Monday, January 15, 2018

Good Enough

So here’s the thing about this kid: his butt is amazing.

It’s round. Round, hell. Those two globes offset from his hips at precisely the right angle, with exquisitely-calculated curvature. They’re the ultimate culmination of human geometry, the fruition of refined formulae, the pinnacle of every mathematician’s search for geometrical perfection since Archimedes. I could throw out a phrase like bubble butt to describe the thing, but the words aren’t evocative enough to suit the acme of this kid’s ass. Bubble implies impermanence. Bubble hints at something that can vanish before it’s been admired, much less memorized or immortalized.

No, this kid’s butt is solid. Meaty. Weighty. It’s the kind of butt that can take a slap and a pounding both, only to bounce back for more. It’s solid. Athletic. You look at it, and all you can do is wonder how many squats it took to bring about this consummation of meat and muscle. I’ve had many mighty fine asses, mind you, but this boy’s rear end is one of those that only comes around once in a lifetime. It’s the kind of butt that, had this boy casually ambled by during the sculpting of Michaelangelo’s David, would have made the mighty artist throw down his chisel in disgust, saying, “Fuck this amateur shit. Back to baking pizza.”

But let me backtrack a little.

I was cruising one of the sex sites when a twenty-year-old kid hit me up. Sup, he said.

The photos he’d chosen were blurry but intriguing. He seemed barely literate . . . or at least was determined to establish his masculinity through brusqueness. How was he doing today? Good. U. What was he looking for? Good raw dick. How bout u. Where was he?

When he named the neighborhood in which I live, I was a little taken aback. That’s funny, I told him. Me too. What street?

He named the street I live on.

Huh, I told him. Me too. It’s a long street, though, stretching over a mile down to the shore, so I told him my cross street.

He didn’t seem to recognize it. #43 here, he replied. I checked my phone’s map just to be sure, but my suspicion was correct: the address he’d given me was only a block away.

Now, forgive me if I sound unnecessarily dubious here, but my first instinct was that the kid was bullshitting me. I’ve run into obvious fantasists and scammers on these sites before, from the guys who throw up a couple of jailbait photos from Reddit and send me messages that read, Hi today’s my 18th birthday and my high school is out today and live only 1 mile from you and my hot uncle says I should let you bareback me, what does bareback mean??, to the dudes who post genuine pics of themselves but try to pass off 65 as 43 . . . and everything in between. My little uptight neighborhood is not exactly replete with boys looking to be bred. Remember, this kid hadn’t even known the name of the second cross street south of him.

On the other hand, I thought to myself, do I know the name of the second cross street north of me? No. I did not. I still don’t. So I left a little wiggle room for doubt, and told the kid to hit me up some evening that week. I’d take care of him. Then I signed off, assuming I’d never see him again.

Three days later. It’s a Wednesday night. I’ve got the place to myself. Sup, he messages me from out of the blue.

Ready to come over? I ask. It’s a challenge, really. I’m waiting for him to bullshit out of it with an excuse.

I’m a little surprised when he says, I need 20 to clean up. 7:30? Address?

I give it to him, and tell him I’ll be waiting out front on the sidewalk at 7:30.

It’s one of those nights that’s fucking freezing out. I’ve got on a down jacket and a cap, but I’ve stuffed my bare feet into my sneakers, so there’s frigid air drifting under the cuffs of my jeans and reaching up far enough to make my balls recoil. My mittened hands are wrapped around my torso, hugging the heat in, while I stand outside on my dark street, waiting for the guy.

Thankfully, it’s not too long before I see a figure ambling down the sidewalk. He’s on the wrong side of the street, though. Well, is it him? It’s too dark to see any features, but the person seems to be craning his neck to look at the street numbers. Dude, I’m thinking. Your address is an odd number. My address is an odd number. Why the fuck are you on the opposite side of the street?

“Hey,” I call out, when he should be in earshot. “Hey!” I don’t know the boy’s name. (Still don’t.) He’s got some thick wool hat covering his ears, so he can’t hear me over the slight car traffic on the two-lane road. He’s now walking past, going too far. “Hey, kid!”

He wheels around, finally. I beckon him over. He jogs across the street. “Hey. Thought you were number 88,” he says in an unexpectedly deep voice.

88 is not remotely my street number. Neither digit is even vaguely close. “Come on in,” I tell him, shivering, and already wondering whether I’m regretting extending the invitation.

For the first time, as he follows up the stairs onto my front porch, I can see that he’s as tall as I. Maybe taller. Six-four? I can’t see his face. Under his thick winter clothing, he’s bulky and shapeless. He could be two hundred and seventy-five pounds of seventy-year-old shambling flesh under there, for all I can tell out here in the dark. I honestly don’t know what the fuck I’m getting.

But what the hell. I had needs. I wasn’t having to to travel far to get this guy, and he was pretty much free for the taking. Might as well give him a go. Yes, basically I use the same rationale to decide whether or not to let the guy in, as I do when weighing whether or not to eat cheese that’s been sitting out on the break room counter at work for a suspiciously long time. I’m not too proud to admit it.

Once we’re inside my living room, his hat comes off first. “Sup,” he mutters, nodding at me as I remove my down jacket. He’s clearly twenty—he didn’t lie about that. Mediterranean looks. Lot of product in his short hair, cut in a fade on the sides and floppy on top. Handsome kid. I don’t expect him to be quite as good looking as he is, from the blurry photos he’d posted.

That’s it for the small talk, though. “I’ll put this here,” he says, and starts to remove the outermost layer of his clothing. It’s some kind of shiny shell that covers up an oversized baseball jacket underneath. He throws it on my rocking chair. Then he applies the toe of one sneaker to the heel of the other. It pops off with a clunk—a size twelve or thirteen high-top roughly the size of a small appliance. The other hits the floor to its side. He hooks his fingers under the elastic of his pants. Shucks them. They’re the same windproof fabric as his first jacket. Underneath those, he’s got a pair of baggy ripped jeans.

With the outer layers shorn, I’m beginning to see he’s more athletic than I would’ve guessed. “Let’s go upstairs,” I suggest.

He nods.

The kid is tall. I’m unused to men looming over me, but this looks down into my eyes in the dim light of the bedroom. Off comes his Yankees jacket, hitting the rug at the foot of my bed. He’s wearing a gray wife-beater underneath; I’m stuck motionless at the sight of his arms. They’re muscular. Sculpted. The boy is swole. His deltoids look like fucking tree trunks. A half-sleeve extends down his left arm from the shoulder to his elbow, the outline inked in but not colored. The thin fabric of his tank top clings to and outlines his pecs. There’s a gap between navel and jeans in which I can spy a perfect V across his narrow waist.

I’m speechless. My jaw doesn’t work. I say nothing. But that’s all right. This twenty-year-old kid, this muscled-up pup, this boy who looks like he should be headlining the next Magic Mike movie, takes a step forward so that his face is close to mine. For a split-second I’m anticipating a kiss. But then he drops to his knees, wraps his thick arms around my middle, and rests his cheek against the bulge in my jeans.

When he starts to kiss the fabric, eyes closed, his lips searching for the outline of my meat, I feel myself growing harder and harder. My rigidity excites him. His massive hands reach for my belt. I help him loosen it, then allow him to unbutton me. He pulls down my zipper. Once again, when he encounters my black trunks, he presses his face against the fabric. I can feel the warmth of his breath, and the chilliness of the tip of his nose against my skin.

I adjust my stance so that my jeans fall to the floor. He tugs at the waistband of my shorts, to let loose my cock. His mouth is already open to catch it. Even though the skin of his face is still cold, his mouth is wet. Tropical. Once I’m down his throat, he opens his eyes again and regards me with heavy lids.

I know that look. It’s the expression of a boy who’s fallen in love with my dick.

“Suck it,” I order. He doubles down on my inches, letting them slide slickly in and out of his eager gullet. “Good boy.”

The praise makes him grunt. Deep as his voice is, the guttural noise rumbles from his chest with a vibration that only amplifies my pleasure.

I’m picky about my blow jobs, you know. The vast majority of guys give bad head. The stimulation might be enough to keep me hard, but maintenance is not the same as arousal. This kid, though. He knows how to work his tongue. He knows how to vary his strokes. And he doesn’t rely on beating me off in lieu of real oral service. This kid sucks unexpectedly well, like he’s had years of practice. Maybe he has. So I let him suck me for a good long time, down on his knees, in the dusk of the bedroom, before I pull out.

“Take off the jeans,” I order, as I step out of my own.

Without protest, he stands up once more. He tugs off his top to expose that perfectly-worked chest. His pants drop. He pulls his feet, clad in white ankle socks, out of the pile of denim. His hands protectively clutch his crotch, where his hard dick stretches out a white, elastic fabric. He now wears only a much-worn, dime-store jock.

“I want you now,” he says, looking me in the eye.

Well. Okay. If some swole kid wants me now, I guess he’s going to get me now. I’m obliging, that way.

I pull one of my pillows to the middle of the bed. Pat it. Without needing instruction, he hops up onto the mattress, grabs the other pillow to bury his face in, and uses the cushion I’ve prepared to prop up his hips.

That’s when I see the ass.

That ass. That indescribable, sculpted, sent from heaven with a seraphim chorus of trumpets accompanied by a cherubim choir ass.

That’s when my jaw drops.

I stare at that butt for a long minute, motionless. “Jesus Christ,” I finally blurt. Appropriate, since I feel like I’m having a religious experience.

He turns his head on the pillow so that he can regard me with one eye. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing—fuck, nothing is wrong.” I stammer out.

“Am I good enough?”

Is there anything more endearing than a kid like this asking if he’s good enough? In the second it takes him to ask, in these brief few words, I feel like I’ve had more insight into what drives this boy that probably his friends and family do.

All it takes is this ephemeral, fleeting glimpse of vulnerability and fear deep down, to turn him in my eyes from a Junior Tom of Finland improbability, to someone desperate for real, human contact.
I crawl onto the bed between his legs. “I’ll show you how good enough you are,” I promise.

This kid nearly cries during the long minutes I eat him out. He hisses and clutches the bedclothes when I part his cheeks and bury my face between the symmetrical globes. When I chew at the soft flesh deep within, he whines. The sensation is so intense for him that when he starts grabbing at his own ass cheeks I can’t tell whether he’s try to stop me, or to pull them apart to go deeper. Without confirmation, I naturally assume the latter. The whines turn to squeals, the grunts to half-vocalized swearing. Has he ever been eaten out in his life? I can’t tell.

One of my thumbs slips into his slick hole. He raises his head from the pillow. Is the wince on his face pain? Pleasure? Again, I assume the latter, and replace my thumb with my index and middle finger. My spit has made his ass slippery and ready for dick; a little more spit greases my rigid meat. My fingers still stretching his pucker, I pull myself to my knees.

“You want it?”

He nods.


The kid mumbles something. Only the pillow hears it.

Ask,” I order.

In a very low, barely audible voice, he enunciates the words. “Fuck me.” He doesn’t say please. He doesn’t say sir. He doesn’t need to. There’s an honesty in the way he mans up and finally demands what he wants. There’s a need that’s as naked and plain as what I saw earlier, when he asked me if he was good enough.

So yeah. I fuck him.

He’s a howler, this one. He bays as I slide into him. I can tell from the way he instantly accommodates me, though, that he’s in no pain. He’s moist all the way in. Either I prepared him well with my rimming, or he’s naturally self-lubricating. He’s as wet and soft as pussy, actually. “Fuck,” I exclaim, when I reach the bottom.

He replies in whimpers.

I wonder a lot about this kid. I wonder where he’s been, the last few years I’ve been living in this sexless cul-de-sac. I wonder how long he’s been taking cock, how long he’s been raw-dogging it. I wonder at which gym he’s a personal trainer. Because with this body, what else can he be but a trainer, right?

The one thing I don’t have to wonder about is whether he’s enjoying himself. Every stroke, every probe, every long pulling-out and sliding-in makes him gulp and yelp and moan. When I drive in deep and grind my hips, using that amazing ass as my cushion, he sobs and sniffs. He’s hugging the pillow like a teddy bear; he’s lifting his ass to help me plumb its depths.

I’m not holding back, either. I know the effect this butt, this perfect butt, is going to have on my dick this first night we’re together. He’s getting three loads, minimum. So I have absolutely zero problem with letting loose the first one in a prompt and expedient manner.

Like I said, I’m obliging, that way.

I can feel the tide rising, that red-tinged wave of pleasure buoying me forward. “You want my seed, son?” I ask.

He mumbles again. Unacceptable.

“Say what?”

This time, he’s more audible, and just as definite. “Breed my hole. Please.”

I give him what he wants. Beneath a red wave I sink. My sight grows blurry. All sound recedes. Nothing exists for me at that moment save for his ass contracting around my pulsing, engorged flesh, and the sensation of my seed jetting into his guts. For who knows how long, I kneel there between his legs, my hands cupped around those beautiful cheeks, as my senses slowly restore and I can feel my kettledrum heart thudding in my ribcage.

My dick snakes out. Plops between his thighs. He makes a move, as if to roll over. “No.” My hands keep him still.

Prone I go, chest against the mattress, to keep his legs spread. I pry apart his sloppy wet ass with my fingers. Dive in with my tongue. The scent of my sperm is powerful, down here. When I make contact with my tongue, his reaction is to draw himself up on his elbows. “Oh FUCK!” he shouts.

His surprise doesn’t stop me. Savagely I yank apart his cheeks and suck on the hole, tasting my essence as it oozes out. One of his fists hits the mattress; I can feel the vibration as it strikes. Again he beats against it, over and over.

I stop chewing at his hole. “No one’s ever done this for you after they fucked you. Have they?”

“Noooooo,” he whines, raising his head and shaking it. He’s near tears.

“But you love it, don’t you.”

He knows it’s not a question. He nods, his eyes closed, and I go back to work. At first, he continues to beat the mattress with his clenched fist, as if pounding at a door that will never open. Yet the longer I lap at him, the more of him I clean up, the deeper my tongue probes at that wide-open pussy that’s been fucked and bred, the less he resists. Weakly, he stops striking the bed. He gives in.

That’s when I know he’s ready for round two. And this time around, I intend to savor this ass.

This beautiful ass.

This fucking amazing ass.

This ass that’s now mine.

Monday, January 8, 2018

Monday Morning Questions: Send Me Your Noods Edition

Remember when I used to answer reader questions on a regular basis? Yeah, me too. Good times.

Of course, sometimes it seemed like the majority of the questions were How do you keep your sexual acts secret from your wife? or How do you keep from bringing diseases home? or Why are you not dead yet?

If you have a question that’s not one of those, feel free to email me at the address on the sidebar, or send me a message on Twitter—I’ll consider using it in future editions of this feature.

One of the things I’ve admired about you since I’ve been reading you for a couple of years now is that you seem to have great success in finding good sex. I’m like you in that I’m kind of confident about myself, but when I go to meet guys, I’m always striking out. Either they’re no-shows or they flake out, or the connection isn’t there, or sometimes the sex just isn’t all that, if you know what I mean. To what do you attribute your success?—M

M, quite honestly, I usually only write about my better times. The shitty hookups don’t make the cut.

When I meet a guy who says he wants to give me an expert blowjob, but all he really wants to do is grab my dick in a vise-like grip and choke it purple while he moves his lips in the vague vicinity of my genitals and occasionally lets his tongue flick out, until my dick is chafed and sore and I finally have to force him to lay off . . . it’s probably not going to make the pages of my blog. When I make an app connection with a guy who tells me to come right over, and I do, and then I have to sit in my car for 45 minutes because he’s ‘not ready yet,’ and when I finally get into his dingy, dirty little apartment and the sex is mediocre at best and generally makes me feel as if I’ve wasted an afternoon I could’ve been—I don’t know, emptying the cat pans at home—I don’t write about it. I have plenty of sex that would my readers recoil with a muttered Oy!

And hoo boy, do I ever get stood up in spectacular fashion. Last week, in fact, I was flaked on spectacularly. At one of those sex parties I don’t go to anymore, about a year and a half ago, I met a guy. Let’s call him Michael. (Because that’s his name.) We fucked toward the end of the evening, after the more aggressive bottoms at the party had clawed at each other to get their hole on my dick. Most of the men had gone home, and I still had a little life in me; Michael and I found ourselves in our host’s bed, alone, while the few remaining guests chatted quietly in the next room.

We made love. It wasn’t mere sex party sport fucking. It was sweet, and tender, and intimate. He told me that he didn’t think he was going to have the privilege of getting my cock inside him that night, much less a load; as a more shy type, he’d hung back and watched rather than made his desires for me known. He was kind, and honest, and made a good impression. I actually spent more time with him than any other single person at the party that night.

We’d kept in touch since then, but he lived in Jersey. Finding a time to play just proved difficult. Michael liked to tell me that the sex we’d had at the party that evening had been transformative for him; I gave him confidence that carried over to later parties. I fucked him like nobody before ever had. (Well, naturally.) He would tell me he wanted my touch, my kisses, my dick, and he wanted them badly.

Then last week he told me he’d be staying the week a little closer to me—still a good hour’s drive, but closer. Did I want to meet? The ball’s in your court, he texted.

The ball’s in your court. I hate that phrase. When guys use it, it’s to signify that they want nothing more to do with the logistics of hooking up. It’s up to the other guy to make everything happen. To me it’s a passive-aggressive turnoff. The ball is never solely in anyone’s court. Hooking up, making a date—it’s a dialogue. It needs two people to happen. The ball’s in your court is a guy saying, Hey, you get to go to all the trouble to come up with a date and place and plan for our meeting, while I’ll do jack shit to help you out. But oh, wait, I get to hold absolute veto power over any details you come up with that I might not like.

Fuck that shit.

But my memory of the good evening I’d had with Michael outweighed the amount that phrase repulsed me, so I texted him back. Are you free tomorrow, Thursday? I asked.

For you, yes, he replied. Anytime Thursday except around 2 when my cleaning lady is here.

All right then. How about in the early evening?

That would be great! he answered.

What time, exactly? I wanted to know.

His messages had been coming fast and furious up until this point. I had to wait a couple of minutes for his last reply. I’ll have to let you know, he finally said.

M, I’m telling you right now, when I got that message, I knew, I knew, that I would not be hearing back from him. Every instinct honed by forty years of sex with men told me that I was never going to get that reply telling me what time I could come over.

The realization enraged me, right then and there. Here I was, accepting his passive-aggressive ball’s in your court bullshit challenge. I was telling him I was willing to carve a considerable chunk of time out of my day to drive an hour to his place so we could engage in good sex for a few hours, and then drive an hour home. Here I was, trying to make a date in good confidence. And I knew, I just knew, that I was going to get nothing but bullshit from him.

I tried to calm myself down. I let the memory of a single good night attempt to soothe me. Maybe he’d come through.

Still, I knew he wouldn’t.

I woke up Thursday to no messages on my phone. Every hour that passed, I dug in with the grim satisfaction of knowing my instincts had been correct. I didn’t cave and text Michael. Ball’s in your court now, motherfucker. I went to lunch, took in a movie afterward. Finally, around four, I sent Michael a text. You never got back to me, and my window of making this evening happen has closed. I guess it won’t be happening.

Immediately he texted back. He’d totally forgotten to get back to me! He was supposed to have dinner with a friend! Maybe we could do it another time!

Into my phone I tapped, I’m so sorry I misunderstood when you said ‘That would be great!’ that it meant you already had plans. I thought about sending it. But in the end I just deleted the snap-back, letter by letter. Michael had already heard the last from me.

I spent the rest of the day feeling as miserable about being stood up as I’d been miserable earlier about the certainty of it. But in the end, I came to a certain realization: my time is valuable. My attention is a gift. When a guy proves himself unworthy of a valuable gift—that’s it. No more chances.

M, if guys are standing you up or treating you badly, don’t fret too much. They’re doing the same to me, and to all the other men reading this blog. Tell yourself the same thing I did this week, though: don’t give them a second chance unless they really go out of their way to earn it. Your time is valuable. Your attention and presence is a gift. Give them to the men, and only to the men, who deserve them. Be patient, and be persistent. They’re out there.

What’s your personal policy on the photos you show on apps like Scruff or Grindr or on websites? I don’t think mine are doing the job they should be doing even though I’m not a troll or anything, any suggestions?

When you’re attempting to construct a profile, I suggest you play to your strengths.

I try to be as transparent as possible on cruising apps and sex sites. I have a face pic, front and center. I’ve got good teeth thanks to several thousand of my parents’ dollars in orthodontic work, so I pick photos with big smiles. They make me look friendly and approachable. I’m comfortable with the way I look, and face photos work for me, so on Grindr or Scruff, you’ll find me looking relaxed and happy and, you know . . . foxy as all get out.

I see a lot of scowling guys on these apps, though. There are some men for whom the glowering, broody look can work—but honestly, most of those guys are wearing chaps, a vest, and the same cap as the biker in the Village People. If looking like you’re about to punch someone is what gets you attention from guys (and not the FBI), though, go for it. I’m not really a fan of headless torso photos, but if you think your body is slammin' and you’re proud of it, then by all means, post that headless torso photo. Whatever you do, pick the photos that show off your best assets.

When it comes to cruising sites, where the photo restrictions are less conservative, I have a personal tendency to put everything on the line. I’ll show face, cock, face and cock, fuck shots if they’re allowed . . . and I keep them all unlocked. I’m not fond of messages from strangers consisting solely of the word UNLOCK???, so I keep them all public. No shame here.

I wouldn’t fault you, though, if you don’t feel the same. If you’re comfortable showing your dick and ass in a shot anyone can see, but you want your mug locked away . . . great. If you don’t mind guys seeing your face, but want to keep the goods hidden as a surprise for that special fellow . . . fine with me. I do advise you have at least one face shot to share, though. Many men, myself included, won’t meet without seeing someone’s face.

If you think you’ve done a good job with your photos, and the profile is still not working for you, make sure your profile and your photos are working together in a harmonious fashion. If you’re advertising yourself as a big ol’ toppy top man—I see this one all the time and it baffles me—make sure your profile isn’t a succession of extreme closeups of your pucker accompanied by shots of you bending over ready for any dick, any species. (Guys, why do so many of you do this?) If you’re saying you’re a bottom whore and you’re posting pics of your big dick that seem to invite someone to have a seat, you’re just going to confuse your potential audience . . . and probably get a lot of emails from other bottoms asking you to flip. If you claim you’re nine inches and your photo is either of a stubby dick or is at such a bad angle that your penis looks stunted, guys are going to roll their eyes and think you’re a big liar.

In other words, think of your profile on an app or website as a story about yourself and what you want. Is the story you’re telling one that will attract the men you want? Is the story showing you to your best advantage and displaying what’s most attractive about you? Do your photos illustrate that story appropriately?

Ask a friend, if you’re worried your pics aren’t doing the job. Heck, ask me. I’m willing to rifle through your X-rated noods to see which one is best.

You’ve said in the past that when a man gives you a compliment during an encounter, you should accept it gracefully. I try, I really do, but I don’t think I’m worthy of the compliments guys sometimes give me. What should I do?

You know what’s more painful and annoying, when I tell a man he’s handsome, or that he’s sexy as all get out, or that he has a beautiful body, and the man deflects the compliment or flat out says No I’m not or otherwise naysays the good vibes I’m trying to send his way? Well, an unmedicated root canal. But that’s about the only thing.

Listen. If a guy is chatting you up on Grindr and says how attractive you are, and you’re convinced that he’s only saying it to get in your pants, and he’s just seen that one shot of you that your bestie took when you were relaxed, and that shot looks better than you usually do in your everyday life, and you’re certain that if the guy saw you sitting there at home wearing sweats and yesterday’s underwear he’d probably run for his life . . . fine. Feel that way. Think what you like, privately. But still say thank you! and swallow your doubts and don’t share them with the poor fellow. He was probably being sincere, and any display of doubt on your part is ungrateful and, frankly, annoying.

But if the guy already has you naked, and in his bed, and he’s making love to you, and he’s saying sweet things? Why the fuck are you doubting him? At that point he doesn’t have to charm you. He doesn’t have to connive to make your head spin. He doesn’t have to say a damned thing he doesn’t want. He’s already got you where he wants you. In the heat of the moment, he’s speaking the truths a man speaks when his guard is down, when he’s at his most essential and primal.

To sum up: when a man compliments you, especially during an encounter, the only response you’re obligated to make is to say thank you, and maybe smile. If you can, believe him. At the very least, accept graciously. Suck it up and don’t contradict him.

Taking a compliment is easy to do. Start practicing today, and you’ll find yourself worthy of more.

Monday, December 18, 2017

In the Navy: Part 2

(Part 1 can be found here.)

When I look back on the sexual adventures I had in my preteens and teens, usually I end up thinking I must have had a particularly harried guardian angel looking over me then. I had unpleasant sexual encounters, sure, and I ran into guys who could be rude or aggressive. But not once was I beaten up, or assaulted, or—since I’m still here to write these essay—murdered.

I could have been, so easily. My hundreds and hundreds of trysts with adult men left with me, however, crazily confident when it came to sex; I was certain I could suck, smile, or bullshit my way through just about any situation. So being plopped down in a foreign country with an imperfect grasp of the language, and being steered away from the only people there I knew through a strange neighborhood by a big, built Mexican bull who could’ve snapped me in half? No problem. No matter how wrong it might go, I knew I’d get through the situation safely. I always did.

I actually think it was this confidence (warranted or not) that made me stand out as the most mature kid of just about any group. At sixteen I was only a year older than the freshmen on our class trip—but the difference in our ability to take charge was vast. Señorita Wiggins would never have thought to send any of her freshmen kids out onto the street to look for restaurants or to scope the lay of the neighborhood. But throughout all my years of school I handled myself with such assurance that if I told the teachers I could do something, they damn well believed it.

It took me years for my self-perception of my confidence to catch up with the actual amount of juvenile assurance I possessed, mind you. But thinking back on my walk down that unknown Mexican boulevard with Toro’s hand on my back, guiding me steadily toward his apartment, my thoughts now are less Oh no! What the fuck were you doing, kid?! and more You go and get it, gurl!

Everyone seemed to know Toro. The gaggles of gay boys in their tight cheap jeans and cheaper tank tops and disco shirts stared at him with longing and respect when we passed; businessmen in front of their stores and restaurants and laundromats nodded or called out his name. Toro seemed to know everyone, as well. Toothless old women cracked a wrinkled grin as he greeted them, and he used his free hand to high-five his friends or clap them on the shoulder as we passed. No one seemed to care about, or be surprised by, the fact that he had his arm around the narrow waist of a skinny white boy from who-knows-where. They probably assumed he had his reasons. And they probably knew what those reasons were, just as surely as I.

Toro didn’t live too far from the alleyway where our hotel sat. Three or four blocks, really, though the trek seemed like the longest parade in the world. But at last he steered me through the arch of a lemon-colored building, down the dark interior hallway, and to a door at the end. He unlocked the iron grating that covered the door, then the door itself. Finally, he took my slender white hand into his hairy, dark-skinned paw, and pulled me inside.

We were alone. My heart had been pounding since the moment Toro clapped his hand on my shoulder, down the street. Now, as I leaned against the pastel-blue wall of his tiny studio apartment, an elaborate crucifix nailed to the wall over my left shoulder, my heart’s timpani beat must have been audible to the man opposite, staring into my eyes. “You are scared?” he asked, in a low, sexual voice.
I shook my head.

“You are a beautiful boy.” He released my hand and traced my jaw with his fingers. “Maybe you are thinking your friend Toro, he is not such an ugly old man, eh?”

There were enough twists in that sentence that in my lust-fogged state I couldn’t figure out whether a yes or a no was the proper answer. Instead, I took a step forward, and lifted my face to his. He pressed his mouth against mine with such ferocity that his enormous, thick mustache felt like a test tube brush up my nostrils. As we still kissed, he lifted me up so that my groin pressed against his belly and my legs wrapped around his waist. He was a beast of a man, a horny homo in the body of a comic book brute. I never weighed more than a hundred and five pounds all the way through college, so I wouldn’t have put up much of a physical challenge to him. We continued making out for a few moments. Then he walked with me clamped around him past the galley kitchen into the one room of his apartment, and deposited me onto the edge of his unmade bed.

He sat on one of the dining room chairs. Our eyes locked, he pulled off his cowboy boots. He stood again. His big hands loosened his belt buckle and undid the button of his jeans, followed by the two or three buttons of his shirt that actually had been fastened. I’d already known his chest would be hairy: the man had hair everywhere. His arms were a forest of fur; his face betrayed a heavy growth of stubble, though he’d probably shaved that morning. Even the tops of his fingers were dense with coarse hair between the knuckles. I wasn’t, however, expecting such definition on his body. He was a man who was naturally muscular; as the silky drapes of his shirt hung to the sides, the sight of him took my breath away. His pecs were heavy, their nipples dark and rigid. Though he had a stocky physique, his stomach was flat. In the golden age of Mexico’s silver screen, with a guitar strapped to his back and a bejeweled sombrero, Toro could’ve been a movie star.

He stepped closer, hulking over me. His crotch loomed in my face. I could feel the heat radiating from behind the worn and unwashed denim. I caught my breath as the flesh within shifted, thickened, hardened. Toro waited for me to make the next move. Maybe he enjoyed the position of power he obviously held over me. Maybe he wanted to make sure I knew what I wanted, that I knew what I was getting myself into.

I wasn’t shy. I reached out and undid the other buttons of his fly. Immediately I realized he wasn’t wearing shorts. He shifted his hips slightly to help the jeans fall around his thighs. As they dropped, his fat uncut dick sprang into my face. It smelled of soap, and the morning’s sweat. Without me even touching it, it grew harder, pointing like a curved digit toward my face. It wasn’t the longest I’d seen, but it certainly was one of the thickest—easily approaching the circumference of a beer can. His foreskin had retracted slightly, leaving the tip to wink at me, mere inches away.

I dropped my jaw, and took him between my lips.

From the satisfied grunt and sigh he let loose, I knew I’d done the right thing. The first move had been mine to make, but from here on out, Toro called the shots. He gave me no time at all to adjust to his girth; he started shoving in and out as he gripped my long blond hair between the clenched left fingers. His right hand grabbed the back waistband of my jeans and hauled me up onto all fours on the mattress so that he could skullfuck me at a comfortable level. My eyes were watering and I struggled to keep breathing, but Toro was relentless in his assault of my mouth.

Somehow my clothes came off. He withdrew to yank my tee over my head; he managed to unbuckle and undo my jeans while he continued sodomizing my lips. My pants fell around my knees and tangled there; he shoved his index and middle fingers into his mouth to wet them, then drove them into my ass.

I howled at the sudden invasion. He pulled his dick out of my throat. “Is this what American boys do for men like me? Or do you know men like me in America?” he asked, shoving his fingers in further and twisting them. I winced, only because he’d not used very much spit to lube me. But my much-fucked hole writhed around his digits and assimilated them. I wanted more. I nodded at his question.

“You like this?” he asked.

To try to impress him, I replied, “Me gusta.”

He withdrew his fingers, spat on them once more, and rammed them back inside me. I moaned happily once again. “I think you do know men like me. You are not a virgin,” he observed.
I’d claimed virginity for years to turn men on. I didn’t bother with Toro. He already seemed to know my truth. I shook my head.

The admission made him drive his fingers in even more deeply. Muttering in Spanish to himself, he stepped all the way out of his pants. His eyes glittered as he observed me on my back, legs up, hole begging to be filled. He commanded something in his own tongue. When he started to turn me over, I realized he wanted me on my knees. I still wore my shoes, and my pants were tangled around my ankles at this point, but he didn’t bother to remove them. Once I was in position, he stepped behind me, spat on his hog, and then he started pushing it in.

Accommodating a cock that thick was a challenge for me. I moaned loudly into the pillow and clutched the iron bedstead for support as he stretched me wider, wider, and then seemingly wider still. He pushed my face into the mattress to keep me quiet, but it was for show. I could tell he enjoyed my distress.

Once he was in, he paused for a moment. And then he began to fuck.

Toro was not a gentle top; if I’d asked him to go easy on me, he would’ve ignored the request. But I asked for nothing, not verbally, at least—not in English, not en Español. My body desired him, though. My ass began to overcome the sheer pain of his entry. It began to crave his fat dick stretching me. I needed to feel that head hitting my deepest core. Toro grabbed me around the hips and began pounding. Within a minute or two he had lifted the lower half of my body from the bed so that only my head and forearms and the top of my chest rested on the mattress; the bottom half of me dangled in mid-air, held in place by his strong hands as he plowed my boyhole. The fuck wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t romantic. He fucked like a selfish top fucks, caring only for his own pleasure, using my skinny body as he saw fit.

And I fucking loved it.

I didn’t really care about my own dick. I didn’t care that I’d probably be limping for the remainder of my time in Mexico City. I just knew that few men in my life were ever going to bang me the way Toro was banging me, and I’d do anything, anything, to make him and his dick happy.

Toro wasn’t a long-laster. Five minutes he held my ass up in the air and assaulted it like I owed him money, while he growled obscenities in Spanish through his teeth. Then he let out a massive grunt, wrenched my ass apart to drive in as deeply as possible, and emptied his nuts into my hole. I was so stretched and sore that the sudden flood of seed stung; I grunted and choked down my own cursing and let him finish. Toro slid out with a wet, slick plop, lowered me so that my shaking feet met the ground. With a mighty groan, he fell back onto the mattress.

I had a moment of doubt. I had cum running out of my ass. My legs had pins and needles; I could barely walk. Toro lay on the bed with his eyes closed. Was I supposed to slink into my clothes and back to the hotel?

Right as I started to look around for my t-shirt, Toro opened his eyes. “Hey, hey, hey,” he murmured, and then patted the mattress next to him. With puppy-like eagerness I bounded over. He moved a pillow to place under my head, and tucked me under his arm. My pants still were hobbling my legs; I
kicked them off and sprawled next to the strange man who’d just bred me.

“Ricky,” he said at last. When I didn’t answer, he added, “Me llamo Ricky. Toro . . . is what they call
me. It means bull. Because. . . .” He grunted, flexed his biceps, and grinned through his mustache.

I reminded him of my name, feeling suddenly shy. I was used to being fucked by men. I wasn’t, however, used to them paying me much attention once I’d served my purpose. But Ricky started asking me question after question. Where in America did I live? What did my parents do? Why was I in Mexico City? Why was I in . . . this part of the city, when there were much more suitable places? I was so comfortable and flattered by his interest that I chattered on and on. I told him about how my class had been promised a week of cultural experiences, and my doubts about the American couple living in the city who’d taken our money and put us in that run-down motel and who so far had taken us to Xochimilco for the morning, abandoned us in a gift shop for two hours, and then vanished to leave us on our own for the remainder of the day. By the time I got to his part of my narrative, when I’d been out getting the lay of the land and trying to find places for us to eat, Ricky was sitting up in bed with his forearms on his knees, the picture of outrage.

“But this is no good!” he said at last. His Freddie Mercury mustache seemed to be bristling. He leapt off the mattress and started pulling clothing off the top of a tiny chest of drawers. He made a gesture at me, indicating I should put on my clothes. While I dressed, he made several loud and successive phone calls as he pulled on his jeans and shirt and cowboy boots. I didn’t understand a one of them—I just knew he was heated about something or other. From his tone of voice, it sounded as if he was ordering people around.

When he finished his last phone call, he put down the receiver and turned to me. “And now, we go,” he announced. Before I could ask where, he was striding out the door. I had no choice but to lope after him.

Our trek back was very much like the walk we’d taken to his apartment. With his hand between my shoulder blades, Toro escorted me back down the boulevard in the direction we’d come. Cigarette between his fingers, he waved at shopkeepers and friends and old women parked in front of laundromats. When we turned onto the cul-de-sac leading to my hotel, though, I started to prickle with doubt.

I was a kid who, so far, had very much managed to keep his everyday life and his many sexual adventures strictly compartmentalized. Except under cover of night, never the twain ever met. My parents and teachers, my scout leaders and my church youth ministers—they all thought of me as the ultimate good boy, the reliable one, the kid who never caused trouble, much less stumbled into it.

There were plenty of grown men who knew my sexual side, but they were the cruisers who fucked me where I lay on splintery wooden picnic tables in the parks at night, open to all, or who held my head down on their cocks in their cars or under the stalls in the tearooms. I never saw those men in my good-boy life; I took extraordinary pains to keep my two worlds from colliding.

Yet here I was, being returned to a Mexican hotel, to one of the teachers I liked best, by a perfect stranger who had just sodomized me in his studio flat. His sperm was still dripping from my ass into my shorts. How in the world, how in the fucking world, was I going to be able to explain this?

Señorita Wiggins was sitting in the dreary hotel lobby along with two or three of the freshmen when Toro burst through the front doors. I’d been gone for perhaps a little over an hour, or ninety minutes at most. At the sight of me, she said my name—or at least the closest Spanish version of my name that she’d assigned me when I’d first been in her class, which was nothing like my real name. The sight of the big, muscular man with his arm around my shoulder obviously confused her for a moment. But Toro raised his arms in the air. “Ah! Señorita Wiggins!” he cried.

With a giant smile, he approached and took the Spanish teacher’s hand in his own, and gave it a very European kiss. Then, smiling as if she were a dear friend whose company he had missed for far too long, and gesticulating expressively, Toro launched into story. He had been helping his poor dear mama with her groceries, he said, when this brave young man had approached and, in the most beautiful and impeccable Español, had asked him for aid in finding food for his starving classmates and his brilliant, wonderful teacher—though surely Señorita Wiggins was too young and beautiful to be a teacher? Perhaps she was a model, too? At any rate, how could any true son of Mexico remain untouched at such need, especially when couched in such impeccable Spanish and with such a pure Castilian accent? He, Toro, born in this very neighborhood and on the very street where this young scholar had met him, would be honored to share what he could of his country, with all happiness. Beginning with dinner that very night, which his family would be overjoyed to provide.

Toro’s story was such a line of absolute bullshit that I was breathless at the audacity of it. Yet the tall tale was so beautifully delivered, and so seemingly sincere, that even I was beginning to believe every word. Only when Toro once more placed his hand on my shoulder in what must have appeared to everyone else a friendly, fatherly gesture, did I remember that less than a half-hour before, this very man had been pounding my hole into his personal cunt.

So voluble was he, so persuasive, that Señorita Wiggins couldn’t turn him down. Within the hour, Toro had persuaded everyone to don their party clothes (which for the Señorita was an actual cute dress, and for the rest of us was our cleanest jeans and tops) and accompany him out into the late afternoon air. I don’t know who Toro had spoken to on the telephone, when we’d been at his place, or what favors he’d called in, but a handful of people had dropped everything and turned themselves out to transform a church hall courtyard into a private party palace for a group of gringos from the States. There were streamers hanging from the ceiling, a piñata (that we didn’t break—I’m thinking they maybe thought we were younger than we were), chickens roasting on a spit, plates of local delicacies, a pair of guitar players, sealed bottles of clean water . . . and a half-dozen friendly gay guys doing all the work. Toro passed them off as his brothers, but I knew better. Still, they were happy to feed us and to put up with our limited language skills, and to laugh and tease us in innocent ways as if they considered us family, too.

Señorita Wiggins was thrilled. The food was delicious, the music authentic. Toro’s friends were so affable, and Toro so attentive and flirty, that within minutes she relaxed and began enjoying herself. The freshmen lost the miserable pallor they’d worn since our flight in. And there I sat next to Toro at the head of the table, shyly enjoying when he would lean over with a laugh and give me an affectionate and fatherly hug around the shoulders while he would whisper something in my ear like, “Maybe later you will get enjoy of my fucking, yes?”

I did enjoy more of his fucking that night, hours later, after the party had finally died down and Toro had walked all of us back to the hotel. “If you do not mind, Señorita,” Toro said at his most charming, “Please allow me to show your finest young scholar the view of this part of the city from the church tower. I know the sacristán of the church; it is a breathtaking view. I will return him to the hotel myself after.”

Señorita Wiggins didn’t mind at all. Back to Toro’s apartment we went, where this time all my clothes hit the floor before my legs went into the air. I was back at the hotel by eleven, flushed and sore and half in love with the man who had successfully romanced everyone on my class trip.

If that had been the extent of my encounter with Toro, it would have been a happy memory. But there was more.

At nine the next morning, when the Señorita and all of us students straggled into the hotel lobby, sore from our the thin mattresses and dreading our scheduled outing with the tour guides from hell, there was Toro with a basket of doughnuts, bringing sunshine into the hotel lobby sheerly from the brilliance of his smile and the reflectiveness of his super-shiny, super-tight shirt. He rained greetings down upon us, and gave an astonished me a special sideways hug, and then proceeded to explain to Señorita Wiggins that he had enjoyed such a wonderful evening with his new American friends that, as selfish as he knew it was, he could not resist spending more time with us. And oh, here were the good people who had arranged our visit to his grateful country! Could he have a word with them? Did we mind? No? All right then. Why didn’t they speak outside, in private?

Toro’s talk with the scam artists who’d taken our tour money was less a pleasant conversation and more of a tirade that we could plainly hear through the hotel’s slightly-ajar front doors. “How could you put these nice Americans into this place! Why, not even prostitutes would use this hotel!” was, if I recall correctly, the highlight of his harangue. (From the Señorita’s expression, I could tell she didn’t disagree.)

Eventually the voices quieted. The doors opened. Toro came back in with the tour guide couple, his hands around their necks as if they were a pair of puppets. They wore hangdog expressions. “I am your tour guide for today!” Toro announced with a brilliant smile. “I will show you my city—as I see it!” Summoning us to follow, Toro walked our class out into the brilliant morning light, promising adventure.

Toro, who must have threatened the tour guides into submission, if not into handing over to him outright all the money we’d given them, was our tour guide for the entire time we were in Mexico City. My memories glow of our week with him. We never knew what we’d be doing for the day, but it would always start with Toro bringing us pastries or fried turnovers for breakfast. We’d follow him out into the warm spring sunshine to the local station on the subway line, which we’d use to travel everywhere. The subway was cheap (a nickel, if I recall), and we could use it to get just about anywhere we wanted. We might see a cathedral in the morning, followed by walk through a historic district in the afternoon led by one of Toro’s ‘friends.’ Food would appear out of nowhere, at no cost to us, at appropriate intervals. We’d enjoy street tacos at picnic tables surrounded by crowds, or fried fish on picnic blankets by the river, or dinners in little outdoor restaurants owned by other willowy men of Toro’s acquaintance.

We visited museums, and a factory where artisans shaped and polished onyx into tabletop sculptures. We sat in the box at the matinee of a play that was entirely in Spanish, with Toro quietly translating the action at appropriate intervals. We attended a bullfight, and immediately wished we had not. One afternoon we spent entirely at one of the largest flea markets I’ve ever seen, where Toro disappeared for a few minutes and returned bearing presents for all—black-handled switchblades for the two boys, pink-handled switchblades for the girls, and a gaudy necklace of semi-precious stones for Señorita Wiggins.

Toro was so charming, so attentive, to Señorita Wiggins that the freshmen on the trip believed he was wooing her. She might have been flattered at his praise and his regards, but I doubt she ever seriously considered him a suitor. What I do know is that she was utterly, blissfully unaware of what Toro was doing to me, every evening at the end of our very long days. Would the Señorita be willing to let the young scholar accompany Toro to see the people of the neighborhood decorating the street for the upcoming festival? Could the young scholar come view the birds on the radio tower? I don’t remember half the excuses he had for getting us alone at the end of each long and full day, and I didn’t care. All I knew is that by day, I shared Toro with my classmates and teacher. By night, for a couple of hours, I belonged to him. He used me like he owned me—like I owed him. And I loved it.

On our final night in the city, Toro announced he’d arranged something special for us. We were all to attend the cine with him and his ‘brothers.’ Most of the various men we’d met throughout the week—the ones who’d made us dinner or given us narrated tours or had been docents at the museums—were outside the little movie house to greet us. Toro bought us popcorn and candy and Coca-Colas and arranged us in the middle of the theater for the show. The movie was Vaselina—that classic with John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John and Stockard Channing—which was just playing on the Mexican screens for the first time. Save for the songs, the whole thing was dubbed into Spanish. I don’t think any of us had actually seen it yet. Once again, Toro was more than happy to translate. He and his friends divided up the parts and told us what they were saying, much to everyone’s amusement

The entire audience, it seemed, was laughing and singing along with the movie, but no group was more convivial than ours. Though the freshmen would wink and nudge each other knowingly whenever Toro would murmur to Señorita Wiggins, I was the one lucky enough to sit through the entire movie with his arm around my shoulder. No one cared. And no one, save Toro’s friends, perhaps, was any the wiser.

We returned to school full of stories about our time in Mexico City. The first thing Señorita Wiggins had us do on our return was to write thank-you notes, en Español, to the man who’d rescued our disaster of a week and made it a wild and unpredictable experience. I sat there, staring at a blank piece of paper, trying to compose a note that betrayed nothing about what I’d really experienced as a Mexican man’s fucktoy. I’d already thanked Toro, or Ricky, during our last encounter at his apartment, after the showing of Grease. He knew I was touched that he’d gone out of his way to brighten the week of a half-dozen kids from some place he’d never visited. He knew how much I loved giving up my hole to his insistent assaults. In my broken Spanish, I think I had made clear how fondly I would think of him, when I reached home. Even if I could say those things in a letter that my Spanish teacher surely was going to look over, I wouldn’t say them again.

Growing up gay in the place and time I did, in an era in which everything gay was ignored and silenced and repressed, imbued me with a keen sense of the ironic; I always recognized the disparity between the dirty reality of things versus the sham of what people wanted on the surface. As innocent as my friendship might have seemed to my teacher and my fellow students on that trip, I got a pretty good kick out of knowing that the letters they were writing to an altruistic Mexican were really going to a voracious homosexual with a taste for white ass, who extracted his price every night when everyone thought I was looking at the moon or the town decorations. I loved knowing that the brothers who had provided them food and entertainment were my gay brothers, not biological kin of Toro’s. Most of all, I was tickled with the secret I’ve never shared until these essay: that my gay teen ass and my slutty ways had saved the trip abroad for those people. For once I’d allowed my bad boy and good boy worlds to collide. I’d honored my sense of sexual adventure, and took chances—and my world was enriched in ways I could never have imagined.

I never heard from Toro again. But I hope he got those letters. It was my honor to be the bull’s boy for a week.

Monday, December 11, 2017

In the Navy: Part 1

I thought I’d written about this incident in my long-ago youth, here in my blog. I alluded to it once, apparently. But I never followed up.

I was a sophomore in high school in the late nineteen-seventies when my Spanish teachers decided to organize a class trip to Mexico over the Easter break. Señorita Wiggins was an energetic and pretty young woman in her late twenties who, with her pert little Afro, her suede vests and turtlenecks, and her procession of plaid bellbottoms with truly astonishing flares around the ankles, walked the halls of my inner-city high school like a glamorous, living version of Barbie’s black friend Christie.

Everyone adored Señorita Wiggins. She was sweet and funny and enthusiastic about teaching, and always willing to try something new to help her students appreciate the language she loved so much. Her classroom would be set up as a Spanish flea market one afternoon, a South American kitchen the next. All the girls in school wanted to dress like Señorita Wiggins—a not-unattainable dream, considering that most of her wardrobe appeared on the more mod pages of the Sears Wishbook. All the boys developed crushes over her sunny smile.

I’d graduated from Señorita Wiggins’ class, however, into the allegedly more advanced tutelage of Señora Brooke. The Señora was a woman so close to retirement that she’d more or less given up teaching at all. On Mondays she’d give us a weekly assignment of translating a couple of paragraphs from our textbook, due Fridays. The rest of the week we spent playing endless rounds of Monopoly: Edición en Español, or the Spanish-language version of the French card game Milles Bornes. We’d learned a lot of vocabulary under Señorita Wiggins; Señora Brooke was supposed to provide us with an in-depth education on verb tenses and idiom. But since she was too busy with her English-language romance magazines, and we students were all arguing over who got to build hotels on Paseo Tablado, none of us really learned to be able to say much of anything other than in the present tense.

Which is, of course, ideal for traveling in a foreign country.

The trip was originally supposed to be open to everyone in either section of the two teachers’ classes. Only a half-dozen kids ended up going, though. The small numbers had a lot to do with the economic makeup of my high school, which drew its students from most of Richmond’s large north side. It was the tradition back then for Richmond’s white parents to send their kids through the public school system until the ninth grade, when they’d be abruptly transferred to a private school so they wouldn’t be ‘held back’ by ‘rougher elements’—that is, the same black kids their own children had been attending school with for all the other eight grades. My parents thought that kind of thinking utter bullshit. When it came to extracurriculars like class trips, though, the simple fact was that few of the African-American families wanted to spare the five hundred dollars. Even my own parents were dubious. In the end, the school’s sole white boy ended up in the Richmond airport on Easter morning, suitcase in hand, accompanied by five kids from the freshman class. Señorita Wiggins was our only chaperone. Originally Señora Brooke had been slated to join us, but when it became apparent that the group was going to be super-small, she exercised her option not to give a shit and happily resigned her place.

The descent into Mexico City was the worst I’ve ever experienced in my entire life. I attribute a decades-long suspicion of air travel entirely to that one flight. As we flew over the country’s most mountainous regions, the plane would capriciously just drop in mid-air and leave our stomachs several hundred feet above while our heads were spinning down below. The plane would then tilt to one side, then the other, level out in order to lull us all into a sense of false security, and then suddenly just drop once again. The turbulence caused the Mexicans on the the flight loudly to rediscover their Catholic faith and the Padre nuestros and the Dios te salve Marias were flying as fast and as furiously as the clacking rosary beads. By the time we landed, most of the seat backs had fingernail gouges from the plane’s passengers gripping on for dear life. Our group was the last to disembark after the wild scramble for the open doors. Poor Señorita Wiggins’ milk-chocolate complexion had taken on a distinct tint of green, and we had to wait for her stomach to calm down before we dared leave.

Señorita Wiggins had never before attempted a class trip of any sort. She’d turned for help to a small company—a married couple, really—in Mexico City purporting to specialize in educational travel excursions. She’d handed over our money to them and in return, they were supposed to give us rooms in a luxury hotel and arrange tours for some of the most exotic and cultural sights of Mexico City. The couple met us outside the airport in a beat-up old Volkswagen van so beat-up and painted in so many motley colors that it made the Scooby-Doo gang’s Mystery Machine seem like an actual limousine in comparison. My recollections of the two tour guides are sketchy, since we ended up seeing remarkably little of them during the week. However, in the film version of my life, were I able to sit in on the casting sessions in a purely advisory role, I’d probably whisper to the director, Just pick out a pair of the shadiest-looking meth-heads you can find and I suspect I’d end up in the general ball park.

In their rickety old van, where we had to sit gingerly in the back and lift up our feet to avoid the giant hole in the floor, the pair drove us away from the airport and into the depths of the city. None of us, not even Señorita Wiggins, who had gone to school in Spain and prided herself on the pure Castilian accent she was passing onto her students, knew anything about the city’s geography. All we knew was that our luxury hotel was in the heart of the old city. And it seemed that to get to the heart of the old city, we had to start at the city’s rancid toenails and slowly work our way up. We inhaled fumes in that nasty van for what seemed like hours, visiting what definitely were the stinky crotch and dirty armpits of the city before finally pulling into a dark dead-end alleyway so narrow that cars entering it had to back out to exit. The van slowed to a stop. “Home, sweet home for a week!” caroled the female half of the couple, as we stumbled out. “Isn’t it authentic?”

Authentic was one word for it. Shithole was another, and probably the better. We’d seen some attractive photographs of the hotel’s exterior back home in our brochure; perhaps they’d been taken in the nineteen-thirties when the hotel had been built, and before the hulking slums existed that surrounded it now. What it was, in 1979, however, was a squalid, dirty stone turd festooned with candelabra sconces and peeling paint, lurking at the far end of a cul-de-sac that smelled like someone’s chamber pot. The hotel’s inside was vast and cavernous, black as Dracula’s castle and only half as comfortable. The scowling clerk of indeterminable gender who sat slumped at the front desk had a bald shrunken apple-head of a noggin covered with bulbous moles, each of which sported a long hair. He or she rubbed his or her nose, sniffed, and tossed some keys our way, working his or her tongue over a yellow set of dentures.

Our hosts had vanished, absconding with our hopes for a fun week, we discovered. Señorita Wiggins attempted to rally, though by this point she was looking grim and unwell. “We’ll get some sleep. Everything will be better mañana!” she assured us. She was so shaky from our flight that nobody protested when she went right to bed without dinner, though before retiring, she made us promise we would not under any circumstances leave the premises.

We kids were hungry, though. The shrunken apple-head doll at the front desk merely blinked slowly at us when we asked for a room service menu—and the hotel certainly didn’t have a restaurant. As the group’s de facto leader by virtue of my seniority, I made the executive decision that we would head down to the head of the alleyway and get something to eat at the Pizza Hut I’d noticed on our drive in. It was not a Pizza Hut, by the way. The restaurant’s name was Pizza Hut. It had a hand-painted sign proclaiming it was Pizza Hut. But any resemblance to the actual Pizza Hut chain ended there. Our Pizza Hut was basically an outdoor shed with picnic tables and a serious case of trademark infringement. But I was able to tell the proprietor in present-tense verbs and my lisping, pure Castilian accent that we liked to eat the pizzas of pepperoni, and that we drink the Coca-Colas, and by the end of the little adventure we had full bellies.

Now that it was definitely past dusk, our walk back was fraught with a little more peril. Our hotel’s alleyway was lined with strange men. Some leaned against the doorways, smoking cigarettes, looking tough and mean. Others sat on the stoops in their wife-beaters and blue jeans and work boots, arms propped on wide-spread legs, daring us to look their way. Still more moved in pairs in the shadows, where they murmured intimately to each other in low voices. The younger kids, I could tell, were freaked out. I kept on the alert as we crept our way back, aware of every eye watching me. And I, with my several years of sexual experience, knew something with certainty that the freshmen didn’t: our so-called tour guides had booked us into a crap hotel in the middle of a gay red-light district.

After the other kids went to their rooms, I stood by the door in the lobby and did what I always did back then with a new cruising site: I watched what was going on, so I could figure out the scene for myself. For an hour or more I stood there, half-hard in my jeans, watching men cruise each other in the alleyway. Some men I could see clearly; one would approach the other, lean in to say something soft and low in his ear. They might share a private laugh. One would nod, and follow. Back toward the mouth of the alley they’d wander, presumably to one of their apartments. So dark it was that some of the men I could see only by the tips of their cigarettes, but I would follow the trace of those little red ovals as they approached each other, danced, and flew away like fireflies with a common destination.

Señorita Wiggins was right that everything looked better the next day. We were still in a shitty hotel on a crap alleyway, but at least it was an alleyway made more bearable by daylight. Our tour hosts arrived in their ratty van at the appointed time to take us to the floating gardens of Xochimilco. It was supposed to be one of the highlights of the week—a leisurely and luxurious trip in a gondola decked with bowers of blooms along a scenic waterway.

I’m not sure if the week we were there was in the off-season or what, but like everything else up until that point, Xochimilco was a huge disappointment. The colorful gondolas were faded and of dubious sea-worthiness. The thickets of full flowers that were supposed to adorn the boats were a few dried-out vines and some sad plastic roses. The canal was murky and the water choppy; the landscape was mostly mud. The boat’s incessant lurching sent Señorita Wiggins’ insides into further turmoil. We had to cut short the outing so she could purge her poor stomach in the restroom. Seeing one of the most naturally-sunny people in the world so sick made us miserable in turn. It didn’t help when our tour guides left us to sit in a gift shop for over an hour before returning with our van to take us back. Our grand first-day outing was done in a few hours; we were back at the hotel by two with nothing else to do and nowhere to eat for the rest of the day.

I’d confessed to Señorita Wiggins early that morning that I’d taken the other kids to the putative Pizza Hut the night before, when she was discomposed. I felt like I had to give her some kind of consolation, because it was becoming rapidly apparent that this trip was going to be something of a bust. In my retelling I played up the adventure of it, and assured her that we’d used our Spanish-language skills to order our own food, and that we’d handled actual Mexican pesos like pros. Somehow, in her debilitated post-vomiting state, I managed to assure her that I was just the person to venture beyond the head of the alleyway and investigate what else there was to do in this neighborhood.

The alleyway wasn’t anywhere near as crowded in the daytime as it had been at night, but it was pretty apparent that my suspicions of the previous evening had been correct; we’d been more or less dumped in the Mexico City equivalent of the Castro. Groups of men I recognized as gay hung in small groups along the walls. They’d suspend their conversations as I walked by, and I was once again conscious of all their eyes on me. I turned my head and caught one man’s eye. “American?” he asked. Even though in my head I had visions of being mugged for my thick American wallet, I nodded out of reflex.

“American!” he said happily to the two men with him. They all must have been in their twenties or early thirties; all of them sported little mustaches and had crammed themselves into tight jeans and form-hugging shirts of a cheap and shiny material suitable more for discos than the streets. “American!” they all cried out. And then, bewilderingly, they sang in three different keys, “In the nah-vee! You can sell the seven seas!”

I escaped their chorus and made my way out to the main street. A few women were in sight, but most of the people occupying the scene were men. Gay men. Gay men with mustaches and shimmering disco shirts and tight jeans. Acres of gay men. I’d promised to get the lay of the land, but already my adolescent mind was making gay lemons into gay lemonade and wondering how efficiently I could get some Mexican dick.

Pretty efficiently, as it turned out.

“American?” I heard someone call.

I had to look around to find the source of the question. A group of gay men sat in folding lawn chairs in front of a farmacia. A transistor radio blared out disco music on a rickety table between them. “Soy Américano,” I stammered out.

One of the other men leapt up to his feet and extended his hand. I held out mine, and he grasped it, thumb hooked to thumb, in a homie handshake. “American? Village People?” he asked. “In the nah-vee?”

In the nah-vee!” all three of them began singing. One of them put his arm around my shoulders and encouraged me to dance along with him. “You can sell the seven seas! In the nah-vee! You can put your mine dat deese!”

To this day, I have never heard anyone with as much enthusiasm for the Village People, or for that particular song, as the Mexican people. As it turned out, everywhere we would end up going, people ended up spontaneously singing “In the Navy” to us. Not “YMCA,” which was the bigger hit back home. I guess it was just freakishly popular in Mexico City that season.

For a few moments I was a white teen beanpole gamely dancing along with a gaggle of amiable Mexican gay guys in the middle of the street, which is probably not exactly the cultural experience my parents had envisioned when I’d wheedled them into ponying up for this trip. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. “You know the Village People?” I heard a very deep voice say.

I turned. I was a tall kid for my age, but the speaker towered over me. Where all the other men of the calle sported little mustaches, this muchacho had a masterwork gracing his upper lip. It was the Freddie fucking Mercury of mustaches—thick, heavy, and exquisitely-groomed. His eyes were dark. His hair gleamed with pomade without looking oily. Like everyone else, he wore one of those disco shirts of shiny material. But this man wore it so much better than anyone else. The sleazy fabric clung to his muscles and outlined his protruding nipples. The first button he’d bothered to fasten was roughly in the area of his navel. Coils of coarse, dark chest hair burst from a V of flesh that pointed like a neon arrow to the enormous bulge in his tight, packed jeans. When he shifted his weight, I noticed he wore shiny cowboy boots with polished metal tips.

This was at the height of the so-called clone look. I was hard-wired to respond to such a flagrant display of masculinity, just like any animal confronted with a blatant mating ritual. My gut lurched. My heart started to pound. My hole somehow tightened and loosened simultaneously. “You know the Village People?” he repeated. “You are American?”

“I’m American,” I managed to rasp out. “But I don’t know the Village People.”

His dark eyes were kind, even though I realized from the way he was looking me up and down that his intentions were anything but pure. “Como se llama? What is your name?” he asked.

I told him, without hesitation, in very prim and proper Spanish. (My name is . . . is one of the first things you learn in a foreign language. You don’t throw away opportunities like that.) “What’s yours?” I asked.

“Toro,” he said.

“Toro,” I repeated, feeling my insides unglue. Bull.

“You are lost?” he asked. “In this place we don’t see many . . . American boys.” The other men in the vicinity shook their heads and laughed a little in agreement.

I explained that I was staying with other people from my school at the hotel down the street. I couldn’t help but notice his nose twitch at the mention of the hotel’s name.

He placed a heavy paw on my scrawny shoulder. “I think you will come with me,” he announced. “If you want.”

Did I want? Hoo boy. Did I ever.

I felt Toro slide his hand down. He planted his palm in the center of my spine with wordless insistence, and gently steered me away from the crowd. The remaining men let loose with a cry I recognized as we moved away—the non-verbal approbation frat boys make when one of their brothers makes a sexual score. The universal sound of males whooping at the virility of one of their own. I heard the slapping of high-fives and some chanting of “Toro! Toro!” as the Mexican man in the cowboy boots led me off to some unknown destination.

And then, over the dissonance of the transistor radio, a chorus of voices raised in lusty song. “In the nah-vee. . . !”

(to be continued)

Monday, December 4, 2017

Why I'm Not Attending That Other Orgy Anymore, Either

It’s all married men. We get together once a month in a motel room. A decent one, not that bedbug palace off exit 9. Everyone’s there by noon, then I lock the door and turn off the lights. After that . . . anything goes.

Anything? I remember replying. This was on Manhunt, several years ago, back in the day when Manhunt was a service that people actually logged into and used.

Fucking, sucking, you name it. Nothing illegal. No drugs. But once the lights are off? Anything your heart desires. The beauty of it is that we’re all married men. Married men know how to be discreet. Married straight dudes are just hotter and more masculine. Am I right? You’re a married man. You know what I mean? And at the end of the day, everyone goes home drained or loaded up or both, back to the wife and kids and no one is the wiser.

When my friend Bert recruited the other gentlemen in his little orgy group, this particular scenario might’ve sounded hot to the average closeted married slob in the suburb where I live—the kind of guy who would post a blurry closeup of his nipple and collarbone on Manhunt and call it a profile photo. The kind of guy who dutifully fucked his wife once a month, and spent the other twenty-nine days furiously masturbating to gay porn on the internet.

But honestly, I wasn’t really buying his particular line of bullshit. Married I might be, but I’m queer enough to know that what happens when a hotel door closes on a roomful of horny men is anything but straight. A married guy with his butt in the air taking a monster-sized dick isn’t any hotter or more masculine than a self-avowed gay guy in the same position. They’re both bitches in heat. There’s no shame in that—but at least the gay guy is the one owning up to what he wants and likes. Whatever untruths Bert’s friends want to tell themselves, individually or as a group, a bunch of married men discreetly having an orgy in a hotel room is no high afternoon tea with crumpets. It’s still a bunch of faggots getting sweaty and swapping cum. (Don’t get me wrong. This faggot is right there in the middle of it all.)

So I rolled my eyes when Bert originally approached me on Manhunt, trying to sell me on his group. I was ready to tell him that he could go shove his ‘safe’ group of ‘straight’ married men up his KY’ed asshole.

Sure. I’ll be there, my fingers typed instead.

Hey. The prospect of a steady orgy in my own backyard was nothing to sneeze at.

I ended up attending Bert’s married men orgy for several years. Once a month like clockwork they’d meet on a Monday during lunchtime. He’d rent a hotel room, accept guys through the door from eleven-thirty until noon, then lock the door and turn out the lights. And you know, the parties were, for the most part, pretty decent. Usually anywhere between six and fifteen men would attend—most of them in their thirties and forties, all sporting rings on their left hands. We’d all throw a few bucks in a jar to cover the cost of the room. Bert would lock the door. We’d all tuck our clothes into neat bundles in the closet or in dresser drawer. Then we’d fuck.

These suburban get-togethers of married men were the Golden Corral of sex parties, to be honest. That is, nothing on the buffet approached gourmet quality . . . but there sure was a whole lot of it to be had. If you wanted to bottom, there’d be a hard dick for your hole (probably mine). If you wanted to top, there would be all kinds of asses up, from which to choose. A musclebound married buddy of mine I was seeing on the side often attended with me, and we’d always put on a pretty spectacular show for everyone—growling, wrestling around, grappling to see who’d get to be on top of whom (position-wise, that is, as I was always the top when it came to fucking). One of the regulars was a local cop who would show up in uniform, which would drive some of the married guys crazy; at least he had a good sense of humor about topping guys and fulfilling their fetish fantasies while wearing his official hat.

Bert’s married group was moderately fun, but not outstanding. A lot of the guys attending simply didn’t have much experience with man-to-man sex. It showed. A few were awkward to the point that even I, who tend to be unfailingly patient with the shy in these situations, would just shrug and move on. Occasionally a guy who didn’t know any better would show up with a dirty ass—a mistake that would happen only once, as he’d taken aside by Bert for a private chat about douching out before playing. A couple of guys hadn’t been socialized well enough in these sexual situations to know when to take ‘no’ for an answer. I remember one particularly grim party in which a guy would keep grabbing my dick and grinding the head against the palm of his hand he’d licked wet. It was an unpleasant and even painful sensation, and I couldn’t get the fucker to stop.

I graduated from this particular sex party when Bert started hosting another regular orgy at his apartment in the city. The Manhattan parties were definitely a step up from their suburban counterparts. For one thing, Bert would curate his invites from a group on Manhunt that extended far beyond closeted married men. The men attending the big city orgies were bi and gay, married and single, and of such an extreme step up in sheer quality that sometimes I was a little intimidated.

Two weeks before each of the monthly parties, Bert would send out to all his invited guests an email stating the party time and the Manhunt screen names of the men who had confirmed they’d attend; he’d update the list a day or two before the actual event. Sharing the guest list with everyone gave all of us the opportunity to check out who we could expect to meet, and brush up on their likes and dislikes—which definitely made things a little easier at the parties themselves. But I’d thumb through these profiles of guys with uniformly muscular bodies and handsome, well-groomed faces and physiques, and for a few doubtful moments I’d think in the back of my mind, Man, THIS is going to be the party when everyone realizes I’M the dog.

Never happened. For one thing, I get confident enough in sexual situations that I don’t let what I’m convinced are my very modest attractions hold me back from having fun. For another, the other guys attending the parties would flood my box beforehand, begging me for cock. I’d always arrive at these parties already carrying a very full dance card.

The Manhattan gatherings were a more sophisticated affair. They’d always begin with a cocktail party of sorts—wine and appetizers. I’m maybe making it sound a little grander than it really was, since the wine came in boxes and the appetizers were usually peanuts and bags of kettle corn. Yet there’d always be a half hour of conversation of the type in which New Yorkers always seem to indulge, centered around rent prices and careers. Then someone (okay, usually it was me) would make a move on someone else, there’d be the sound of a belt unbuckling and pants dropping, and suddenly these staid uptown apartment dwellers would be getting as down and dirty as in any inner-city bathhouse.

The sex at these parties could be outstanding. Because there were usually more than twenty men at these things, and because we had the whole apartment to spread out in, as guys split off into pairs and smaller groups, there’d be ample room to get up to more athletic couplings than I’d find in a hotel room with two dozen guys jockeying for space on a couple of full-size beds. The guys were less inhibited; the asses were rounded, the holes opened up more readily. And like I said, I’d come to the parties having already promised some time to several of the men present. I’m not being immodest when I say that every time I showed up, I was very often the center of attention.

And gentlemen, it’s not because I’m spectacularly built, or because I have a hot six-pack, or because I take amazing torso shots. None of those things are true. Part of my popularity comes from the fact that I have a spectacular cock, true, but there’s way more to it than that. I’m a great love maker. I take the most nervous and shy fellow and, for the few minutes I’m eight inches deep inside his aching, stretched-out hole, I make him feel like the center of the fucking universe. I make him feel like he’s the most desirable, beautiful man on earth. It’s not faked. I don’t pretend. When I fuck, I’m not just shoving my dick into an orifice. I plunge into everything a man is. I accept him for the things that make him proud, and make him forget the parts of himself he despises. I celebrate him, and him alone. I let him know that he’s desired. I give him the freedom to feel happy, and loved. And I make damn sure to let him know how much he’s satisfying me.

That, gentlemen, is the secret of my sexual success.

At the parties I’d make love to a man while a group of a dozen naked horny fuckers were shoving around us on a rickety sofa bed, cheering us on. Even in that noisy, smelly crowd, I’d make that bottom feel like he and I were the only ones who existed. The only ones who mattered. Then, once he’d had an earth-shattering orgasm, I’d pull out, clean off, and gladly perform the same service for the next man on my dance card. Most nights I’d fuck eight, ten, fifteen asses, long and hard. I might not have shot off in all of them, but I’d damn well make sure they came from my pounding . . . and four or five lucky bastards would walk away carrying some of my DNA deep in their guts.

So yeah. I was popular at those parties. Bert knew it. He capitalized it. When he’d send out his invitations, my name would be at the top of the list. When he was trying to recruit new meat, Bert would ask guys to write me on Manhunt; I’d reply in a friendly manner assuring them that yes, if they showed up, I’d be more than happy personally to give them a good time. There were guys who would fly in from other states to attend the party—scheduling their work trips to coincide with the orgies. I was a good boy for Bert, convincing hot men to come to a hot party for a hot time. I was good to Bert, too. I’m always good to orgy hosts. I’d always save a special fuck and a special load for him, usually late in the evening when most of the men were tired and the air was drowsy and quiet. I’d ease him back onto the mattress in the master bedroom, use a couple of fingers to slide some lube up his chute, and slide right in as together we’d relive the highlights of the evening

And then I missed a party. I don’t remember why. Until I find a patron who’s willing to sponsor me for a life of orgies and naked guest appearances in porn, I’ll sadly have to keep, you know, working and stuff. That’s probably what I was doing the night I had to skip out. As usual, Bert sent out the party invitation. I RSVPed early to say I wasn’t going to be able to attend. I thought it was over, strangely enough.

But then in the two weeks before the party, I started getting a number of messages from guys on Manhunt. Looking forward to seeing you on Monday after next, they’d say. Hope you save a fuck for me. I’d have to write the guys back and tell them that I was sorry, but I wasn’t going to be available that night. But you’re on the guest list as confirmed, they’d say. Sure enough, when I checked the list, there I was, right at the top.

I wrote Bert and reminded him I wasn’t going to be able to attend. I just left you on there in case you were free at the last minute, he replied. I explained to him that if I actually were able to attend at the last minute—which I wasn’t going to be able to do—I would feel free to attend, but that I should be removed from the list until then. When he didn’t reply, I thought I’d made my point. Yet the day before, when he sent out the final reminder, there I was, still on the guest list.

That day and the day of the orgy, my appearance at the top of a list was only a minor annoyance. The day after the orgy, though, I started getting emails from men I’d never met. How come you weren’t there last night? I was expecting to spend some private time with you, said one. Another said, I flew in from North Carolina because Bert told me what a good top you were. Didn’t expect you to flake like that.

Flaking? Now my reputation was on the line.

I was pretty stern when I emailed Bert directly. I told him that leaving me on the list when I knew I wasn’t going to attend one of his get-togethers was doing me a disservice; guys who were counting on me to show up were writing me and accusing me of flaking out—which was unjust.

But you draw the guys in, he said. You’re good advertising for me.

So advertise when I’m actually going to be there. It’s not that tough! I wrote back. Again, I thought it was settled.

A couple of months later I had to skip another orgy. Same thing happened. I told Bert I wouldn’t be able to show up, yet when he emailed everyone, there I was again, right at the top of the list of attendees. This time I wrote Bert right off the bat and told him I really didn’t want to go through the same thing as last time, and would he please, please, remove my name from the guest list?

He didn’t. The emails showed up on Manhunt hours after the party. Why weren’t you there? Please don’t tell me you’re a flake.

This time around, I was infuriated. I’d asked nicely to be removed from the list. I given Bert a logical and honest accounting of why I’d prefer not to be listed as going to a sex party when I couldn’t attend. But you’re good advertising! he replied again. You bring in the hottest guys.
Bert, I can’t be your fucking mascot, I wrote back. Your parties would get on just fine without me, you know. I really don’t want guys writing me again accusing me of flaking.

Then maybe you’d better fucking show up, he replied.

Fuck this, I said. To myself. Not to him. Though I was tempted.

Sex I can get anywhere—I don’t have an issue with that. Treat me like meat, though, and dangle me as bait, without my consent? That kind of treatment I don’t need.

True story, though. After our blow-out, Bert and I didn’t talk for over a year. I didn’t go to any of his parties (which got along fine without me, of course). Mainly that was because I was no longer invited, even though at first Bert made sure to tell people to ask me why I wasn’t coming any more. (Irritating me further.) For months and months I didn’t hear from the guy. Until this week, that is, when I was part of a mass mailing on a sex site. He’s throwing a party in Manhattan, it says. Enclosed is a list of guys who’ve confirmed that they’ll be attending.

And guess whose screen name is right there, plain as day, even though he didn’t RSVP?


And that, children, is why I don’t go to that orgy any more.

Monday, November 13, 2017

Why I'm Not Attending Your Orgy Anymore

When I lived in Michigan, one gentleman of my acquaintance threw consistently what were probably the best orgies I ever attended. He’d curate the list of guests carefully, inviting only men he’d met and could personally vouch for. Everyone in attendance was fairly attractive—usually I felt like the charity case of the bunch, honestly. He had a well-appointed basement playroom with mattresses for fucking, slings for fucking and fisting, and a couple of benches for restraints or paddling or whatever his guests felt like getting into. There were plenty of paper towels and a shower in the playroom for clean-up.

What he was mostly a stickler for was the proportion of tops to bottoms; as a bottom himself, he disliked the notion of any holes remaining empty at any given time. He’d invite enough tops, or at least versatile guys who’d happily mount an ass on request, so that each bottom would be happy. The parties were pretty much a well-run marvel. They’d start on time, last for hours, and except for the one party where I kind of ticked off the host (just a little, it turned out) by breeding all the designated tops, the host’s carefully-selected cast of pigs never went awry.

I’ve been to a lot of bad groups, too. I’ve attended orgies in which a dozen guys stood at one end of a hotel room, clothed or clamping their hands so firmly in front of their junk that they might as well be clothed, watching two or three others fuck but refusing to participate. I’ve gone to a couple of orgies—and never returned—in which sex was secondary (or even further down the list) to drug transactions. And I was far across the room when I attended one terrible, terrible orgy in which a guy getting fisted in a sling suddenly let loose with a geyser of diarrhea that sprayed with fire-hydrant force over most of the attendees, the host’s bedroom furniture, and expensive carpet. It was basically a scatological Monty Python skit gone wrong.

I’ve been to enough bad orgies, in fact, that I will no longer attend a group sex session that sounds as if it’s poorly organized or sketchy. Yet finding a good sex group organizer is no easy task. I was lucky enough, when I relocated to the East Coast several years back, to find a couple that suited me just fine.

For a little over the last half-decade I attended a midweek orgy thrown by a retired Yale professor. He hosts them every Wednesday without fail in his little New Haven apartment; I tended to show up every two or three weeks. New Haven is something of a haul for me. It’s an hour drive, even going opposite the early rush hour traffic. There’s also the little-observed fact that, despite what Ivy League fantasies you’ve seen brought to life on reruns of Gilmore Girls, New Haven is pretty much the stinking armpit of Connecticut. But the host is friendly and a great kisser, and enjoys nothing better than watching guys fuck like animals in his apartment once a week, so I’ve made the drive every couple of weeks, held my nose, and dove into that pile of ass.

The Professor’s parties are on an open invitation system, so they’re not as carefully curated as some. His attendees tend to be regulars, though, so they can be counted on gleefully to join in the action rather than stand around and watch. There’s usually a democratic atmosphere at the gatherings: anyone’s welcome, everyone can get some. There’s a core group of men who range from their fifties to their seventies, myself included, but all of them are pretty fucking desirable; and then there’s usually equal numbers of young guys from the surrounding colleges and universities offering up their holes and dicks to the daddies. Demographically, it’s almost a reverse bell curve—the numbers skew higher at the lower and higher age ranges, then dip low for guys in their thirties and forties.

And even though the accommodations aren’t grand in the least—literally all the action takes places in the host’s bedroom on one mysteriously sturdy queen bed and on the carpet around the bed’s three sides—for the most part, everyone has fun. Sure, there’ve been a couple of times I’ve gone and the attendance has been scarce, or the chemistry hasn’t been right, but I always enjoy making out with The Professor when that happens; I enjoy letting him shove his fingers into my greased-up ass and mumble about how he’s molesting me, while he licks and chews my nuts and deep-throats my dick. I’ve enjoyed the relations I’ve built with some of the other regulars over the years. It was always low-stress, midweek fun.

That is, until about a year and a half ago when I accumulated a stalker there. A thin, nervous-looking married fellow started attending. He was a good fuck; he knew how to suck my dick, too. The first couple of times, he’d come into the room naked, his eyes would lock with mine, and I’d grin at the sight of him, then nod him over to take his place between my open legs. The third or fourth time we met, I remember fucking him in such a contorted position—his shoulders, neck and head, were the only parts of him making contact with the mattress, and the soles of his feet were curled over his body and pressed against the wall over his head—that when he climaxed from the fuck, he sprayed his face and hair with his own seed. The guys at the group that week were cheering us on as I banged him. I made him a happy man that day.

He followed me out to the car, after I put on my clothes and exited the apartment. “I’m Peter,” he told me, shaking my hand. “I’ve never had a fuck as good as what you give me.” Then he entered my cell number in his phone, presumably so we could get together at some point.

Peter started out texting me once a week to see if I’d be attending parties at The Professor’s. But then, at the actual parties, he started cockblocking me from other guys, and cockblocking other guys from me; if someone had his lips around my meat, he’d actually pull the guy off and replace that mouth with his own. He started telling guys that all my loads were his and his alone, and a couple told me he’d threatened them to keep away from me. It got to the point that one new attendee confided in private that he thought Peter was my jealous boyfriend.

I was pretty popular at The Professor’s parties. Most days I was in a lot of demand. And honestly, when I’m indulging in group sex, I like to be generous with my attention. I like making the shy guys feel desirable. I enjoy helping the whores feel even more whorey. “You really can’t be acting like that,” I’d tell Peter, explaining to him that in a group situation, just about everyone should have an equal shot at sex with me as he did. I encouraged him to have fun with other big-decked tops who attended, and that I’d still fuck him . . . once . . . if he behaved.

But he’d laugh it off. “You can’t blame me for wanting your dick more than anyone else,” he’d say, or something else that managed to sound both complimentary and entitled. So when Peter would text me and ask if I were attending The Professor’s groups that week, I’d lie and say I wasn’t—and when he said he wouldn’t bother to go, then, I’d show up anyway. It worked for a while until one week I showed up after claiming I wouldn’t, and found him lurking in The Professor’s parking lot to catch me. After that, I just stopped going to The Professor’s for a long time.

The whole Peter thing came after all those other stalker types I endured in years prior. I was determined not to allow him to get to me the way other men had, in recent years. Missing a group sex session was a small price to pay to eliminate the craziness I could see he was threatening. I blocked him on my phone to stop his phone calls. I blocked his profiles on sex sites when he started trying to wheedle me through those; when he would create alternate profiles to try to get to me again, I’d block those, too. Eventually he stopped trying to get in contact.

It wasn’t until this last summer, though, before I opted to go back to The Professor’s place again. I saw The Professor’s profile pop up one day on my track list at a sex site; I sent him a quick hello and got a reproachful reply that he hadn’t seen me for a little over a year. I explained to him that I meant no discourtesy, but that I’d encountered some craziness with one of his other guests, and that I thought avoiding the group would be the best way to keep my life calm.

“Was the guy bothering you named Peter?” he wrote back.

I said I wasn’t trying to get anyone in trouble with him, but I was curious why he thought it was Peter.

“Because Peter has been stalking several guys from my groups,” he wrote back. “He’s been told not to show his face around here again.”

I might’ve admitted, at that point, that Peter was the guy.

Since The Professor assured me that all his groups in the future would be not only Peter-free, but free of all crazy people, I decided to go back. I had good fun the first time I attended. I fucked a lot of hot student asses. One super-handsome guy in his sixties with an enormous dick decided that I should be his fuckboy and bottom for him.

“It’s not going to fit,” I told him, frankly. His dick—and I’m not exaggerating here—was easily about eight inches around and a good nine or nine and a half inches long. It made beer can cocks look puny. I could look at it and tell that him trying to fuck me with it was going to be like trying to put a baseball bat through the eye of a needle, yet I was flattered enough by his attention that I got on all fours and arched my back and encouraged him as he banged against the back door with that battering ram. He didn’t break through—not enough a little. But we both were good sports about it.

Maybe, I thought to myself, The Professor’s parties would be viable again.

Two weeks later I gave the party another shot. It was a hot late summer day. When I arrived in The Professor’s parking lot, the sun was very nearly directly overheat. I was a few minutes early, so I pulled into a space, shifted into park, and waited.

Most of the attendees of the orgies tended to park in a certain area close to the westernmost entrance of the building. It wasn’t long until a car pulled around the building’s far end and sidled into a space a few away from mine. The driver had ginger hair and the freckled complexion that often accompanies it. I watched as he leaned forward and looked my direction. Our eyes locked. He smiled.

Well, well, well, I thought. A resident of the complex wouldn’t have pulled his car to a stop and remained inside; only someone early to the orgy would’ve done that. The guy was tolerable-looking enough that I didn’t mind his cruising me. In fact, I really wouldn’t have minded him inviting me back to his place and skipping the orgy altogether—because as much as I love group sex, I love a hot one-on-one even better. I turned off my engine, tucked my wallet and phone in my secret car hiding place, got out, and sauntered over to him.

He rolled down the window as I reached his car. “Hey there,” he said, looking me over. “Thinking of going to the party?”

“Yup,” I drawled, sounding way more Southern than usual. “How about yourself?”

I was kind of expecting him to ask me back to his place about then, so confident I was of my magnetic appeal. But instead, this redhead said, “Weeeeellllll . . . there’s kind of a story behind that.” Before I could ask what, or exert my better judgment and walk away, he said, “You know The Professor?”

“I do.”

“Well, he doesn’t like me very much, but he’s the host, and I don’t want to come in if he’s not going to want me there.” Oh god, already I was thinking. This is going to be 100% pure drama, isn’t it. “So I was kind of hoping that you might go inside and ask him if it would be okay if I came in?”

This request was so totally the opposite of what I expected that in the moment, all I could do is shrug and say, “Sure.”

“I’ll reward you if he lets me come in,” he said roguishly. But at that point, I really didn’t care.
I entered The Professor’s apartment as usual. I kicked off my shoes, walked back to the bedroom. The Professor was already busy with one of the regulars on the queen bed. He raised his hands happily to invite me into a hug when I poked my head around the corner. We kissed, and I began taking off my shirt. “I should probably tell you first,” I said. “There’s a guy outside sitting in a car, who says you don’t like him, and. . . .”

“Ohhhhhh, Christ,” said The Professor. “Is he a redhead?” I said that indeed he was. “What a fucking freak. Don’t let him on you. He’s a stalker. He hasn’t been here in a long time, and I was hoping he was gone for good. Why don’t you go tell him . . . oh, what the fuck. Go tell him he can come in.”
Honestly, I was kind of hoping that my turn as messenger boy was over. But just inviting a stalker into his home seemed kind of crazy to me. “I don’t mind telling him you said no.”

“Nah, tell him he can come in. But Christ, I hope he doesn’t end up stalking anyone this time.”

I rebuttoned my shirt, then left to put my sneakers back on. Basically I was stomping, all the way back out to the guy’s car. I’d arrived only a few minutes earlier ready to fuck and have fun. Playing ambassador between two warring nations had not been on my agenda. “He says you can come,” I barked at the guy in the car.

“Really? I can come? He said that? You didn’t just make it up?” He said it to my back, though, because I’d already turned and started walking back to the apartment. I wasn’t going to reassure the guy. I wasn’t going to tell him everything was all right. Everything wasn’t all right.

Maybe everyone else had fun that day, but I found the sex very awkward. Attendance was light. I found myself trying to avoid the red-headed guy the whole time. When you’re in a smallish bedroom with ten guys, avoiding one of them isn’t exactly an easy thing to do. I was face-fucking a college kid when he tried to get on his knees and shove my cocksucker out of the way. “Let me pay you back, like I promised,” he whispered.

I just smiled, patted him on the head, and pushed his face onto someone else’s cock while I moved to the other side of the room.

I was lying on the bed, getting head from one of the regulars, when he suddenly loomed over me, his average-sized dick pointed at my mouth. “Let me pay you back,” he said again.

“Nah. I’ve gotta get some water,” I said.

Finally, I was fucking a young guy whose endurance wasn’t extensive. The kid begged for a break after I’d pounded him for only a little while. The redhead instantly scooted over and dropped down on all fours. “Now it’s my turn,” he said.

“I just came,” I lied.

Then I went to collect my clothes.

Groups aren’t fun when one person mistakes good sex for a lifetime commitment. Groups aren’t fun when one person runs amok. Groups definitely aren’t fun when the host knows a stalker is outside and say, “Oh, what the fuck. Tell him he can come in.”

And that, sir, is why I’m not attending your orgy any more.