Thursday, June 17, 2010

IML & Me

One of my readers this week was asking me what I felt about the leather scene. To sum it up briefly, I've always felt it was perfectly easy to have great sex without anything in the way of gear. I think guys in leather are hot, but once in a while it seems as if those who rely upon the gear do so as a crutch.

Case in point. While I was traipsing around IML’s Leather Mart during Memorial Day weekend of 2009, fending off offers to try the tester jug of Boy Butter and gently turning down an plea from a barrel-chested older bear to try on a yellow blindfold for him so he could ‘see how it looked on a boy like me, and besides, it matched my shirt,’ I noticed a guy staring at me. The first time I saw him was somewhere in the middle of the Fort Troff booth where I was gingerly inspecting a bin of cock rings floating in an amber fluid. When my eyes caught his, I explained my hesitation. “Hi. It looks like someone peed in here,” I said.

The man had a close-shaved head, big eyes, and a rugged, masculine face covered with an artful one-day growth of stubble. He wore jeans, a white T-shirt, and a leather vest. He was also about as tall as a Smurf, but despite that, had the excellent good looks of a porn star from a higher-budget studio. “I think someone spilled ginger ale,” he replied, with a heavy accent.

I smiled, shrugged, and moved on, declining to investigate. I noticed him a little later, weaving in and out of the racks of leather I was examining. “Hey again,” I said, when he approached me. His eyes were fixed on me and full of intent. “Having fun?”

“You know,” he said with that charming accent again. “You are the first person who has said hello to me this entire conference without me having to speak first.”

“Really? I find that hard to believe,” I said.

“Why?” he asked.

I gestured to his textbook pecs, his perfectly proportioned arms, the narrow waist, as if it were a gimme. “Look at you.”

“But it’s true,” he said. “You were the first.” Then, impulsively, he added, “Give me your email address.” I didn’t ask why. When a handsome man asks for your email, you give him your email. “Thank you,” he said, tucking the slip of paper in his pocket. He flashed a winning smile and then vanished into the crowd.

When I got back to the hotel room much later I found he’d emailed me quite a long and surprisingly literate message in which he confessed that he was attracted to me and outlined in great detail exactly why I should return to the Hilton that evening and, essentially, bang his brains out. Accompanying the missive were quite a few revealing photos that he hoped might appeal to me. Well, what can I say. I was feeling charitable. I sent a few photos of my own back, and agreed to meet. When he emailed me back with his phone number, he added, Please wear all your leather!

I don’t have any leather, I wrote back. Is that okay? Does it change your mind?

That is fine, he said. Come as you are.

As I were was simply a pair of jeans, the white Chucks on my feet, and the yellow and grey T-shirt that had matched the leather blindfold I’d declined earlier. And when I walked into the Hilton’s lobby to wait for my friend, after I’d called him from outside, I looked like a fucking freak.

First of all, the lobby was packed. Every leatherman staying in the joint was packed into the rococo rooms in front of the elevator. Not a single man wasn’t bare-chested, harnessed, and boot-blacked into perfection. And there I was, trying to look casual and confident, but feeling like the only gay in the village wandering into a Westboro Baptist Church tent revival and hoping that no one would notice. It was fruitless. Guys wove around me and avoided me as if I carried a cup and sign reading, I have leprosy, please help.

After what seemed like an eternity, my friend Bruno finally showed up. And Jesus Christ, but he was decked out. He wore the leather-studded cap, the eyepatch, the studded collar, the complex harness, the vest, the studded jockstrap, the chaps, the boots. Upon spying me, he couldn’t simply discreetly motion for me to follow. Oh no. He had to roar, at the top of his considerable lungs, “ROB!” and then lunge at me. I’m probably imagining things, but when he did, it seemed to me as if the entire lobby went silent and stared.

“Hi,” I said, rather mildly.

“Let me take you for a drink,” he said, his arm around my butt.

“Okay,” I agreed.

He stuck his hand down the back of his chaps. “Crap,” he muttered. “I forgot my wallet.”

“It was the one too many pieces of leather to keep track of, huh?” I said. “I can buy you a drink.”

“No, no,” he said. “Come with me to the room and we’ll get it and then come back down.” Through the lobby he steered me as man after man stared at him with envy, and at me as if I were the ugly drag queen that the cutest Jonas Brother had suddenly started dating.

I had a sneaking suspicion that once we were in his room, we wouldn’t be going back down. I was right. The moment we were up there, he was pushing me down to the bed so that I could be at face level with him. He kissed beautifully. Because of his height, the leather-to-weight ratio of his body seemed awfully high and he was very heavy on me, but I didn’t object. “I need you to make love to me,” he said.

“Where are you from, anyway?” I asked, curious at his accent again. He told me he was Brazilian, and then rattled off a long sentence in Portuguese. “What was that?”

“I said that you are a beautiful man and that tonight you are going to strip me naked and use me as you will, that you are going to turn me into your little bitch and that when you enter me with your mighty member, I will whimper and become totally yours.”

I debated it briefly. “Well, okay.”

I yanked off my pants and let him suck me for a while in his full leather regalia. Every now and again he would lean back and show off for me, flexing his arms or holding his hands over his head and stretching to display his hairy chest. Gradually we got his clothes off—not easy with all the fastens and snaps and buckles, and the darkness—and got his ass into the air. I buried my face between his cheeks and sure enough, he began to whimper. And buck. And beg. “Are you ready?” I asked, a few minutes later.

“Yes,” he said, squirming. “Fuck me. Please, please fuck me.” I got myself ready and began working myself in. He clutched the pillows and yelled, “Yes! Yes! Do it! Make me yours!” Just when I reached the base, he wriggled off and declared, “Okay. That’s enough.”

“What?” I almost yelped. My head spun.

“I need a rest,” he said, panting. So I gave him a rest. For twenty-five minutes we just talked. Or rather, he talked about his job and I listened, while we cuddled and I rubbed his back. It was nice, but I was soft when he suddenly grabbed my dick and announced, “Now you fuck me again. Fuck me right.”

“Let’s do it,” I agreed, hardening instantly.

Again it was the same routine. I entered him slowly while he shook and shuddered and begged for it. The moment I was all the way in, he leapt off again, and followed it with another half-hour of talking. When he was ready to go again, I felt I had to be firm. “Listen,” I said. “This time, we’re fucking longer than fifteen seconds.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But you are so big!”

“Well, you knew that when you invited me over,” I griped.

“You will have pleasure this time,” he promised. “So much pleasure.”

I flipped him onto his knees, reapplied the lube, and slid inside. He seemed easier to get into, the third time. “Yes!” he yelled. “You feel so good! I am all yours! I am your little bitch! I am taking your big cock inside me! I am coming! I am coming!”

“What?” I asked, startled.

The little Brazilian thrashed and jerked, spewing ropes of semen across his bedspread. My dick popped out of his hole as he fell full-faced into the pillows. After a moment in which all the blood seemed to drain from my head into my still-throbbing dick, he popped up again. “That was fun!” he announced. “You can clean up in the bathroom.”

I grabbed my T-shirt and stomped off in the direction he indicated, silently thinking evil things about leathermen and their perverted notions of sex. “Maybe we can do this again tomorrow!” he chirped, while I got dressed.

“Maybe,” I grumbled, thinking, Never.

Bruno text messaged me all that weekend, but I politely declined the opportunity to see him again, even though he attempted to sway me by saying he had a really special leather outfit he wanted me to see him in. I told him that I was out with friends, the following night, and couldn’t get back to his hotel.

Not all the dress-up in the world can disguise the fact that when sex is bad, it’s really bad. Not even the cutest accent in the world can compensate.

If there are men out there into leather who'd like to make me change my mind, though, I'm all ears.

21 comments:

  1. Thanks for the belly laugh I got (at your expense) reading about your 15 second encounters with BB (Brazilian Bruno).
    Yesterday's thread about Whore's "bait and switch" tactics, though, still has me sporting a boner, and, did it for you, too. Great threads for us readers!

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  2. I suspect you were laughing with me, and not at me, Loadseeker. Glad you enjoyed.

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  3. Ok funny but at the same time, what a selfish prick!

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  4. Anonymous,

    Who's the selfish prick, him or me? I'm hoping not me!

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  5. I'm totally surprised that you didn't continue to fuck him once you had your dick in him. I suppose it's not your nature to force the fuck -- but he was at IML. Poor pussy Brazilian Bruno and doubly poor you that you didn't get your prize.

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  6. What an idiot that asshole bottom was! He had the chance to get fucked by a primo top and he couldn't take it? Then he cums 15 seconds after your 3rd attempt. Maybe Sammy Bear is right, maybe you should have pinned him down to the mattress and just kept going until you got your nut. I agree with you that sometimes those into leather tend to use it as a crutch. My only requirement for sex is pleasing the man I'm with and taking his load deep inside me. I so wish I lived in Michigan!

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  7. Sammy,

    Sometimes I can spot a losing cause when I see it, buddy.

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  8. Brad,

    I like your requirement. That's the way it should be!

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  9. Hey, Rob. . . .I used to be pretty heavily into the leather scene, and have often encountered the same situation. Although I enjoyed the relatively lower proportion of "looks Nazis" in the community (i.e., those who limit their sexual partners to those who fit a very limited physical profile), the emphasis on gear was sometimes tiresome. I got rid of most of my gear when I divorced last year, and haven't missed it since. Plus, all those snaps and laces and such make it difficult to get a boy naked!

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  10. I would have informed him that this will be fucking not lovemaking and to keep his sex choergraphy to himself...I hate it when they say stuff like...and oooooh I'll do this, and mmmmmm you'll do that, then you'll touch me like this, and I'll moan like that...

    It also really should be a rule of sorts that the bottom should keep his hands off his dick especially if he's a one pump chump.

    You were way too patient...an hour of chatting and 30 seconds of ass time?!?!

    I went to leather beer bashes when I was a 20s punkish otter with my frame barely able to hold up my button flys. I was rather popular. Unfortunately with only a few exceptions I couldn't say the same.

    Wigs and sequined gowns or chaps and harnesses, it's all drag to me. This and to many other conformities drove me out of the community.

    Seph

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  11. I’m in a cranky mood….so maybe I won’t publish this…then again I may. It sounded like you just had bad sex at a leather convention, not bad leather sex. I am the first to admit there are “stand and model/ there for the dress up” guys at a leather gathering as much as at any trendy bar. More at IML--which is why I go to CLAW. But I don’t think leather should be the scapegoat. ANY fetish that gets in the way of good sex is an issue. I can think of the foot fetishist that did my feet and got so carried away that he forgot it was only a prelude to the fucking. Or the b&d bottom who ordered ME around to tie him differently every 45 seconds because he was so turned on by just the ropes. That doesn’t mean that I haven’t had fabulous sex with other guys into feet and other b&d types. From this very blog, the Silver Fox, Hardy (in certain cites), and myself have sex far more often in leather than without it. It is an enhancement. There are some of us for who the idea of the “second skin” is very real. And I make it a rule to never wear anything that does not grant easy and immediate access to the goods. Chaps enhance the ass like little else. Hell, my tailor is so gifted, he made MY rather flat ass look good.

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  12. FelchingPisser, maybe you are cranky. I didn't think my third-sentence qualfier of 'once in a while' would manage to turn this post into a broad condemnation of leather and te men who wear it. If I personally offended you, I apologize. I would be mystified how you'd gotten offended, but I'd regret it.

    Apparently some days I should just keep my mouth shut.

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  13. Offended is way too strong...I have been exactly in your white Chucks--well, combat boots--when it's happened to me...

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  14. Having worked at a now defunt, but notorious leather bar in NYC for several years in the 90's I know what you mean. I learned early on that a good many "leather men" were, in fact, big ole' girls who'd much rather discuss lasagna recipes than sex. Nothing made me limper than going home with some leather stud and finding out that he wanted to spend the next 20 minutes putting me in various outfits, boots, harnesses, etc. I wanted to fuck, they wanted to mold me into some sort of fantasy. Don't get me wrong -- I love leather but don't own much. There is nothing hotter than a stud in a leather harness, boots and jock -- but it certainly doesn't make or break a hook-up. For me it's about the person -- the attitude, the brain, the sense of humor -- the sex organ between the ears that gets me going. Sure, the window dressing helps but in the long run I'd much prefer a stud who knows who he is internally, not what he (or I) looks like in yards of dead cow and stainless steel. I'm just sayin'...now let the flaming begin.

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  15. I have to say that he gives us bottoms a bad rep!!!

    Nothing feels better too me than cumming while getting my tight hole fucked (Especially by a BIG cock like you have Rob) and maybe I am a minority, but after I cum, I don't loose any of the pleasure of a nice BIG hard dick sliding in and out of my tight ass.

    I would gladly let you breed me as many times as your balls can re-load. I guess (In a way) that I am some sort of nymphomaniac. I always want more.

    Craig

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  16. LOL hilarious.

    That's what I hate about "the Leather Scene": the conformity of it all. The lack of originality, the elaborate, pretentious, unnecessary effort.

    And if there's anything worse than a bossy "sub," who expects everyone else to initiate conversation, who directs his own ideas for degrading himself, it's one WHO CAN'T EVEN TAKE IT.

    Bottoms who dom can be hot, if they take charge with confidence, take dick and the top sub knows his role and is into it.

    But a vague encounter with a bossy bottom who can't even approach subs sounds like a nightmare. A boring, inept mess.

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  17. Maybe Bruno's reputation had preceded him, thus explaining the lack of approaches to him from other guys. But I'm still trying to get my head around the image of you at IML. Fortunately for the dog, I wasn't drinking my coffee when I started reading; she might have gotten an unintended coffee shower.

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  18. Really, Rawhide? I'm that ridiculous to you? That makes me sad.

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  19. I absolutely didn't intend to convey that meaning; I can't apologize enough for doing so. But it seemed as if you were aware of the incongruity yourself as you described the scene in the hotel lobby when you returned that evening. (Maybe this is why I wasn't an English or literature major in college.)

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  20. Rawhide--that makes me feel better. Thank you. I must be too sensitive after this post.

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  21. @tallpig

    I went home with a leatherman once and he proceeded to show me his figurine collection and then just wanted to cuddle. That's all very well and good if that's what you want, but he was talking up a mean game at the bar. It was a total bait and switch.

    And you're right, the brain is the largest sex organ.

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