A Dick in the Hand Is Worth Two in the Bush

I grew up under the steely influences of two grandmothers who were sticklers for propriety. Though both lived far away, I could feel their iron reach hundreds of miles away. Gifts from them came with enough attached strings to fuel an entire theater of marionettes. My thank-you notes had to be sent within a week of any birthday or Christmas present I might receive from them, or else my parents would start getting dunning phone calls, wanting to know when they might expect their receipt. I know a few collection agencies who apparently took tips from the pair of them.

There were rules for speaking in their presence. For eating at the table. There were rules about what rooms I could and couldn’t enter in their houses, and what I could do while I was there. Now, I was normally a mannerly kid—I was raised a little southern gentleman, after all—but all these extra restrictions and deadlines and mini-reports I had to write on books they recommended really rubbed me the wrong way. I found the strings so onerous that eventually I went all passive-aggressive on them in my mid-to-late teens and made the conscious decision simply to stop responding to any of their gifts. The resulting ruckus was such an ice storm of cold language that my parents warned me that if I kept it up, both grandmothers were threatening never to give me presents ever again.

I told them I was totally fine with that. My mom and dad, who not-so-secretly were kind of on my side in the issue, went back to their mothers and told them.

I never did get any more gifts from the old women. Every fiber of my being rebels when I’m offered something with so many restrictions and caveats attached; I find it even ruder than anything I could’ve done by not writing a thank-you note within five working days.

And then there are times, sadly, when I find myself wanting to follow in my grandmothers’ footsteps.

Last week there was some strange conjunction of the stars, or perhaps a change in the weather for the colder, that made it nearly impossible for me to get laid. Weirdness abounded. A black guy I used to see fairly frequently told me that he no longer dated outside his own race, though he preferred his partners to pretend to be white dominants when they fucked him. A guy I knew as a pretty slutty bottom had changed his position to ‘Top’ in his Manhunt profile, and when I asked him about it, he sent back a curt note saying that yes, he’d decided that he would be happier as a total top in the future and that his bottoming days were over. I also had two tops send me messages from out of the blue asking if I had picture of my hole for them.

I was polite enough to everyone. I told my black friend that I hoped he and his new white masters with the dark skin had a good time, and wished my newly-top buddy all the luck in the world. (Though secretly I was remembering the bookstore lunches he used to take four times a week with his ass backed up to the gloryholes and thinking, Yeah, we’ll see how long that lasts.) And I declined to send the tops photos of my hole that I don’t really have.

A few bottoms drove me to distraction that one night, however. Suddenly for one and all, my dick wasn’t enough for them. One bottom who’d made the pages of this blog not too very long ago messaged me and asked if I was free that night. Surely I was, I replied to him. When did he want to come over? I was hoping the answer would be, soon.

But no. He replied back, It would really make it worth my while if you rounded up at least two other tops.

Oh, I thought to myself. It was going to be one of those nights. None of the tops I know are online, I told the guy.

Then maybe you could take me to the baths and whore out my ass, he wrote.

Now, at the same time I got a note from another bottom I knew, asking what I was doing. Oh, dealing with another bottom who’s being a butt, I tapped out. Want to come over?

Yeah I’d love to see you, he said. But I was kind of wondering if you knew any other tops tonight? Or if you want I can pick up a couple of them and bring them to your place.

It really was that kind of night. I was burning with anger. I knew that in the end, both of these bottoms were going to be spending the night in front of their laptops, fruitlessly searching for the top that could guide them from the barren desert to an oasis of multiple dicks. It seemed to me that a single good top would be better than what they were going to be getting, which was going to be nothing.

Furthermore, what was with the ‘worth my while’ shit about? Was this guy, who a couple of weeks before had told me he hadn’t been fucked so well in over a year, now telling me I wasn’t worth his fucking while? And as for the other bottom, did he seriously think I wanted him to pick up total strangers and bring them to my home? Really? It’d been quite a while since I’d encountered what seemed, in my blue-balled stated, like such utter rudeness. I wanted to blast them both with carefully-chosen words that would first freeze them into bottomsicles and then shatter them into tiny shards.

Just like my grandmothers had often felt about my perceived transgressions, I realized.

Instead of giving in to those frosty impulses, though, I took a deep breath and told myself it was time to step away. I very warmly told both guys good luck and great fun with their search for multiple tops, then logged out and spent the evening in less carnal pursuits. I was a happier person that way.

The next night I logged back on. Within five minutes, both the bottoms of the previous night had sent me notes. Their evenings hadn’t panned out the way they’d hoped, they both said. Neither got fucked. Was I available? I took bids from both of them and went with the one who could stay the longest. It wasn’t until he was in my bed and on his knees with his ass in the air that I said anything about the night before. “You sure this one dick is going to be enough for you?” I asked, as the tip of my head paused right outside his hole.

“Yes,” he hissed head hung low. “Please. Please.” When I continued to tease the lips of his ass, he finally whispered, “Sorry about last night.”

“Forget about it,” I told him, as I drove into his hairy hole and plunged on home.

Then we never said another word about it.