Cock-Eyed

One of my Sunday-morning questions yesterday reminded me of a story that took place in Toronto, years ago.

It was during the late nineteen-nineties that I discovered the city of Toronto as a good sex vacation destination. The U.S. economy was so strong then that one could get almost two Canadian dollars to the U.S. dollar, even at the crappiest exchange spots. It was a cheap, cheap vacation. And in Detroit, I lived all of ten minutes from the Canadian border. I knew plenty of people who thought absolutely nothing of popping across the river for a dinner in a foreign country.

I wasn’t one of them. Even before 9/11, when crossing from one country to another was still a simple matter of presenting your driver’s license, answering a couple of vague questions, and being waved blithely through, I would get the flop sweats whenever I’d go through Customs. Maybe it was the way the Canadians would peer at me when I rolled down my window and would ask if I was carrying any firearms. Maybe it was the way the U.S. officers would peer around in all four corners of the interior of my Malibu as if I was harboring Canadian wetbacks scheming to enter the country and take all of the red-blooded American jobs in the logging and donut shop industry, eh.

Or it might have been that until that point, the only reason I had for going to Canada was for drug smuggling. Oh yes. I was a drug smuggler. I needed the stuff I could get only over the border. I needed it bad. Especially in the spring and autumn. I’m talking about, Claritin, here. Yes, the allergy drug.

In my country at the time, it was a prescription-only pharmaceutical. You had to jump through hoops and go into the doctor regularly to get a regular supply. In Canada, you could just walk into any drugstore and cheaply (so cheaply!) buy as much of the stuff as you liked. I’m not at all convinced it was illegal to bring back Claritin from Canada into the States, but I was reluctant to declare it at the border, and paranoid about being busted with the stuff, so I’d shove it under the seat (I didn’t say I was a very good drug smuggler) and flop-sweat through the interrogation I was sure to face at the border. Then somehow I discovered the world of Toronto and its gay district, and the trips there made having to be grilled by men and women in uniform all worthwhile.

Toronto had a very concentrated gay district back then—several blocks up and down Church Street that was nothing but gay bars and baths and gay-owned restaurants. It’s still there, but it’s not as long a stretch, and it’s not as gay. My favorite bathhouse was The Barracks, a leather and wild-side-oriented establishment (since closed) that was a bit like a bathhouse opened up in a couple of old downtown brownstones. It was so far from Church Street, though, that I’d have to plan my visits to that side of town. When I wanted a spontaneously, late-night whoring session, I’d choose the Bijou, which was near the gay district and my hotel.

I’ve written before about my other favorite spot, the old Toronto Bijou. When I started visiting, it was still calling itself a bar—though basically it was a clothes-on basement bathhouse that served alcohol. There were booths down there with peepholes and gloryholes carved in every surface, including the doors; there were labyrinths of hallways that led to dark corners where men fucked and sucked. There was a large, open pitch-black room that could only be accessed through a series of increasingly-darker rooms leading to its interior. And between bellyfuls of semen, men could hit the bar for drinks. (Later, after the place was raided, the bar was removed and the place was officially classified as a bathhouse.)

My favorite room in the Bijou, though—and I’ve written about this before, too—was the slurp ramp. The slurp ramp was a walled platform accessible by stairs, around all sides of which were holes right at cock height. Men standing below the slurp ramp would find these holes were right at mouth height.

Well. You can imagine what went on. As much as I love fucking—and my readers know I love fucking—I also love sucking cock, and the slurp ramp afforded me the opportunity to exercise that side of my personality. I loved standing in the darkness behind the ramp for hours, claiming my gloryhole, and sucking off anybody who stepped up to it. Sometimes at the end of the night I’d exit the Bijou and find my shirt covered with dried semen. Caked with it, really. And that would’ve been just a small portion of the stuff I’d actually swallowed.

One night I was working the ramp from the suck side when a total stallion of a man climbed up on top. He wasn’t tall, but he was built like crazy. His biceps were roughly the size of my neck; his hands, as they clutched the top of the slurp ramp wall, were enormous and meaty. He looked like a living Tom of Finland illustration, all overblown muscles and hyper-exaggerated masculinity. The only light in that room came from a TV screen in the room’s front. It was possible to see how fucking handsome this guy was in its dim bluish light. He had a shaved head and the dark, thick eyebrows of a Greek native. He regarded the throngs of hungry cocksuckers below with a critical eye. Like the many guys around me who wanted a piece of him, I looked up at him with adoration and prayed that he’d pick me.

He didn’t. He picked the guy at the hole next to mine, a good-looking boy in a tank top. I watched as the guy’s cock disappeared down my neighbor’s throat, envious. I wasn’t envious for long, though, because the Greek saw me watching. He put his free hand on my head—his other hand was on the boy’s crown. He riffled my hair, holding me still and indicating through his body language that I shouldn’t go anywhere. Then he pulled out of the boy’s mouth, put his dick through my hole, and fed me.

His dick wasn’t long, but it was thick and uncut and hard as stone. I could taste the other boy’s spit on it, but I didn’t care. I just wanted that meat. I sucked him all the way down and gave it my best effort, and was rewarded when I heard him grunt with pleasure. He withdrew again, and fed the boy some more.

Back and forth between the two holes he went. The boy and I were his chosen mouths, and he liked us both. Eventually the boy came over to my hole and we slobbered over the Greek’s dick together, making out and letting our tongues flick against the other’s. The boy was into me, too. His hands thrust down my shorts to haul out my dick; he was well-hung himself. When the Greek would take one of our heads and thrust it down on his tool, the other would go down to our knees. I’d suck the boy hard and deep while he was on the Greek, and he gave me some of the same treatment when it was my turn to service.

We all lasted like that for a very long time, while around us men pushed by and lingered and watched and tried to get in on the action. Eventually, though, I could tell the Greek was picking up the pace. His grunting increased, until he sounded like a pig rutting; the amount of precum flowing from his dick went from rivulet to gushing stream. And his thrusts got more and more violent. At one point he was holding the back of my head while he powered his dick down my throat, before releasing me as I started to gag and doing the same to the other boy. “I’m gettin’ close,” he said. When he spoke, it was with a thick and unexpected accent.

He grabbed the back of my head, and pulled it down, hard, onto his cock. He’d been aiming for my mouth, of course. But whether I’d turned the wrong way on my trip up from between the other boy’s legs, or whether he was just too hasty in his thrusting, all I know is that I felt—rather suddenly and inexplicably—the jarring sensation of bone (his) against bone (my skull), a blinding flash of purple light, and a hell of a lot of pain from my left eye socket. The pain was so awful for a moment that for a moment I wasn’t even sure that my eyeball was still there. Clutching my face, I staggered backward into a wall of bodies, the men who’d been surrounded the pair of us as we’d been servicing the Greek. Neither of my partners seemed to notice I’d left.

Cursing and panicking, I managed to make my way to the men’s room. It was the only place inside the Bijou that was lit. My eye was streaming with tears and I panicked to see a lot of fluid on my chest. For some reason I was convinced it was squishy eyeball juice. Reason eventually took over and I figured out it was just a mixture of cum, precum, and general slobber. It seemed to be taking forever for my left eye to come back into focus, however. After a moment and some hunting along the surface of my eyeball (once I could open my lids), I realized that I’d lost my contact lens. It didn’t seem to have been pushed elsewhere on my eye (other contact lens wearers will know what I’m talking about, here). I didn’t want to get all dramatic at two a.m., but there I was in a foreign country, with only one contact lens and a difference in vision between left and right that was eye-watering at best and maddening at worst. I didn’t have my spectacles back at the hotel—they were sitting on my bedside table at home. And I had to drive back to Detroit the day after.

So I did what any sensible faggot did. I sighed, shrugged my shoulders, figured I’d work it out in the morning, and went back to a sucking dick, cock-eyed, for another two hours. I stumbled back to the hotel at roughly four-thirty in the morning, smelling like the inside of someone’s jock.

Yeah. Good times.

What I learned from that experience, though: seriously, don’t let someone fuck you in the eye socket. It hurts like hell and bursts a few blood vessels. Also, carry your eyeglasses with you in case of emergency, when you travel, as well as a pair of spare contact lenses. And finally, if you do lose your contact lens, head to the nearest optometrist. They’ll call your doctor, get a confirmation of your prescription, and give you a sample lens, gratis.

Whether or not you make up some fictional story about losing it while drinking, or tell them that you lost it at the Bijou’s slurp ramp . . . that’s up to you.