Hot Chocolate

His online profile claimed he was 39. Framed by my front door, he looked 53. His Manhunt and Adam4Adam profile photos had shown a handsome, lean man with dark hair, a married man, a man with a twinkle in his eye and a big dick between his legs. In person, he was an okay guy, a guy with gray and grizzled hair, a schmo whose eyes kept darting back and forth shiftily, as if he were casing the joint.

He said he liked to kiss, but apparently his idea of making out was pursing his lips into a tight point, and pressing them hard against mine in as chaste an exchange as I used to get from a great-aunt as a child. He wouldn’t allow my tongue to cross that impenetrable fortress. It would’ve been easier to get into Fort Knox’s main gold vault.

I probably should’ve stopped at that point, cut my losses, and called it a day, but I confess I let my horniness get the better of my common sense. I had a day off, and an opportunity to host. My last encounter with the banker who’d pooped all over the floor hadn’t gone so well, and I hadn’t gotten off in the interim. So what if the guy shaved a few years off his age in his online profiles? So what if he didn’t exactly match his older photos? He wasn’t hideous, and I had a dick that needed to get off. So I led him into my bedroom.

He went down on his knees the moment my belt buckle crashed against the floor. His mouth wasn’t the best on my dick—too much teeth—but it was a mouth, and I needed some relief. “You like that?” I asked. “You like that dick?” His eyes were closed as he bobbed up and down on the shaft. Thinking he was too far lost in some kind of sexual daze, I repeated my question. “You like sucking on that big ol’ dick?”
He opened his eyes then, gave me a look of annoyance, and went back to his substandard blow job.


All right, I thought to myself. So he doesn’t like chatter during sex. I’m good with that. I pulled him up on the bed and, while he continued abrading my dick with his incisors, removed my long-sleeved T-shirt. He took a moment to shuck himself out of his jeans and sweatshirt. Even his dick didn’t look as big as it had in his photos, I noted.

None of that seemed to matter at the moment. Because I was getting laid. At least he was showered—and clean enough that I felt comfortable eating out his hole a little bit. He bucked and groaned at the attention. “Shove it in,” he begged me, but instead I kept tonguing his hole. It was the first thing I’d done that got much of a reaction, frankly.

He slipped off the bed; his hands were braced against the floor as I kept my mouth against his hole. Then his torso slid down the side of the mattress, until his butt and legs were the only parts of his body still at my level. The side of his head rested against the wood floor. His eyes were closed. He sighed with contentment. He was ready.

I had some lube at hand, but all I really needed was a little spit. “You cleaned out, right?” I asked, will gun shy after the previous encounter.

“I’m totally clean,” he promised.

I slid in without a problem. His hole was tight and slick, and when he clamped down on it, I felt right about inviting him into my home. The crappy pics hadn’t mattered. They were just window dressing. This is what we both wanted. This fucking like dogs, this rutting like a pair of animals in heat. His head was back, his eyes closed, his mouth was open. He made the smallest sounds of pleasure and exquisite pain with every thrust.

“Let me sit on it,” he begged, after a few minutes.

I had no issues with that.

I pulled out of him very slowly and carefully. Then I clambered onto the bed and threw myself against the pillows. My dick pointed straight in the air. My ceilings are very, very high in this place; he was able to stand up on my bed without having to bend his head, as he positioned himself above me. “I want you to eat me out some more,” he said, as inch by inch he started to bend his knees and lower himself down. “Eat my hole, man.”

And that’s when it started. As his cheeks began to part, stuff started to drip out of his ass. Let’s use an apt phrase that’s been floating around U.S. current events in the last couple of months and call it a frothy santorum. It was the consistency and color of hot chocolate. Not the kind made by any Swiss Miss, however.

And it was sloshing down onto my chest.

My first thought: Jesus christ, not again!

My second thought: How the fuck do I get out of here?

It’s surprising, the way our brains work. I recall very analytically, very quickly, running through a number of calculations. It’d be faster to escape by scooting down toward the bed’s foot—but I’d run the risk of getting the stuff on my face, or in my hair. Pulling my body up toward the head would take a lot longer, but I’d have a lot less chance of getting that shit in my mouth or eye. In the end, and after only a split-second of decision-making, I seized his ankle, yanked it up, and did a roll-and-crouch like an action hero off the side of the bed and onto the floor.

The guy managed to keep his balance. More of the hot chocolate squirted out of his ass onto the bed blanket. Enema juice, it basically was—probably less disgusting than the banker had been, but this time I was gagging and having to clench down on the contents of my stomach. “Are you crazy?” I screeched at him, my face screwed tight with (I think) entirely justified indignation. “That is no way totally clean!”

It actually took the guy a moment to figure out what was going on. He looked at me blankly, then turned to one side to see the brown trail of splotches on my formerly white blanket, then turned to the other side—presumably so he could lawn-sprinkler the entire bed, rather than just the portion of it he’d soiled before. Finally he looked at me. “If you let me use your toilet for a couple of minutes, we could finish up after,” he said.

It was an offer I turned down, mysteriously enough. I had him in his clothes and out the door less than a minute later, and within three minutes, all the bedclothes were in the washer and I was in the shower, both set on hot.

So I’ve got to put it out there. Men of the tri-state area: what the fuck? Is bowel control not a thing here? Am I being super-picky for asking you guys to make sure your asses are cleaned out before we meet? Do I need actually to put the words Please don’t shit on me in my online profiles?

What the god-damned fuck is going on with you guys? This former mid-westerner really wants to know.