Mr. Dangerous

There’s a certain breed of guy who lurks on the online hookup sites. His profile contains several carefully-chosen photos of himself—face, torso, ass, whatever—and a minimum of information. He’ll engage in conversation, particularly if you tell him he has a beautiful face, torso, ass, or whatever, and make the vaguest of noises about meeting sometime. Enough noises to keep hope alive, or keep you on the hook, but not enough ever actually to commit.

He’s the kind of guy, in other words, who seems to be online looking for some kind of validation from others. Validation that he’s pretty enough, sexy enough, fuckable enough. He enjoys hearing the compliments, especially from the guys he finds attractive. He rarely hooks up, though. I’m not fond of those men, myself. They’re the styrofoam peanuts you have to dig through in order to find the elusive delivery inside. Like the peanuts, they’re messy and clingy and all over the place. But you know, my philosophy is that someone else can tell me what I can and can’t do with one of my online profiles when they’re playing my monthly fee to belong to that site. And since they ain’t, nay-sayers should keep their mouth shut. So I mostly do.

My second night in Toronto, though, was full of those guys. I had some downtime after an early dinner in which I was cruising BBRT and coming up absolutely dry. None of the men who’d promised they’d be around and available that evening was online. One guy whom I found extraordinarily attractive talked to me for a good fifteen minutes about how he was close by and wanted me to come over, and was I interested? Heck yes, I was interested. Sounds like I could be there in five minutes, I wrote him. Give me your address.

Then nothing. He'd been responding within seconds to every other note we'd swapped, but though his profile said he was still online, he didn't communicate at all.

It was over an hour before I got a response back. During that time I went from a mindset of Oh, he’ll be writing back soon to Maybe he’s in the shower, getting ready, to Fucker. When finally he did get back to me, he told me that he had to clean up and get ready, and that it would be maybe an hour and fifteen minutes more, would that be okay?

It was not okay. Sorry, but no. Good luck, I replied.

During that long waiting time, I discovered that my BBRT profile had shot up to the most-viewed profile of the day. It’s happened to me enough times that it’s not a novelty—usually when I’m traveling and I’m the ‘fresh meat’ in a new big city—but it’s always a pleasant surprise when it does. The site displays your photo on its front page, and my experience has been that your mailbox simply explodes with people telling you how hot you are. Not just the local guys, but men all over the world.

On one level it’s kind of gratifying to know that at this point in the site’s history, just about as many people have looked at my profile as have looked at porn star Brad McGuire’s. On another level, when you’re alone by yourself in a hotel room, having extricated yourself from your travel companions in order to do a little screwing, having over two hundred guys singing your praises without actually offering to take your dick gets to be frustrating to the point of actual comedy.

Then finally a local guy messaged me. His profile photos were hot to the point of intimidation—they showed a starkly handsome thirty-five year old with pronounced, angular features. His intense eyes seemed to bore out of the computer screen. The soul patch beneath his lower lip was the only hair on his shaved head. His body was buff and muscular and made him look like an adult industry model. He could have been, for all I knew, the way he posed in his photos in nothing but boots and skin covered in ink. He looked hard. Like a bad boy. Dangerous.

Come fuck me, he said, naming the cross-streets to which he was closest. Now.

The frightened part of me that comes to life whenever I’m intimidated by a man’s good looks wrote my reply. You realize I’m not built like you, right?

You’re hot, he wrote back. Come over. When he gave me his address, I realized that if I didn’t follow through on this one, I would be one of those men who hung around on the site looking for validation, instead of action. So I obeyed.

His apartment was expensive and furnished similarly. It looked as if a decorator had swept through only moments before, adjusting the glass vases of flowers and wiping the last fingerprints from the glass dining table. And there was Mr. Dangerous on the living room sofa, on his knees with his ass in the air. There was enough light for me to see one of his hands playing with his sizeable dick, while the other rubbed his hole. “Come in,” he said in a brusque, deep voice. “Get comfortable.”

I kicked off my sneakers on my walk over to him. I almost expected him to be in a druggy haze, but he was lucid and clear-headed. “You like what you see?”

“Oh hell yeah,” I said into the quiet.

“It’s all yours. You rim?”

I didn’t have to be asked twice. I went down on my knees and separated those beautiful butt cheeks with my hands so I could bury my face inside. He grunted and shifted his weight from knee to knee as I sucked away at his hole. His hairy balls and the base of his dick kept banging against my chin as he gyrated away.

“Fuck,” he said. “I fucking needed this. Guys always want me to top. I love topping, but sometimes I really need to be stretched out and bred by a big one. You know?”

I couldn’t honestly say I did. It didn’t matter, though, because suddenly he wheeled around on the sofa. We were face to face, both of us on our knees. Without warning, he pulled my face to his and began making out with me.

The guy wasn’t the greatest of kissers, but the shock of finding my fuzzy beard pressed against his handsome face made it hot. “You rim great,” he growled at me. “Now let’s see how you fuck.”

I tend to get rock-hard when I eat ass, especially for an extended period of time. When I stood up to let him slather my dick with the lube he had on the coffee table, I was dripping with precum. “Stick it in there,” he said, leaping around to present his ass once more. “Rip it up. Make me feel it.” He was still talking like that when I pushed against his hole and began to slide in. “Yeah, fucking big dick. Rape this tiny hole. Make me fucking feel it stretching my pussy.”

When I reached the base, he let out a long, almost unending sigh, like a balloon deflating slowly. “Yes,” he hissed. “That’s what I needed.”

“Feel good?” I asked. It did to me. The guy’s hole was warm and tight and inviting. I could have stayed in there a long time.

He shook his head as if clearing stars from his eyes. “Fuck yeah. Feels great, man.”

Mr. Dangerous held himself upright and craned his neck over his shoulder so we could kiss again. Then I pushed him down so I could fuck him on all fours. For a good ten minutes I slid in and out of his hole, figuring out what he liked best. He responded the most whenever I pull out all the way and plunge in again, or tease him by moving only the first two inches in and out of his hole. “I can feel that big head stretching my boypussy wide open, fucker,” he groaned. “Give it to me, daddy.”

It might have been that he was figuring out what buttons of mine to push as well, because the daddy-talk got more pronounced and nastier the longer I fucked. I felt like my skin was flushed and prickly; every hair on my arms and neck seemed to be standing on edge the closer I got to climax. “Big daddy dick invading my little hole,” he muttered, with his head hanging low to the sofa. “Fucking me like a real man fucks. Giving his boy what he needs. Fuck. Give it to me, Please give it all to me, daddy. I need it. I want it. Give it to me.”

It was to that muttered supplication that I unloaded inside him, grunting noisily and letting almost-painful rasps of air from deep within my lungs. He urged me on through the last spurt. Then he said, “Stay inside—please don’t pull out. Don’t pull out. I gotta feel that load inside me. I love your daddy dick stretch me—oh fuck . . . fuck . . . .”

He came like a bronco, bucking and jerking and thrashing around so violently that not only did my dick flop out of him, but a rope of my cum squirted out of his hole and onto the floor as well. He managed to catch his own load before it hit the expensive upholstery, though, and knelt there for a moment, panting.

Still out of breath, he hopped onto his feet, grabbed a hand towel from the coffee table, and offered it to me. Then he took another for himself and wiped off his face and bald skull with it. “Fuck. That’s what I’m talking about,” he said, laughing. “I needed that bad. You ever get the feeling that you need a good fuck to sort you out, but you can’t find one to save your life?”

My mouth wrinkled in wry agreement. I knew that feeling well. I did indeed.