Monkey See, Monkey Do

When he walked into the bar last night, all my friends’ heads turned. They always have, at the sight of him. He’s a sexy man.

He’s not tall, or particularly muscular. His eyes are too tiny and set too far apart, and his forehead is too broad for him to be called classically handsome. What he has, though, is a degree of swagger. He strides into a room with his shoulders back and his jaw jutting, so that people notice the leanness of his waist, the broadness of his shoulders. They’ll overlook the small size of his eyes to see how blue they are, and miss the Neanderthal brow to admire the crisp planes of his military-cut hair. Like I said, he’s a sexy man.

“God, he’s hot,” said my friend Milton. “Look at him. He’s so hot. I bet he’s hung like a horse.”

“Mmm,” I said in non-committal tones.

“I bet he’s—” Milton picked up on my lack of affect. “Oh shit. You haven’t. Have you? You have. Fuck.” I didn’t say a thing, though I was smiling in a way that answered his question. “You have. Fuck. Is there anyone in this bar you haven’t done? Anyone at all?”

“There is a entire bar full of men I haven’t done. Yet,” I said to Milton. Then, mischievously, “Except one.”

“God damn you,” he said, slugging back his drink. “Is he hung like a horse? I bet he is. Is he? Is he hung like a horse? He has to be hung like a horse.” I shook my head. “You’re lying. He’s hung like a horse.”

Sadly, the guy isn’t even hung like My Pretty Pony.

I have always thought of him as Monkey—primarily because I don’t know his name. We met on Manhunt a few years ago, one summer day when he’d been begging me for my dick and I wanted to get off before dinner. He’s been weird about meeting, that first time—he lived in a subdivision he claimed was too complicated to navigate on my own, so he wanted to meet me in a parking lot and then have me follow him to his apartment. The so-called complicated part was apparently turning into the main drive of the subdivision and making a right. I can see how I might’ve messed that one up. Once he parked in front of his place, he stepped out of the car, tossed the keys into the air and caught them in a jaunty way, and swaggered his way to the front door. I followed.

He was a fine hunk of guy, and online he’d wanted to do dirty things to me. I thought it was going to be hot, once the door closed and we were alone. I was kind of wrong.

For one thing, the Monkey didn’t want to be touched. He didn’t kiss. He didn’t like a man to put his hand on his chest, or his legs, or anywhere that wasn’t between his waist and his thighs. He didn’t want to remove his soccer shirt, or lower his pants past the knees. His dick was short, yes, but I didn’t care. I’m not someone who measures the worth of a guy by the length of his penis. If the Monkey only had three inches, I didn’t mind as long as he knew what to do with those three inches.

But the thing was, he didn’t do much at all with them, save sit down and allow me to suck him off. The first time we met, I ate him for a considerable time with little to no response other than spurts of pre-cum, a rigid mouthful of dick, and eventually a squirt of semen that I swallowed. I had to stand up and thrust my own inches in his face in order to get him to make good on his internet vows to eat me like a peppermint stick. Even then, it wasn’t until the tip of my dick was at his lips that they parted and I had any indication that he was going to follow through.

He sucked well enough that day to get me close to shooting, which is rare. I warned him when I was close. “You want me to cum in your mouth?” I asked, and he shrugged. I took it for a yes. I held the back of his neck when I started to pump out the sperm. His mouth gulped hungrily around my meat while I came. Then the absolute moment I was through, he lurched up from the sofa with one hand on his pants to keep himself from falling on his face, and raced to the kitchen. Then he spat my load into the sink, ran the garbage disposal, pumped dishwashing soap into his hands, rinsed them off, rubbed the lather onto his face, rinsed that off, and then proceeded to wash his dick. It was just as frenzied and desperate as a kitchen sink version of the disinfectant scene of Silkwood. I was a little bit offended by the whole thing.

Not so offended, however, that I didn’t go back twice more. Same thing both times. Online, when he’d see me on Manhunt, he’d tell me how hot I was and how he had to have me, and how he wanted my dick and cum. When I’d arrive, I’d fellate him while he pretended I wasn’t there. Then I’d have to compel him to suck me, after which he’d run frantically to the kitchen and purge himself of my disgusting dick-germs and possible leprosy.

Hot as hell or not, I’d had enough of it after those handful of times. Because there was something else that bothered me—I’d frequently see the Monkey at a bar I frequented, and he’d never fucking say hello. Oh, he’d notice me. I would see him staring in my direction when I’d enter, and I could tell he was deliberately avoiding my glance when I’d walk by on my way to the restroom. But he cut me cold and dead the first time I waved his way, casually, and I never tried again after that.

I know that some people don’t like their sexual life aired in public. I get it. But last week at the very same bar I saw the Bulldog, one of my past encounters. He’s a man of few words, but even he clapped me on the shoulder as he walked by at one point and shook my hand in greeting. Most other tricks I know will nod discreetly or raise their hand in greeting when we pass, even if they’re with their boyfriends or wives. I’m not the kind of guy who yells out, “Thanks for letting me slobber over your big old fuckstick!” in front of a crowd. But it seems to me simple courtesy to treat someone you’ve exchanged fluids with as if they’re a human being with feelings who might like to be acknowledged. You know?

It’s the entire online/in-person disparity that I never understand with the Monkey. When I see him out and about, he acts as if he wishes I were anywhere else, even if I was between his knees. Online he’s hot for me to the point of stalkerish-ness. This morning I got a note from him on Manhunt, time-stamped last night after he must’ve left the bar, that said, Seeing you drives me fucking crazy. Please please please feed me your dick again.

And you know, tempting as the offer is to see my thick cock going in and out of those pretty lips, I’m going to have to pass. Head-turner or not, I want the respect more than I need the blow job.