Sunday Morning Question: Texas Tea Edition

I always find that things ebb and flow, in my sex life. There’ll be periods of high sexual activities followed by lulls; I’ll be doing group after group for a while, and then none for a long time. Some weeks I’ll have so many offers that I legitimately couldn’t take them all if I tried, while others I can’t find a mouth for my cock if I wrapped it in bacon and a twenty-dollar bill.

The quality of the interactions I have with men, both online and in person, tends to follow a sine wave, too. I had a great couple of weeks off on vacation in which I very easily met some incredible guys. Then I returned to normal life and a flabbergasting amount of outright rudeness.

Oh, I’ve this week had the usual stand-ups and no-shows, the guys who come on strong and then, after we’ve made a firm date for coffee the next morning, manage to ‘completely forget’ about it when nine a.m. rolls around, leaving me sitting at the local Starbucks sipping my skinny mocha and tapping my foot until finally I just get up and leave. I’ve had a lunch date in which I seemed to get along with the guy and we made an agreement to get together and discreetly bang sometime in the future, only to get home and discover the other guy had not only Googled up articles about me online over a decade old that he presented to me with all the pride of a housecat offering up the fresh kill of a baby bird at my unsuspecting feet, but somehow managed to find three old phone numbers (one for a job I haven’t worked at in over fifteen years) and wanted to know which one was best to keep in touch with me.

I mean, even Mr. Killer Stalker of 2013 wasn’t that thorough, especially in the space of an hour and a half.

There might’ve been a time in my life when I would’ve found any of these experiences soul-crushing, but now I just have to laugh. No, really. Instead of feeling dispirited by the little-mindedness of it all, I try instead to find amusement and even delight in the ways that boys have of surprising me, even as they’re displaying both bad manners and bad taste.

Take, for example, this brittle repartee that I am quoting verbatim:

HIM: Wow! You have a really great smile! And dick!
ME: I appreciate the compliments. Thank you. You’re a handsome man yourself.
HIM: I didn’t say you were handsome.

Technically he’s right. I shouldn’t have assumed. But ouch. Right? Trust me, laughing helps when you get a kick on the shin like that one.

Or this:

HIM: You have a hot dick. You kind of remind me of a guy on television.
ME: Thank you. Which guy on television?
HIM: The one about that family that moved to Hollywood.
ME: Beverly Hills 90210?
HIM: No. Oh, I know. You remind me a lot like a kind-of-hot Jed Clampett.

Because trust me, you can’t make up that kind of comedy gold.

Let’s get to some questions from readers, shall we? If you’ve got questions to ask your resident sex blogger, either get on spring.me and ask me there, or send me email to the address in the sidebar with Reader Question in the subject line. I have a backlog of these that I work my way through, but I’ll get to them sooner or later.


Your child goes off to college and comes back during the summer. He's made a very attractive friend who happens to live in the same neighborhood. He shows interest in you. Would you ever consider fucking him?

Oh please. I was already texting the kid and getting nuts-deep in his hole before I got to the word 'neighborhood.'


I understand updating a profile keep it interesting, I've noticed guys abandoning their profiles creating entirely new ones. Is there a new trend emerging? 1 guy has had 3 on MH, 4 on Adam and Jack'd! Do you think a new moniker helps or hurts?

I've noticed the phenomenon myself—though it's difficult to account for, in many ways.

I can understand why some people have three or four profiles on a website like Manhunt, for example. It's a site that requires a paid account in order to do much of anything beyond read and respond to three or four emails a day; having a second or third account allows someone to double or triple the amount of activity he can undertake there.

Why someone would need multiple accounts on a free site like Adam4Adam or on a GPS app like Jack'd is beyond me, though in the past people have attempted to explain to me why. I knew one fellow who kept two profiles because one was 'nice' (with only a face and a chest photo) and the other 'naughty' (the camera was pointed lower). I knew another fellow who kept one profile that said he was in the mood to bottom, and another profile for when he felt more versatile. And I've known a couple of people who flit between cities and keep a separate sex profile for each.

There are legitimate reasons for a person to eliminate a profile and start anew. I'm not going to knock those in the least. I do find it slightly irritating, however, when someone will start a conversation with me on one profile and then assume I'll recognize them when they approach me on another—especially if there's no continuity between the photos in them both.

In light of the recent murder using the Grinder App while sad and tragic I found it disturbing that a man of 25 in a 17 month relationship had an "open relationship" they weren't together long enough to have a relationship to open! Is monogamy dead?

One of the things I've learned over the years is that there’s no shortage of people out there who are more than willing to invalidate other people’s relationships.

I've got conservatives and fundamentalists telling me that gay marriages are an abomination. I've got gay friends who say that if a relationship is open, it's not a ‘real’ relationship at all. I've known people who had fancy weddings with extensive registries who look down on those of us whose weddings were much humbler and hastier affairs. I've known people who've become serious after a very short period of time, only to be told by outsiders that it wouldn't last.

I'm not going to judge how long is appropriate for a relationship to be in existence before the pair open it up to others. For some couples it's bound to take a long time. Others might be ready for it instantly. That's a matter for a couple to decide on their own, and not for you or me to judge. What's disturbing is not the open relationship, but that someone would murder anyone else—and murder, sadly happens not only only to men on Grindr, but to people in all walks of life in the real world. It happens in families, and to straight people, and to people who are half of a monogamous couple.

An open relationship did not cause this death. A murderer did. That’s what we should be focusing on.


Do you believe there is such thing as "the gay look?” Not effeminate men but average looking men who are tagged gay cos of their general appearance.

I believe it's possible to have a personal gaydar that's pretty accurate.

I know people talk about being able to identify other gay men by having something they call 'gayface' or by the way the men dress, or by the way they walk or talk or, god help us, the way they cross their legs when they sit down. Perhaps some of those indicators actually work. (I personally believe in the 'gayface' thing myself.)

I've always prided myself on my gaydar, however, but it's based not on the way men look, but on the way they behave when they think they're not being observed. From my teens I've always observed the way guys look at other people around them—whether they check out the women or the men, where their eyes linger on the body when they do look someone over. Is it at the guy's watch, briefcase, and car keys? Or is it at the guy's eyes, chest, and crotch? Because of those is what straight men do, and the other is what gay men do when they assume no one's looking.

While straight men let their gazes linger on the bodies of attractive women, gay men's eyes wander over male forms. Even those men who think they've managed to button down and corral their desire do it for a split-second before habit and fear rein in a perfectly natural instinct.

Some men might have some kind of external indicators that constitute a gay look, accurate or not. My own experience is that there are little behaviors that are a better indicator of secret desire.


What age is the oldest guy you have recently fucked? As I hit 60 I find it curious what role age plays in sex.

There’s a guy at one of my group sessions who has a monster dick. I’m not exaggerating. The thing’s at least nine inches and beer-can thick. I feel like a little pea shooter when I’m erect next to him. He’s an older guy with gray hair, but he’s got a good physique on him, is handsome as all get out, and has a pair of blue eyes that could make a guy do anything.

I’d spent half a morning with him sucking his dick and fucking him and being rewarded with coffee-flavored kisses when he announced to the group that he had a birthday that week.

“Happy fortieth!” I said, thinking I was shaving off twenty years and complimenting him at the same time.

“How old will you be?” asked the group host.

“Sixty-nine,” admitted the guy.

Readers, if I’m still performing like that man when I’m sixty-nine, I’ll start taking the extra vitamins today, thanks very much.

Post-Gay Bar

So I’m sitting in a bar. It’s not a gay bar—it’s definitely not billed that way. It’s not entirely a straight bar, either, because I’ve seen a good third to half of the patrons at the area’s one gay club. It’s what they call typically ‘post-gay’ around here—we’re supposed to be so above it, so hip and welcoming, that gay bars are no longer necessary. Maybe it’s true. There are bars of all stripes in the New York suburbs, but very few of them are gay.

No, this joint is one of many bar/restaurants nestling next to each other on a strip in White Plains, which after dark becomes busy with young metropolitans hopping from one establishment to the next. I like this place, though; the bartender’s cute, the drinks aren’t wildly expensive, and every now and again I get to stagger off my stool and sing some karaoke.

Then a guy sits next to me. Over the loudspeaker some chick is caterwauling something off the top forty. The volume’s hair, and the effect is ear-splitting. I always try to be polite in karaoke bars when the singer’s bad—they’re not being paid for it, after all. But the effect to me is like iron tongs scraping blocks of ice, and I’m afraid I turn my face away from the stage and draw it into a rictus of pain.

“Damn,” says the guy. “It’s a good thing she’s cute, because she sure sings like ass.”

I give him a silent look that’s intended to say Amen to that. I look him over. He’s wearing a chambray shirt, worn but clean. Gray slacks. His hair is silvered, lush, curly. He’s a good looking guy. Smells good, too, like fresh citrus. His clothes occupy a space between white-color professional and blue-collar laborer. I’m not quite figuring him out yet. “I haven’t been to this bar before,” he says, as he grabs the bartender’s attention and orders a beer. “You?”

“A few times,” I say. I look down. The guy’s got an impressive bulge down the left leg of his jeans.
“I was next door, heard all the commotion. Thought I’d come see what was going on.” I can’t tell if he’s looking me over or not. He’s definitely looking at me. But he is looking at me? I don’t know. “You seem like the kind of guy who gets a lot of action. Am I right?”

He’s right, but I’m not committing to coming off as cocky. I just grin, shrug, and take a swig from my glass. “Karaoke action, maybe,” I say, by way of modesty.

“Right. I bet that’s not the only action. You singing?”

“Already did. It’ll be a while before I sing again.”

“Maybe we can talk some, then. I’m Louis.”

My dick stirs in my pants as I shake Louis’ hand. I still haven’t figured the guy out. These so-called ‘post-gay’ bars in this sophisticated part of the U.S. are a mixed bag of blessings. The up, of course, is that everybody mingles together and nobody gives a damn who’s gay or who’s straight. The down, of course, is that everybody mingles together and nobody can really tell who’s gay or who’s straight without some name tags. Either way, I like talking to new people, so I give him my name and tell him I’m glad to meet him.

He tells me he’s an engineer who studies drain lines. That makes sense to me—the clothes are a mixture of the down-and-dirty and the supervisor-in-the-yellow-construction-hat. “Seems like a great crowd in here,” he tells me. “Kind of a mix of hot chicks and gay guys, right?” I’m still wondering on which side his pachinko ball lands on when he adds, “I was down in the city a couple of weeks ago and I went to this bar in the Village, Marie’s Crisis?” I tell him I’d heard of it. “Place was fucking packed with the gays. They sing a hell of a lot better than this chick, though! I was pretty sure I was the only straight guy there.”

There’s the name tag I was looking for. Hello, my name is Heterosexual.

He leans in even closer, though, giving me a little bit of an erotic thrill. “With all those gay guys I’m sure could’ve got my dick sucked easy if I wanted at that place, know what I’m saying, though?” he murmurs. And even though I’m not the kind of guy who fetishizes sex with straight men, I’m still a little giddy and aroused at the confidence. I’m pretty sure he’s got me pegged, too; we both know what we are, and we’re both comfortable with ourselves and each other. It’s a post-gay bar thing, right?

We listen to the karaoke singers for a while, exchanging small talk. He tells me about his place up the Hudson; I talk a little about moving from the distressed midwest to the swanky neighborhood where I now reside. Then he leans over and puts a hand on my shoulder, and moves in. I lean forward until my ear is near his lips. “So buddy,” he whispers, soft and intimate. “There’s a pretty lady at twelve o’clock. Your twelve o’clock,” he corrects, when I try to look behind me. “Check her out. Is she my type?”

We’re within kissing distance, almost; the intimacy hits me like a sack of wet bricks. I find I’m totally erect as I look at the woman three seats down from him. She’s dressed up for an evening out. Her dress is cut low on top and cut high at the legs; she’s got a mane of glossy black hair hanging down her shoulders, a clutch in her left hand, left knee atop the right. “I don’t know what your type is,” I murmur into his ear, as the smell of lime tickles my nostrils.

“Is she a blockaway?" he asks, soft and low.

“What’s a blockaway?”

“You know. A dude or a chick who only looks good from a block away or more.”

He gives me a broad grin and a wink while I roared out loud. “She’s not a blockaway,” I assure him.

“Then she’s my type. Do a brother a solid and help me out here.” He jerks his head toward the woman. “Soften her up a little.”

It’s been a long, long time since I was a straight man’s wingman. My dick is still hard when I slide out of my chair with my glass in my hand and mosey over to the woman’s far side. Most of the crowd is up by the karaoke stage; it’s fairly quiet in the stretch of bar seats beyond where the woman has parked herself. I wave my glass at the bartender, set it down on the wood surface, and slide it back. Then I rest my arms on the seat beside the waiting woman. “So are you singing tonight?” I ask her.
She gives me that automatic look of reproach that woman tend to use when they’re alone in public places and don’t care for strange men hitting on them. It’s icy, and distant. Then she turns to dig for something imaginary in her purse.

“You should sing,” I tell her. “The hostess has a huge book of songs. She used to do karaoke at the gay bar way down the road until she moved here. That’s where I used to hang out. But at least this place serves food.” I watch as she processes the information. She looks around at the post-gay bar crowd and draws the correct conclusion, but I’ve already moved on. “Of course, some people find it’s more fun the drunker they are.”

“I’m really not much of a singer,” she says, taking her drink from the bartender and sipping it prettily through the straw. “But I did do ‘Love Shack’ once.”

Christ, everyone and their sloshed aunt has done ‘Love Shack.’ “You should totally do it,” I say, giving her a big smile. “Everyone would love you up there. You’re gorgeous.”

She flushes, and flutters her eyelashes. Flattery from gay guys is always the best. What reason do we have to lie? “Oh, come on.”

“Seriously, you are!” By now, my friend has moved up behind the woman. He’s standing upright, drink in hand, behind her shoulder. “Oh hey, do you know my friend Louis?” I ask, shamelessly stealing a line from How I Met Your Mother. Then I mumble something about seeing the karaoke hostess about when I’m going to sing, and leave the two of them alone.

I’m down the bar, watching Louis talk to the woman. I’m struck by how close his approach looks to an outsider like the way he walked to me: posture open, leaning in, close, intimate. She’s laughing and smiling at her, and she’s smiling at him . . . though perhaps not as broadly as she’d smiled at me. Eventually I turn away and listen to the music again.

He’s back five minutes later. “Nice work, my brother,” he says, slipping me a private secret handshake that I nearly fumble at the last minute. “You are a good, good wingman.”

“But you’re back here,” I point out.

“She’s waiting for someone. There’ll be another.” He sits down to wait with me, and we pass the time talking, inches from each other.

He’s correct. Another woman makes her way into the bar and takes a seat at the tables in the back. I bring her to his attention. “Definitely not a blockaway," he says with approval.

“You know I’d do this for you,” he said. “Though I kinda suspect you don’t need me to.”

“What are wingmen for?” I ask, as I crack my knuckles and get to work.

I use the same approach. Ask her if she’s singing. Let it slip that I’m likely not after her body. Introduce my friend. And leave them alone. This time, though, it seems to stick. He’s at the table for five minutes, flashing his pearly whites, staring her down. Ten minutes. Then he’s beside her on the bench. When I take the stage to sing at the fifteen minute point, he’s to his arms around her, and they’re absorbed in their own little universe. Job done.

Three songs and I’m out. I give my buddy a wave on the way toward the door. I’m surprised when he makes an apology to the woman and skitters over to stand next to me. His arm’s around my shoulder and he gives me a hug and a toast with his glass. “I pretty sure I’m in this one. It’s all thanks to you.”
Again, the intimacy of the embrace, of that shared common goal of getting laid, makes me hard as a rock. No matter what holes our dicks go into, he and I both share that need of getting in and getting the job done. My heart’s thudding as I show some demur to his praise.

“I owe you one,” he says, looking me dead in the eye with his baby blues as I go. He points at me. “And I always pay my debts.”

I’m doubting he pay this one in quite the way I have in mind. Still. It’s nice to be owed.

A Night With Eeyore

I had the opportunity recently to spend an afternoon and evening with my friend Eeyore. Longer-term readers of my blog will realize that I am not myself a long-term resident of The Hundred Acre Wood, but am talking about an old, decades-old, old-old-old friend of mine who has a glum and dour disposition. He has a unique talent for making lemons out of lemonade; I’m not exaggerating much when I say his mere appearance at a Mardi Gras celebration could turn a happy festival into a mass suicide.

Going out with Eeyore these days is really not that different from going out by myself, much of the time. No sooner will we have arrived at a place than he’ll whip out his smartphone and absorb himself, for half-hours at a time, in the seemingly dozens of GPS sex apps that occupy his phone’s first screen. There’s Grindr and Scruff, of course, and Growlr, but then there are a good ten more of which I’ve never heard. Mind you, Eeyore will never actually hook up with any of the guys he sees on these apps. The last time I checked in with him, he hadn’t actually had sex in two decades. But that doesn’t keep him from dreaming about it . . . in public, surrounded by men in a gay bar, in the company of friends who take him out because they want to socialize with him and not with the back of his phone’s case.

So there we were, in a fairly quiet gay bar—just me, Eeyore, and Eeyore’s smartphone. I sipped my drink and watched his fingers move lovingly over the silicone-and-glass device. I looked away when he stroked it intimately, as it might a lover. “This one’s hot, huh?” he would occasional say, then show me a photo of a blue-haired, big-schnozzed twenty-four year old.

“Where’s he from?” I’d ask.

“He’s only thirty-six hundred miles away,” he’d sigh, and then lose himself in concentration for another half hour. I’d sit there, sipping and sipping, watching the gay men come and go while he’d hunch over and peck out conversations with ugly guys who lived just on the other side of the Urals.

A very long and silent forty-five minutes later, he nudged me to show me a profile on Grindr. “Oh god! This one’s less than two hundred and fifty feet away!” he said, using much the same strangled, ecstatic tones as might a happy pilgrim upon seeing the Virgin Mary pop her head into Lourdes.

“That’s because it’s the bartender,” I told him, nodding at the young guy at the room’s other side. The photo on the phone was of a twenty-five-year-old in shorts and hiking boots, his feet firmly planted on some rocky precipice. He had longer hair in his Grindr photo, but it was unmistakably the same guy in the jeans and the tee with the cut-off arms who was standing across the room. “If you actually looked up once in a while. . . .”

“Oh god, do you think? He’s so, so beautiful,” mooned Eeyore. I thought the kid was all right. Nothing too special. I wouldn’t have turned him down if he’d come on to me, but I wouldn’t have turned into a crushed-out schoolgirl over the kid, either.

“So go talk to him,” I suggested. I wouldn’t have minded being left alone for a few minutes. Hell, I’d been alone for the hour we’d been in the bar.

He recoiled. “I couldn’t do that,” he said, horrified at the thought. Eeyore is a good seven or eight years older than I, if I’ve not mentioned it; he behaves as if he’s thirty-seven or thirty-eight years younger. “Look at him,” he said, over and over again, cupping his smartphone as if it were a religious icon. He stared at the photo for long minutes, not seeming to realize that the real thing was standing not twenty feet from his downturned face. “Less than two hundred and fifty feet away!”

“Uh-huh,” I said, starting to grind my teeth.

For another half-hour I sat there with Eeyore, staring at the top of his bent head. “Let’s go get some dinner,” I finally suggested. Without complaint he agreed. We sucked down the rest of our drinks, collected our things, and were on the way to the front door when I realized that Eeyore had stopped in front of the bar.

“Hey,” he said. Then, louder, “HEY.”

There were two guys behind the bar that evening. One was the one from Grindr; the other was older and closer. They both stopped what they were doing to look at Eeyore.

“You ever been on a mountaintop?” Eeyore asked the younger bartender.

“What?” said the older one. “On a mountaintop?”

“I know what I’m asking!” said Eeyore. “You. You ever been on a mountaintop?”

“Hey,” I said, realizing he was a little more drunk than I realized. “Let’s go.”

“Why would I be on a mountaintop?” asked the older bartender, still not realizing he wasn’t the one being addressed. The younger bartender, in the meantime, seem to have finally realized what Eeyore was asking. He blinked and opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Eeyore caught the gesture. “Oh yeah,” he said, way too loudly and nastily. “He knows what I mean. You know exactly what I’m talking about, don’tcha, sweetheart? Standing there pretending like you don’t know—”

“We’re going,” I told him, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him out. Eeyore is a lot heavier than I, but I was a lot more sober, and had my balance. He tumbled out the door into the night. “What the fuck was that?” I wanted to know. He started to make excuses for his behavior, but I wasn’t having any of it. “That kid didn’t do anything to you,” I lectured. “There’s no need to be confrontational with him just because he’s on Grindr and you’re too afraid to go up and—“

“I can’t help it if I don’t know the etiquette of these situations!” he yelled at my back, then scurried to catch up with me.

“Just be nice,” I suggested. “Not weird.”

We went to dinner. Now, normally, when I go out with friends, I am the slow eater. Everyone else will have cleaned his plate and folded his napkin while I’m still rounding that final leg of my cheeseburger. By the time I’ve downed that last fry with small grunts of pleasure, they’re usually tapping their toes, avoiding my glance, and wondering when the entire ugly spectacle will finally come to an end. When I’m with Eeyore, however, he’s spending so much time staring at his phone and checking messages on Fuckr or Scrappr or whatever is the app du jour that I seem like a high-powered Hoover in comparison. I finished eating whatever the hell it was I’d ordered after twenty minutes; it took him a full hour and a half to consume a salad and a wedge of whole-grain bread.

But once he had some food in him he started to become the charming guy I’ve known he can be—at least when the waiter was around, anyway. The kid tending our table was a student who was outright adorable. Cute face, lithe little body, a smile that lit up our corner of the dank little restaurant. Whenever he was around, Eeyore would set down his phone, come to life, and elicit some new little bit of information about the boy. That’s how we discovered the kid was a senior in college who worked seven nights a week all summer to earn his tuition for the next year of school; he was majoring in business; he loved to surf and planned to move to San Diego with his girlfriend after he graduated. I started to relax, thinking that maybe my lecture about not being weird had sunk in a little.

The waiter enjoyed the interactions. It was a slow night, and he obviously enjoyed talking about himself. I’m sure he knew we were both gay, and even though he seemed pretty straight, he didn’t mind Eeyore’s none-too-subtle flirtation.

Then came the check. “Oh thank god,” Eeyore said, grabbing it. For a moment I thought the waiter had discounted our drinks or something. But no. “His full name’s on it. Gimme.” He pointed to the kid’s moniker under a generic computer-printed line about how happy he’d been to serve us. He grabbed his phone and started to tap at it.

I prised his fingers out of the folder and stuck my credit card in it. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“Investigating,” he said, stabbing furiously at the glass. “Look,” he said, showing me the waiter’s Facebook profile. There was a photo of him with a surfboard, shirtless and looking good. Then another of him with a smiling girl. “I hate her,” Eeyore growled, looking at the other photos.

“Come on,” I said, feeling the old dread settle over me once again. “You’re being creepy.”

The cute waiter boy came over to collect the bill. He wore a big smile on his face. “Hey guys, thanks for being at my. . . .”

The smile faded when Eeyore thrust his smartphone into the kid’s face. “Who’s the girl?” he wanted to know. “She looks like a skank.”

“How did you . . . oh . . . you saw my name on the check,” said the waiter, all color fading from his face. “Then you . . . looked me up online. . . .”

“Yeah, he’s a regular Hardy Boy,” I said, trying to lighten the moment with a joke. The waiter walked away expressionlessly to cash out the bill. When he was out of earshot, I stared at Eeyore. “Asshole,” I said to him.

“What?” he asked, still looking at the boy’s photos.

“You had a nice rapport going with that kid. Then you fucked it up. Why the hell?”

“I don’t know the etiquette of. . . .”

“That is bullshit,” I told him. “You are nearly sixty years old. You’ve had half a century to learn by now that if you want to stalk someone online, do it in private. You don’t do it, then share the results of your stalking with your victim. You don’t put them on the spot like that. You don’t—“

But I was too mad by that point to be coherent for much longer. I’d had enough for that night.
I keep thinking about my anger from that evening, in a week where I’ve had several kinds of rudeness thrown my way by other guys. Each time something new and creative and shitty has happened, I keep wanting to put my hands on my hips and ask, What in the world were you thinking? to the guys. But I’m sure that I’d just get the reply of, What?! I don’t know the etiquette here. . . .!

Which is bullshit. We’re all adults. By now we should know to play nicely with each other. We’re not theoretical constructs that exist only thirty-six hundred miles away. We’re not nerveless imaginary beings on the other side of a layer of glass. We’re all real people, and if we’re wielding our dicks at each other, we should be mature enough to treat each other with a little respect.

We all know the etiquette here. We just have to understand that it’s up to every single one of us to apply it.

Celebrity Crush

The confession I’m about to make is more than slightly silly, but I’m going to blurt it out anyway: I have something of a schoolgirl crush on a local celebrity.

I’m stretching the word ‘celebrity’ to the max, here. The actor in question is probably an E-List celebrity at most. Even the most avid TMZ devotee would be hard-pressed to come up with a mental image of the guy’s face were I to mention his name. He’s not popular enough to be a regular in People or Us Weekly, nor is he even highbrow enough to get a mention in a Broadway periodical. He’s known mostly for a single television show, but I still doubt he’d ever, even in a pinch, make the TV Guide crossword puzzle.

No, a few years back there was a well-known cable drama that had a run for over half a decade. It got critical raves and had a stellar cast. My celebrity crush—let’s call him Davey—had a prominent role in the show for its entire run. He wasn’t the central character, but he got more airtime than most. Or maybe I just noticed him more when he was onscreen, looking all hot ’n’ stuff and stripping down to his underwear at every opportunity while his long blond hair hung down to his shoulders and the show’s directors lit him like he was some kind of Greek god.

Excuse me. I need a quick cold shower.

I liked the guy in the show. He was hot. He was frequently exposing his buttocks to the cameras. Do I really need anything else in a weekly TV cable show? Nope, apparently not. Oh wait. His acting was pretty good, too. There. Anyhow, the show went off the air, and Davey did a couple of tiny blink-and-you-miss-them appearances on a couple of other TV series, and then vanished altogether, never to be seen on the small screen again.

I first became aware that Davey lived in my vicinity when I moved here, a few years back. I was grabbing a slice for dinner at the local hole-in-the-wall pizza joint on a busy Friday night. When I took my paper plate and plastic cup (that should tip you off that I only eat in the classiest restaurants) to the only open table in the place, I slid into my seat and found myself staring at the actor over whom I used to get wet on a weekly basis. I recognized him immediately; though he unfortunately had his clothes on, he still had his trademark shoulder-length golden hair and dreamy blue eyes. Since he was eating dinner with a pretty young woman and a couple of golden-haired kids I assumed belonged to him, I attempted to choke down my pepperoni pizza and act nonchalant as I immediately thumb-stabbed subtle texts to about a half-dozen friends that read, OHMYGOD I’M SITTING NEXT TO THE HOT GUY WHO NEVER WORE A SHIRT ON THAT SHOW WHO GOT RAPED BY THAT HOT GUY WHO’S ON THAT OTHER CRIME SHOW.

Which, as a text message, I might have phrased a little more coherently, because most of my friends immediately texted back with I don’t know what the hell hot guy you’re talking about? or What?? or even Who are you and why are you texting me?

I didn’t see Davey again until this summer, when he started making regular guest appearances in my life. Now that it’s summer and the building is empty where I do a little weekly volunteer work, Davey’s been renting a room a couple of times a week so he can have a quiet place to work on a screenplay. I wasn’t around when he made those arrangements, but the morning he started happened to be on my regular volunteer schedule. He strode in, tall and muscular with his golden hair pulled back into a ponytail, smiled at me, caught my name from my badge, and held out his hand to shake.

“Hi, Rob,” he said in a manful voice, as he squeezed my hand. My knees started to go weak. “I’m Davey. I’ll be renting the office opposite yours, so you’ll be seeing me regularly over the summer.”
He might have said more. I don’t know. The sound of the heavenly chorus singing kind of drowned it out. All I know is that he gave me a wink, let go of my hand (WHY, DEAR GOD, WHY?) and exited the office to shut himself into his own rented quarters. I wet my lips, swallowed, and finally said, very suavely, “Hhhhhhhiiiiiiii hot man. . . .”

Every time I saw Davey the rest of that first day, he gave me a smile. A long, lingering smile. “How’s it going, Rob?” he’d growl, and I’d gulp and squeak out “F-F-FINE THANKS!” and in general react like I was a sixth-grade girl and he was one of the One Direction singers who happened to staying in my mom’s spare room.

I’ve regained my composure since then. Somewhat. A little. Okay, not much at all. I see Davey pretty frequently, and though my stomach develops butterflies the instant I spot his glorious form, I manage to keep my cool outwardly. When I’m sitting on a rock and eating ice cream from the local scoop shop and Davey bikes by with his daughter, I have no problem waving and saying hello like a normal person. When he comes into the building where I volunteer and passes my office, I manage to keep my head on and my tongue in my mouth and ask him how the screenplay is going.

We actually have a rapport. At the volunteer spot, all the female staff in the main office refer to Davey as ‘the hot guy.’ I was in there one morning when Davey strode by, dewy and glowing from his walk, his muscles rippling and his hair forming a mane of sunshine around his Apollo-like face. “Hi, Rob!” he called out as he walked by. Immediately all the females in the office turned on me and hissed, “HOW COME THE HOT GUY KNOWS YOUR NAME?!”

“Ladies,” I said, in jaded tones. “I cannot help my allure.”

As long as we’re confessing things, though, I have to admit that I did however have a recent mishap with my celebrity crush. A couple of weeks ago, I was taking my evening exercise. I’d chosen to do several walking laps around a local pond. It was a warm night, and the sun was brilliant as it sank down to the horizon. I was sweaty, and a little bit clammy, and listening to loud music through my earbuds.

I was rounding the back half of my fourth lap when I saw him—my celebrity crush, cutting over the pond upon one of its bridges, heading in my direction. Was it the sun’s glare was bouncing off the water that blinded me, or was the brilliance that made me shade my eyes coming from his godlike profile and the silhouette of his golden ponytail? My heartbeat quickened and my stomach tightened into knots.

I slowed down my pace in a ‘totally natural’ way. I shook my hair and wiped the sweat from my brow with my sleeve. Then I decided to have ‘earbud problems’ that required me to remove them, just in case, you know, Davey wanted to have a ‘long, drawn-out conversation’ that involved him telling me that the proximity between us was driving him mad, MAD, and that he’d decided to leave his wife and kiddies and run away with me to Aruba. Or something like that, you know. When I reached the end of the bridge at exactly the same time as his sun-obscured figure, I had a smile on my lips and a look of ‘total surprise’ on my face as I prepared myself to say something like, “Why, Davey! Fancy meeting you here!”. . . .

. . . and then I saw that the figure that had been crossing the bridge during my moment of sun blindness wasn’t Davey at all, but some gray-haired old lady with a ponytail who was looking at me with curiosity and a little bit of apprehension, obviously wondering what what sweaty crazy guy had been about to say to her.

For the record, I went with ‘good evening’ and privately ate crow on my final lap around the park.
Whoops.

Revenge

When the late-night commuter trains out of Grand Central pulls into the last stop at the New York border, all the dumb white overprivileged Connecticut kids shout out derogatory comments. This stop is . . . Mexican Town!, they’ll giggle, like it’s the funniest shit in the world. This stop is . . . Little Puerto Rico! The village has a heavy concentration of Latin neighborhoods, though, and as I’m driving through the landmarks of one just outside the little downtown area, late one night on my way to a fuck, I’m suddenly struck by a thought. This street seems awfully familiar.

A couple of years back I had some spectacularly awful sex with a Brazilian guy who lived just off this street. His photos had been hot, but the reality of him had been less than attractive. I’d let him climb on top of me and wiggle around and attempt to kiss me despite the fact his breath was rank. Finally he’d shot prematurely and I’d wasted absolutely zero time standing up and fleeing from his apartment with my pants barely buttoned. When he kept nagging and nagging me to come back, I finally had to block him on every sex site.

The guy I’m supposed to be seeing isn’t that guy, I’m wondering, as I start to panic a little. Oh, fuck. What if it is? The photo this guy had sent was of a handsome Latin thirty-year-old wearing big sunglasses. I’d seen his muscular body and photos of his jocked, worked-out ass. I hadn’t seen his actual face. The Brazilian had decent photos too. Oh, fuck.

Then the GPS directs me down a street that is definitely not the Brazilian’s, and my fears subside a little.

He’s sitting on the front step of his boarding house when I approach. In the lamp light of the front porch I can tell he’s not the Brazilian. So that’s all right. What I discover is that he’s more handsome than I expected. In his clinging sport shorts and tank top, the dude looks like a muscular soccer god. “Hey,” he says, looking me over. Then he stands, and offers me his hand. His clasp is firm. Then he looks over his shoulder. “Come inside,” he whispers.

The place where he lives is one of those old turn-of-the-century houses that’s been updated and expanded and retrofitted with a dozen or more apartments. The hallways are like warrens. He takes me through a maze of them before leading me down one staircase and up another to the back of the old structure. Finally he opens the door to his apartment, and the muggy summer night’s air gives away to the coolness of a dark, air-conditioned interior.

It’s a small apartment. There’s just the living room, a kitchenette, and the bed. He stands there with his hands on his hips, like he might break into jumping-jacks or something, staring at me. I decide to break the ice. “You’re a sexy man,” I say.

The words are barely out of my mouth when he lunges at me. His mouth covers mine with a hungry kiss. The breathing through his nostrils is already feral; I feel the heat of him all over me as his hands grope and rub every part of my body. “I need you inside me so bad,” he whispers, as he strips naked.
Jesus. The man is built. The photos he’d sent me were of himself lying by a pool. He’d been muscular in that, but in front of me—crap. He looks like the cover of a fitness magazine. His cock is an uncut monster, about six and a half around and seven and growing. I suck in my lips, shake my head, and breathe out in surprise. “Fuck, you’re hot.”

“Then fuck me,” he whispers, hopping up on his mattress. It creaks under the athletic bounce. “Get that dick inside me, daddy. You like me? Fuck me.”

Daddy likes. I slip out of my sneakers and my jeans, slide out of my T-shirt, drop my shorts. My cock is hard and point out straight in front of me. Immediately he dives to the bed’s side and lets his head hang off the mattress to suck it. In and out of his mouth I slide, hardening with every stroke.

Then he’s on his back again, rubbing lube in his butt and lifting his feet to the ceiling. I take my place at his ass and position the head at his hole. He grinds, and grins, and urges me in. The head disappears, then an inch of me. His face contorts with pain and pleasure both as he draws me deep inside. “Fuck me, papi,” he whispers, looking me square in the eye. “Make babies in me, daddy.”

Daddy starts to fuck. His hole is unbelievably hot around my dick. There are holes that are simply receptacles, and then there are holes that live to be filled. His is the latter. He’s not content with lying there, with being fucked. He wants to prove himself worthy of my cock. He pulls me down to kiss him, and grips my arms and shoulders tight with his muscles. His hole clutches at me just as eagerly, inviting me to sink deeper, fuck hard, shoot more.

And it’s not long before I’m dumping a load inside him. The whole situation has pushed me over the edge more quickly than usual. I’m shooting and I’m shooting hard, bucking and straining against him as his large brown hands hold me deep inside him with a vise-like grip. “Give me your sperm, daddy,” he says. “Give it all to your boy. Yeah.”

“Christ,” I say, as the last of my deep dribbles into his guts. There’s almost a milky film before my eyes, I’m so fuck-blind. I blink it away, and topple back as the blood drains from my head. Almost solicitously he catches me and lays me down on the mattress, so that he’s kneeling between my legs.

“That was so good,” he says, reaching for his hole. His hand comes away with a streak of my load across it. He uses it to lube up his cock. “So good, daddy.” Again he reaches behind himself, draws out more of my fluid with his fingers. This time he rubs it on my hole. Almost involuntarily my legs part, rise a little. He notices. “You like to get fucked, huh? Daddy like to get fucked too?”

“I—“ My head’s still spinning. He’s driving a finger in there. Two.

“You want me to fuck you? You want it raw, baby?”

“I—“ I try again. “It’s been a real long time.” He’s got that enormous uncut cock pointing straight at my hole, slicked up with sperm and lube. Like a pro he grabs the underside of my thighs and pulls me into position. “You’d have to be really, really gent—“

Too late. He’s already driven that fat pinga up to the nuts by the time I’m halfway through my warning. And you know what? The fucking thing feels good. No pain. No fear. Just fuck. He didn’t meet with any resistance at all. “Yeah daddy,” he’s already saying, as he starts pumping. He’s mirroring the same grinding motion I used on him, getting it in deep, letting his fat head mash and crush my prostate.

I’d just shot moments before, but the sensation is driving me crazy. My dick’s rock hard again. I take it in my hand and let its cum-covered skin slide up and down in my fist. “Let me cum in your ass, daddy,” he’s growling. “Let me fill up that ass for you, papi, please.”

I shoot again. I don’t even feel it coming. One minute I’ve just got that sweet fat cock pounding away at that button deep inside, and the next I’ve got a molten load spilling onto my stomach. The sight of it drives him crazy. He’s got me bent nearly double as he lifts himself up to a semi-standing position on the mattress to drive himself in. His hips buck. Once. Twice. Three times. He’s growling, and baring his teeth at me like he wants to rip into my very flesh. Then he shudders. Ceases his pistoning. Brings my ass gently down to the mattress, and lays it down. Then his cock flops out.

From under the bed he produces a towel that he uses first to wipe my stomach, then his hands and cock. “Thanks,” I say. “That was a hell of an unexpected thing.” I’m not kidding, either. My ass is both twitching and stinging from the rough treatment.

“You single?” he asks. He’s sitting on the bedside and pulling up his shorts. I shake my head. I’d told him that before I’d come over. “Oh yeah. Married, right?”

I nod. “How about you?”

“I have a boyfriend,” he says. “But.” Then he shrugs. Chuckles a little.

“But?” If anything, I feel like I’m butting in. He’s the one who brought it up, though.

“But he fucking cheated on me.” He watches as I pull on my tee, drag on my shorts leg by leg. “So you’re what I’m doing to get back, I guess.”

“I’m a revenge fuck, huh?” I say the words slowly, kind of relishing them.

He nods. “Yeah. I guess so. Huh. You mind?”

I shrug. “It was good revenge. What’s to mind?”

“Yeah,” he says, laughing to himself. “I guess it was real good revenge for me too. Let me see you out.”

I’m probably not going to see this kid again, I realize. He’ll think about the encounter and masturbate to it for months, but now that he’s gotten the fuck out of his system, he’ll be a contrite boyfriend again.

“Thanks,” I say at the door.

“Hey,” he says, before he lets me crack open the entrance to his apartment. Then he grabs the back of my head, pulls me to him, and kisses me deeply. I have to blink away the haze when he finally finishes, again. “Maybe we can revenge again some other time, huh? You wanna, daddy?”

Daddy wanna. Maybe this kid’s not the contrite type, after all.