain. His face contorts when I shove my cold fingers up beneath his clothing and twist his nipples. He looks like he needs a bullet to bit, or a wad of leather to shove between his teeth to cope with the pain. He wants it though. Every twist of his hips tells me that, every gasp and labored breath writes that story plain.
To an observer, it might look as if he’s trying to wrestle me off. He’s still trying to get me in deeper, though. His hands shove at me, but it’s so he can position me in a way he can lie more on his back. His skinny hips buck me, but not to shove me away. He’s not in control, though. I am. I drive home and hold it there, sadistically swelling my meat to make him gasp.
Too much. He’s shooting. There’s no warning. One moment he’s trying to cope with my big dick, the next he’s spilling a load all over his sweatshirt. The sensation of his ass contorting around my dick makes me decide it’s time. I’m close. “You want the load?” I ask him.
“Yes,” he says, eyes closed. There’s need in his voice.
“Where do you want it?” I ask. He doesn’t have much of an option. I just want to hear him say the words.
“In my ass,” he whimpers. “Please. Come in me.”
I’m closer still. “If you want this load, tell me who you live with,” I say.
"I—"
"Tell me," I growl.
“With my folks,” he admits. “I still live with my folks.”
The information’s irrelevant by now. I don’t care. All I know is that my dick’s on fire. My load gushes out almost painfully, filling the boy’s ass. He welcomes it with a smile and a half-laugh, as if he can’t believe he got exactly what he wanted. I feel his fingers scrabbling around the outside of his hole, where my dick is slopping him up. “Fuck yes,” he whispers. “Fuck yes.” Then he says the words over and over, in a soft, appreciative sigh. Fuckyesfuckyesfuckyes, until his lips make the words without sound.
The car smells like semen when I drive him home. I feel something on my shoulder. His head rests on me. His beautiful eyes are closed, dreaming again. He’s soft, and seems to weigh no more than a feather.
I let him doze. He stays there almost all the way home.
Monday, January 23, 2012
My Life in Porn
A couple of months ago I had an offer that I had no choice but to refuse. Oh, it was complimentary at the time, and slightly funny, and it gave me another story to tell at parties. Simply put, I was asked to be in porn.
“That makes twice this lifetime!” I joked with someone online. Later that day, though, I added it up in my head and realized how totally wrong I’d been. I’ve had four offers to appear naked and screwing on camera.
The first was from a handsome fellow who who wanted to make a living traveling around the country, taping random encounters of himself with all sorts of guys, and then editing them together and selling them. I saw one of his tapes and they’re just awful things, production-wise. Grainy, badly-lit, poorly shot. Sure, there’s hot sex going on somewhere in there, but when you’re too busy peering through a murky puddle of shadows to see it, or getting seasick at the hand-held camera, or staring at the guy’s luggage sitting open on the table and wondering why he stuffed his dirty socks with his neatly folded shirts, you’re not really noticing it.
Then a few years ago I was extended an invitation to appear a more professional production, but again I turned it down. Then I had two invitations this year to take roles in what I can only describe as professionally produced niche market porn, shall we say. A niche market of the sort that, were I to appear ever in a reality television show or run for office, would basically guarantee me a long-running front page spot on The Smoking Gun.
I turned them down. Yes, I turned them all down. There’s something immensely flattering about the offers. Who wouldn’t appreciate heroin for the ego like that? I seriously doubt, though, that anyone wants to see my pasty body on their television screens. It’s obvious to anyone who looks at me that I’m not the gym-obsessed, tanned, twinky boy type who usually appears in these productions, or even the hunky muscle daddy type that so many men seem to wish I were.
It’s been a long stretch between the latest offer to display my talents on film and the first time I was asked to star in porn. True story: I was seventeen and still blond. A freshman in my first semester of college. I was six feet and three inches tall and a beanpole who weighed between one hundred and one hundred and five pounds. When I stepped out even into weak sunlight, I turned a deep brown.
I was sitting on a grassy bank, studying, when a man approached me. He sported long, shaggy blond hair that would be fashionable now in some circles, but back then just looked unkempt. His shirt was open to his navel, exposing a chest so dense with hair that it resembled Velcro. When he smiled, his teeth were startlingly white. “Whatcha doing?” he asked me.
“Studying,” I said, trying not to stare down his shirt. He had squatted down in front of me so that we were at face level.
“I was hoping you’d rather be doing something else,” he said. “Like fucking.”
Of course I exerted every ounce of common sense I had at the time before deciding how I should respond to so audacious and blunt a suggestion from a total stranger who might be a psychopath, rapist, or worse.
In other words, I thought about it for about a millisecond and then said, “Okay!” and blithely hopped into his van and went back to his apartment. Hey, what can I say? I've always been a fan of the direct approach.
“Oooo, you’re so tight,” he hissed the moment the door was shut, once he’d stripped me down and jammed his fingers in me. “Have you been fucked before?”
I’d already lost my virginity several hundred times by that point. I probably could have pulled it off again, but for some reason I decided to be honest. “Oh yeah,” I told him. “Lots.”
“Mind if I take some photos, then?” he asked, pulling out a Polaroid. In answer, I just spread my legs, looked lazily at the camera, and then saw a flash and heard a whirr as the instant photo came spooling out. I let him take a lot of photographs of me that day and on the other days I’d meet him. Posed photos, photos of me in action, always nude photos. I just didn’t care. I'd let Earl and his buddies take photographs all the time. (Though I have to admit that today there’s always a certain trepidation when I’m faced with vintage porn snapshots, certain that one day I’m going to see my skinny teen ass appearing somewhere.)
A couple of weeks later, by which time I’d ascertained that the guy’s name was David, he climbed off me, huffing and puffing. “I’ve been showing your photos to a buddy of mine in L.A.,” he said. “He does porn and he’s interested in meeting you.”
I had never even seen a professional porn movie, back in 1981. “Okay,” I said.
“No seriously, look, he’s interested in you.” He opened up the porn drawer by his bed and pulled out some color promotional materials. “See? These are his. Hot guys, huh? You could be one of them.”
“Yeah, right,” I said, not really taking it seriously. I was a freshman and had a stunning career as a B student ahead of me. Besides, my parents would have absolutely killed me if they found out I dropped out of school to do porn.
“No, he’s really interested. You could just go out there for a couple of weeks, that’s all it would take.”
“Nah, I don’t think so,” I kept telling him.
Once when I arrived, David immediately started dialing the phone. “He’s here,” he said to the guy on the end of the line. “Talk to him.”
“This is William Higgins,” a voice announced. “I think my friend David’s told you about me. I make adult entertainment for men.”
The only reason I remembered his name so vividly is because for a moment I thought he called himself “Henry Higgins,” and the thought of Rex Harrison as a porn director just amused me. “Oh yeah,” I said in my most blasé manner.
“He tells me you’re a great fuck.”
“Yeah?” I replied, showing off my Advanced Placement English skills.
“I'm wondering if you'd be a good fit for one of my upcoming films,” said Mr. Higgins.
“Yeah? Well, nah, I don’t think so,” I said. “Thanks though.”
To be fair, I didn't really believe a word David was telling me. I didn't believe there was such a person—and if there were, I didn't believe David knew him, living as he did in the middle of nowhere, Virginia. I thought he'd gotten one of his buddies on the phone pretending to be a director, for some nefarious purpose. For all I know, that could've been the case. But most of all, I didn't believe I was porn-worthy.
I handed the phone back to David, who seemed mightily disappointed in me. He never had me back to his place again, after that day. I used to wonder if he was some sort of porn bounty hunter who lived on commission he earned by shipping boys west.
After a couple of weeks, the only reminder I had that I’d known him was a steady itching sensation below my waist. Baby’s first case of crabs.
I finally saw my first genuine porn film in 1987, when I finally had my own apartment and my own VCR and my own credit card to order one. I forget the title. It was some two-hour extravaganza that takes place mostly in a locker room after the big football game. When the words Directed by William Higgins flashed up on the tube, though, I was impressed—David and his friend had been for real, after all. Whenever I watched the movie after the first time, I stared at all the skinny blond twinks up on the screen and thought to myself, That could’ve been you, kiddo. That could’ve been you.
But I’m awfully glad it wasn’t.
“That makes twice this lifetime!” I joked with someone online. Later that day, though, I added it up in my head and realized how totally wrong I’d been. I’ve had four offers to appear naked and screwing on camera.
The first was from a handsome fellow who who wanted to make a living traveling around the country, taping random encounters of himself with all sorts of guys, and then editing them together and selling them. I saw one of his tapes and they’re just awful things, production-wise. Grainy, badly-lit, poorly shot. Sure, there’s hot sex going on somewhere in there, but when you’re too busy peering through a murky puddle of shadows to see it, or getting seasick at the hand-held camera, or staring at the guy’s luggage sitting open on the table and wondering why he stuffed his dirty socks with his neatly folded shirts, you’re not really noticing it.
Then a few years ago I was extended an invitation to appear a more professional production, but again I turned it down. Then I had two invitations this year to take roles in what I can only describe as professionally produced niche market porn, shall we say. A niche market of the sort that, were I to appear ever in a reality television show or run for office, would basically guarantee me a long-running front page spot on The Smoking Gun.
I turned them down. Yes, I turned them all down. There’s something immensely flattering about the offers. Who wouldn’t appreciate heroin for the ego like that? I seriously doubt, though, that anyone wants to see my pasty body on their television screens. It’s obvious to anyone who looks at me that I’m not the gym-obsessed, tanned, twinky boy type who usually appears in these productions, or even the hunky muscle daddy type that so many men seem to wish I were.
It’s been a long stretch between the latest offer to display my talents on film and the first time I was asked to star in porn. True story: I was seventeen and still blond. A freshman in my first semester of college. I was six feet and three inches tall and a beanpole who weighed between one hundred and one hundred and five pounds. When I stepped out even into weak sunlight, I turned a deep brown.
I was sitting on a grassy bank, studying, when a man approached me. He sported long, shaggy blond hair that would be fashionable now in some circles, but back then just looked unkempt. His shirt was open to his navel, exposing a chest so dense with hair that it resembled Velcro. When he smiled, his teeth were startlingly white. “Whatcha doing?” he asked me.
“Studying,” I said, trying not to stare down his shirt. He had squatted down in front of me so that we were at face level.
“I was hoping you’d rather be doing something else,” he said. “Like fucking.”
Of course I exerted every ounce of common sense I had at the time before deciding how I should respond to so audacious and blunt a suggestion from a total stranger who might be a psychopath, rapist, or worse.
In other words, I thought about it for about a millisecond and then said, “Okay!” and blithely hopped into his van and went back to his apartment. Hey, what can I say? I've always been a fan of the direct approach.
“Oooo, you’re so tight,” he hissed the moment the door was shut, once he’d stripped me down and jammed his fingers in me. “Have you been fucked before?”
I’d already lost my virginity several hundred times by that point. I probably could have pulled it off again, but for some reason I decided to be honest. “Oh yeah,” I told him. “Lots.”
“Mind if I take some photos, then?” he asked, pulling out a Polaroid. In answer, I just spread my legs, looked lazily at the camera, and then saw a flash and heard a whirr as the instant photo came spooling out. I let him take a lot of photographs of me that day and on the other days I’d meet him. Posed photos, photos of me in action, always nude photos. I just didn’t care. I'd let Earl and his buddies take photographs all the time. (Though I have to admit that today there’s always a certain trepidation when I’m faced with vintage porn snapshots, certain that one day I’m going to see my skinny teen ass appearing somewhere.)
A couple of weeks later, by which time I’d ascertained that the guy’s name was David, he climbed off me, huffing and puffing. “I’ve been showing your photos to a buddy of mine in L.A.,” he said. “He does porn and he’s interested in meeting you.”
I had never even seen a professional porn movie, back in 1981. “Okay,” I said.
“No seriously, look, he’s interested in you.” He opened up the porn drawer by his bed and pulled out some color promotional materials. “See? These are his. Hot guys, huh? You could be one of them.”
“Yeah, right,” I said, not really taking it seriously. I was a freshman and had a stunning career as a B student ahead of me. Besides, my parents would have absolutely killed me if they found out I dropped out of school to do porn.
“No, he’s really interested. You could just go out there for a couple of weeks, that’s all it would take.”
“Nah, I don’t think so,” I kept telling him.
Once when I arrived, David immediately started dialing the phone. “He’s here,” he said to the guy on the end of the line. “Talk to him.”
“This is William Higgins,” a voice announced. “I think my friend David’s told you about me. I make adult entertainment for men.”
The only reason I remembered his name so vividly is because for a moment I thought he called himself “Henry Higgins,” and the thought of Rex Harrison as a porn director just amused me. “Oh yeah,” I said in my most blasé manner.
“He tells me you’re a great fuck.”
“Yeah?” I replied, showing off my Advanced Placement English skills.
“I'm wondering if you'd be a good fit for one of my upcoming films,” said Mr. Higgins.
“Yeah? Well, nah, I don’t think so,” I said. “Thanks though.”
To be fair, I didn't really believe a word David was telling me. I didn't believe there was such a person—and if there were, I didn't believe David knew him, living as he did in the middle of nowhere, Virginia. I thought he'd gotten one of his buddies on the phone pretending to be a director, for some nefarious purpose. For all I know, that could've been the case. But most of all, I didn't believe I was porn-worthy.
I handed the phone back to David, who seemed mightily disappointed in me. He never had me back to his place again, after that day. I used to wonder if he was some sort of porn bounty hunter who lived on commission he earned by shipping boys west.
After a couple of weeks, the only reminder I had that I’d known him was a steady itching sensation below my waist. Baby’s first case of crabs.
I finally saw my first genuine porn film in 1987, when I finally had my own apartment and my own VCR and my own credit card to order one. I forget the title. It was some two-hour extravaganza that takes place mostly in a locker room after the big football game. When the words Directed by William Higgins flashed up on the tube, though, I was impressed—David and his friend had been for real, after all. Whenever I watched the movie after the first time, I stared at all the skinny blond twinks up on the screen and thought to myself, That could’ve been you, kiddo. That could’ve been you.
But I’m awfully glad it wasn’t.
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