The Mid-Fuck Hair Styling

I’m a little surprised I forgot to write about this one.

Last year, sometime in the fall, I started talking to a local guy from Manhunt. He was in his late twenties, lived less than a mile away, and was astonishingly handsome. He knew it, too, because he had a large number and variety of photos displaying him at his best angles.

And by best angles, I mean bent over, showing off a perfectly-round jock butt that complimented his classic Latin looks. In these photos his body was muscular, tattooed, and perfectly complected all over. He had big, almond-shaped dreamy eyes of an impossible shade of green—whether from genetics or colored contact lenses, I couldn’t say.

He came on strong, too. His initial emails to me were full of compliments, telling me how handsome he found me, and how big my dick was, and how much he needed me to fuck him. He loved married men, he said. He was looking for a compatible, attractive man to meet for no-strings, regular meetings. That was fine by me.

We had a couple of late-night talks in which he told me that he couldn’t host, because he was living with a family member, and he couldn’t drive, because he didn’t have a car. However, he was more than willing to get a room at the local Marriott for the both of us, since it was within walking distance of his home. No, it would be his honor to get the room, he told me when I protested at the expense. It was the least he could do if I provided him with my beautiful dick, and besides, he made a good living as a hairdresser. He insisted.

We swapped phone numbers and exchanged texts for a number of weeks. Yet I noticed whenever I pressed the issue of meeting and getting this regular no-strings thing started, he’d drag his feet. He wasn’t available, one week. The next, he wanted to know if I had any poppers, and that he couldn’t get fucked without poppers. (I don’t use ‘em and I don’t even know where to buy ‘em around here, so guys, you’re on your own in that one.) I’d make tentative dates that he’d break. Then he started saying, yeah, it would be nice for us to meet sometime. Why didn’t I pay for a room for the two of us?

After that initial conversation, there were a too few many balks on his part and way too many hints that I should be pulling out my wallet in order to meet him. I automatically classified him as a hustler, and stopped saying hello to him when I saw him online. The text messages dried up.

I hadn’t heard from him since about November when suddenly I caught him online, at the beginning of this month. It was right around the time of my two poopy encounters (which were so grim that I’m not surprised they pushed this one out of my mind). My Latin friend made the mistake of coming at me in the kind of passive-aggressive way that really gets my back up—a kind of “I guess you don’t want to sleep with me any more since you haven’t talked to me in months,” kind of deal that made me get just plain old aggressive in return. I laid it all out on the table for him. I pointed out that I’d tried making dates and that he’d never kept them, that he’d dragged his feet too many times, and that I didn’t like the way it had traveled from The Marriott! My treat! to Get out your credit card and try to impress me with the room you pay for, without any mutual way-station in between.

To his credit, he apologized for his behavior. Then he asked if I could host right then. As it happened, I could. I thought it would be a good option to call his bluff, so I invited him over. I was a little surprised when he agreed, and then showed up at my place driving an expensive SUV just a shade smaller than a Hummer.

I met him at the street. When he stepped out of the car, he was even more handsome than his photos, and although he’d apparently bathed in strong cologne, I instantly found him attractive. So attractive, in fact, that my jaw dropped down to the ground and, like Wile. E. Coyote from a Looney Tunes oldie, I was conscious that I might have been licking my chops with an oversized tongue. “Wow, it’s nice finally to meet you,” I said, by way of greeting.

“Is my ride going to be safe here?” he asked, looking around at the neighborhood like I lived among crack houses.

Now, the little community in which I live is one that’s so wealthy, homogenous, and small-town New England-y that the residents don’t lock their doors. No, I’m serious. They don’t. I get laughs and comments of Oh you might have had to do that in Detroit but you really don’t have to do that here! when I pause at my back door to turn the deadbolt. I know of one little old lady here who’s paranoid about crime, and even all she does to protect her house from marauders is to keep the screen doors (plywood, flimsy) on a hook-and-eye.

(If there’s a sudden crime wave in my neighborhood after this, I’m going to know it’s one of you guys, you know.)

People in this community have a term for folk who have to lock up their homes. They call them New Yorkers. Locking doors is something they do where people aren’t nice. People are nice, here. There are people here who actually, honestly drive horses and buggies. No lie. I live in Mayberry Fucking R.F.D. “You’re kidding, right?” I asked him.

He snapped at me. “I just got these wheels and I don’t want them stolen.”

I was slightly taken about by the vehemence in his tone. “It’ll be fine,” I told him. “Come inside.”

He followed me in, peering around the immaculately-manicured shrubberies of my neighbors as if carjackers lurked within every rhododendron. When we got inside, I took his coat and invited him into the bedroom. He undressed all the way without a word, then lay back on the bed. I followed suit, hoping that things might warm up once we got the naked party started.

I erred on the side of optimism, apparently. Although he’d claimed in his profile he loved to kiss and was a great kisser, he didn’t like to kiss and was pretty lousy at it. He employed that weird approach of so many men who think they’re good kissers, who purse their lips, stick a rigid tip of their tongue through it, and jab at me like they’re trying to use an ice pick on my face. He didn’t suck well, though I made noises and groans and pretended he did, in the hope that it might inspire a little more enthusiasm in him.

Somehow, despite the lack of chemistry I was feeling on my part, we got to the point where I was fucking him. He was lying on his back. His legs were draped on my chest and shoulders. I fucked away, trying to concentrate on how hot he was and to keep my mind off how I was finding this a disappointing fuck to begin with.

He, on the other hand, was playing with my hair. Not in a sexy, oo-baby kind of way. First he reached up with two hands to pull it back, as it hung down around my face. I should probably confess here that my hair is at a length that it’s causing me some concern—though I’m fundamentally too lazy to worry about it overmuch. I can pull it into a four-inch ponytail when it’s in the way. I like to pretend I’m Bob Sinclar, but honestly, I probably look like a homeless person, or at least that I should be handing out Scooby Snacks and sayings Zoinks! a lot while I chase after cheesy-looking ghosts in haunted mansions.

So I thought, okay, he’s just getting that mess out of my face.

Then he used his fingertips to part the top of my head, and experimentally comb a sweep of it to the left side.

Then he used his fingernails and parted it to the right.

Then he reached behind my head, pulled my hair back, and looked to see what it was like when it was smoothed down against my head.

After that, he fluffed it over my ears.

Finally, he pulled the long side lanks down and tucked them behind my ears, seeing how that looked.
While I was fucking away, people. While I was fucking away.

Every time he changed my hairstyle, as I banged away at his hole, he’d tilt his head and look at me with the eye of a professional, while he judged which coif looked best. Finally, frustrated, I simply stopped. “I'm sorry, is my sex distracting you?” I asked, pointedly.

He had the decency to look slightly sheepish. Slightly, mind you. “Ooo,” he said robotically, and without any real enthusiasm. “Yeah baby. I like it.”

I just stared at him with disbelief.

After that, I really wasn’t into it. I mean, what’s the point, right? “Is that your car alarm?” I asked—which was a deliberately mean thing to do, since the neighborhood was shrouded in dead silence. But it caused him enough upset that my dick dropped out of his hole as he pulled himself into an alert posture. After that, it was easy enough to tell him that I could tell it really wasn’t working for either of us. Why he came over, simply to show me how boring he found me, I still can’t figure out.

Bad sex is one thing. Sometimes it happens—one has to be philosophical about it. Completing sex merely for the sake of being polite, though, is its own excruciating plane of hell. I’d rather cut it short while I’m slightly ahead of the game, any time.

But you know, at least there wasn't any poop involved.