Dick Dock 2024: The Old Man and the Sea

Provincetown: Bear Week 2024

Last winter, I hit a milestone that really messed with my head.

The only other birthday ever really to break my stride happened when I turned twenty-nine. The night before, I convinced myself I was entering the last year of my youth and that everything would be downhill from there. I actually wept. When thirty came around, I was smart enough not to mind, even though the decade that followed felt like the most invisible part of my life. Forty didn’t make me quake in my boots, and turned out to be such a great era for me that I glided into my fifties on a wave of confidence.

Sixty, though. Fuck. It hit me hard. Sixty's old. Over the hills even. Age is just a number, I used to coo to old men during my twink days. It was a tidy little aphorism to spout when I was in my teens and twenties. It sounds a little more hollow at this end.

And honestly, after the pandemic years, I haven’t felt the same self-assurance. After taking a break from hooking up during 2020-2022, I tiptoed back into the scene to find an entirely different landscape—one in which every guy seemed determined to insult or ghost me. I had to question whether the quest for release was worth it at all.

And right now, standing at the ramp leading down to the Dick Dock, in Provincetown? God damn, but I know I’m in for disappointment.

Last year, when I’d vacationed on the Cape, I’d encountered all kinds of Romper Room fuckery when I’d ventured this way for some post-midnight shenanigans. The dock was a mess. Every other cruiser had his phone out—most to check out Grindr or Scruff while ignoring the guys looking for partners in the here and now, which annoyed me. A couple used their phone’s flashlights to illuminate the ground before them. One was shining it in the faces of cruisers to see what they looked like, arousing near-violent reactions from the men he blinded.

Then there were the sexual gadabouts that were so common, last year. Weirdos who would hove up out of nowhere until they were nose to nose with me just to…stare, I guess. Puritan gay couples who would stand between the beach stairs and entryway beneath the dock to peer into the dark space while holding loud conversations: IS THIS THE DICK DOCK? I GUESS IT IS. DO YOU SEE ANYBODY? NO, DO YOU SEE ANYBODY? NO. MAYBE IT’S TOO EARLY? I HEAR IT’S MOSTLY SLUTS AND WHORES ANYWAY. DO YOU WANT TO GO LOOK? I DON’T KNOW. DO YOU WANT TO GO LOOK? And maybe worst of all, the voyeuristic young gays too timid to venture into the cruising space on their own, so they'd bring packs of women with them for a tour of the town’s seediest secret. These sad groups huddled close together and giggled loudly and with shock and horror at the sight of the figures grinding in the shadows, ruining the atmosphere for anyone actually endeavoring for a good time.

The one time last year I started to get handsy with a sexy man beneath the dock, some kid just came out of nowhere, like a shark at chum in the water, phone in hand, snapping photos with the flash on at the general vicinity of our crotches. My partner was so angry he slapped the phone out of the boy’s hand and into the sand, then stomped away. I abandoned ship as well, unwilling to invest any more time into a venue that clearly wasn’t going to yield any returns.

That year, I never went back.

But here I am, Sunday night—Monday morning, really, since it’s after midnight—horny and looking for something quick. Something uninvolved. I’d spent a few hours the night before with a local, making out and gobbling down each other’s dicks like hungry animals in the dude’s basement-level flat, cooled only by the metal blades of an old-fashioned rotary fan. Then I’d flipped his furry butt over and given him exactly what he begged for. It had been the type of passionate, no-holds-barred encounter lasting several hours that I prefer, but tonight I don’t have that kind of energy. 

All day I’ve been walking. I’ve closed the exercise ring on my watch four times over, and don’t feel like plodding any long distances for a hookup. The Boatslip sits a mere block from where I’m staying. The Dick Dock beneath it seems like the easiest solution to my horniness. But even as I stride down Atlantic to the ramp and wood steps that empty out onto the beach, I’m already thinking to myself that if there’s the slightest bit of nonsense going on, anything that tweaks my bullshit meter…I’ll be out of there.

When I take a left and duck beneath the deck’s outer edge, it takes my streetlight-dazzled eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. The sounds, though—they hit me like a wave the moment I’m beneath the wooden planks. Grunts. Groans. The wet glissando of lips against shaft. The slap of a hand against an ass. In the distance, the gargled distress of someone who’s had his throat pushed past its limits. As my eyes adjust, I see the shapes of half-nude men around me, their skins blue-gray in the shade. Scores of them huddle in small groups across the sheltered sand, some against the foundations, others against the pilings, some pants-down and bending over the cross beams. Scores? Nah, there’s a hundred, probably even a hundred and fifty cruisers engaged in a mass bacchanal this July night.

And I think to myself, shit.

Because, you see, too many guys hunting for dick is not always the bonanza you hope for. It’s like what happens at a restaurant with too extensive a selection of entrees: you assume that with page after page of delicacies, you’ll find the perfect dish to hit the spot. Instead, they all start to look delicious. You find yourself paralyzed, unable to choose, full of fear that you’ll miss out on something tastier than what’s within reach. With so many men tonight, the Dick Dock is the motherfucking old-school twenty-four-page Cheesecake Factory of menus. I trudge through the crowd, sneakers crunching on the sand, trying to find a clear spot to orient myself.

All types are out tonight. There’s just enough light to make out certain characteristics of the men I pass—their height, certainly, a general idea of their body shape and weight. I can make out the silhouette of a full beard against the sands beyond the deck’s underside, but the gloom renders invisible lesser mustaches and stubble. Sometimes I can tell an old man by his posture, or a young man by his gait. I nod as I push past traditional bears, round and furry and squeezable. A Black man with a long ponytail of braids bumps against me in passing, his shirt open to reveal muscles that reflect deep blue in the eternal dusk here. He’s taller than I, and apologizes by a squeeze to my shoulder. In his wake chase multiple admirers, all hopeful for his attention.

The fleet of pursuers gives the braided man the air of a minor celebrity being chased by paparazzi. Or maybe a porn star. Which isn’t all that unlikely, this week: I’ve already crossed paths with two actors from porn just walking Commercial Street. On my left congregate men in harnesses and jocks giving each other encouragement, sotto voce, as the largest plows the smallest. Some hopeful older men stand solo against the metal beams, shorts down, ass pointed back, anxious for someone to take position behind them.

With every step I take, the more certain I am that I’m not going to get laid tonight. It’s not an issue of my age. Well, maybe to a certain extent. Throughout my sexual career, I’ve always abhorred the idea of being perceived as a sex pest. I won't come on to a guy unless he's sending clear signals. Being seen as an elderly sex pest seems exponentially worse. Never in my life have I pushed my way into the middle of a orgiasts to leech erotic energy like some kind of barnacle. That’s not my style. I never, ever assume people want me. Tonight I’ll make myself available by walking past the seething masses and planting myself at the only uncrowded section at the—sigh—last few feet before the decking above gives way to open beach. If someone chooses me, fine. Not that anyone’s going to be desperate enough to make this long trek.

It’s all right. I’ll stand alone here for a few minutes, watch waves lap the sand, listen to people enjoy themselves, then head home. These old bones are usually in bed by now, anyway, and one night of not popping my cork won’t hurt me. Hands in my pockets I lounge, shoulder abutting the next to last of the metal pilings, while I try to console myself with thoughts like, You had a pretty good run!, or, Celibacy isn’t all that bad, buddy! Think of how much more time you’ll have for...uh...bonsai and sudoku! Resigned to a lonely night, I settle back and wait.

Then a guy sidles up, not two feet away. I get an impression of skin and leather and very little else. My eyes slide sideways to check him out: the dude’s a stunner. Maybe five foot eight of lean muscle and bubble butt, dressed up in snowy cut-off denim shorts, spanking white sneakers, and as equally bright a harness. This guy doesn’t look like your typical Bear Week visitor. He’s ready for a White Party. I’m in the midst of checking him out and wondering why in the world he’s wasting his time down at this end of the dock, when his eye catches mine. Oh, snap, I realize, panicked. He’s checking me out.

Well, well.

I extend my hand slightly at the waist, upward and open, in what’s accepted as the Dick Dock’s universal sign for welcome. I’m certain he won’t do anything. He’s probably wondering why the old coot next to him dares to look his way. I shouldn’t have even made the gesture at all. In fact, I’ll just return my hand to my pockets…

Then he lunges. I find my spine slammed against the metal pillar as his hands wrestle mine, clutching hard as he pins my arms up and to the side. His weight squeezes all the breath from my lungs as he presses with hunger against me. I’m astonished when, as he stands on tiptoes, his mouth covers mine and his tongue forces its way inside. He tastes sweetly of hops, and smells of a lightweight cologne, but what I register most strongly through my shock is the way that in his passion, he releases our hands to cup the back of my head. The man pulls me in, holding on to prevent me from escaping.

Like I want to escape. It’s been far too long since a stranger kissed me with this ferocity. I can feel him melt into my embrace when I crook an arm around his substantial chest. I follow his lead and run the flat of my palm across the back of his skull. His hair is styled with a short undercut, so while the bristles of the sides and back rake my hand, my fingers entangle themselves into the thick, curly mop at the crown. His face is covered with a sexy stubble that grinds into my beard. He must be a stunner in the light. My hands move from his head down his ropy shoulders, take a detour to explore the rock-hard stub tenting the front of his shorts, and then move upward, so I can tweak his nipples.

The sensations send waves of pure pleasure throughout his body. I squeeze harder to make him quake. It’s with an effort that he wrenches himself away to stare in my eyes. “Fuck,” he rasps. “Why didn’t you stop when I grabbed for you?” I shake my head, not understanding. “Back there.” He jerks his head toward the beach ramp. “I was trying to get your attention when you walked by.”

“I didn’t see,” I say. It almost feels like I should apologize, but I don’t get the chance. He’s already popped a squat to tug my shorts down. I believe in dressing light, when I visit the Dick Dock. No phone to worry about. No underwear to fuss with. Tonight it’s just a tee, a scandalously small pair of sweat shorts with my room key in the pocket, my watch, and a pair of sneakers. My erection pops out, released from its jersey prison; my new friend expertly catches it between his lips. It’s like the sexiest circus trick I’ve ever seen.

I’m not given much chance to admire the acrobatics, though. The man engulfs me to the root, expertly throating my dick to the base. He’s relishing it, allowing it to slip and slide between his lips into the most moist recesses. And as he works, a crowd moves in. They’re sexual symbiotes, attracted by heat and lust, honing in to feed. Someone pulls up my tee and hooks it around the back of my neck. An invisible hand reaches around to squeeze and probe my ass. There’s a mouth on my nipple, then another on the spare. Someone tries to pull my head to the side, to kiss me; another moves in behind to nuzzle my neck and rub his dick against my posterior. I don’t resist. None of them feels as good as the man sucking my dick, but each contributes to my bliss.

Now I’m leaning back against some stranger’s naked chest, allowing him to support my weight as his arms encircle my rib cage; his mouth nuzzles against my ear. I can’t distinguish his hands from the dozen others touching me—reaching for my balls, rubbing against the base of my dick, stroking my belly, investigating my beard, riffing across my brush cut. Beside me, one stocky bear leans back to allow another to go down on him. I reach out and grab his balls to give them a tug. We exchange a brief kiss.

My White Party refugee rises with my help. “I need that monster in my butt,” he growls, spitting on his hand and rubbing it on his ass. He steps out of his shorts and hangs them over one of the horizontal girders above, then turns so he’s facing away from me. I know what to do.

I’ve barely aligned my knob with his hole than the stranger lets out a cry. I’m worried I might have hurt him, somehow, though I’ve not even made it in. I pause, concerned, as he stands, straightens, and stiffens. When he turns, though, it’s to fling a thick rope of semen onto the ground, where it lands with a splat. “Sorry, guy,” he says in a normal voice. “I got too excited.” He wipes off the head of his dick and shakes off another glob. “You had that effect on me.”

“Thanks,” is all I say. The spell broken, all the men who had flocked around me dissipate. The fellating pair to my side nod and separate. No one moves in to take the White Party man’s place, so my dick waves and bobs in the empty air for a moment before, with reluctance, I bend to pull up my shorts and wrestle myself back in my tee.

Oh well. It was hot for the few minutes it lasted, right? Standing at the epicenter of a writhing mass, soaking up the attention of a dozen or more men. It was kind of a taste of the good old days, wasn’t it? Something I can think about, later tonight, when I take matters into my own hand? Not bad for an old codger, maybe. There’s still a lot of sweat on my face. I use my tee to mop it up, then ready myself to head home.

“Don’t go,” says a voice in my ear. In the darkness, wiping my face, I’d not noticed the man approach. When his fingers curl around my neck and his mouth covers mine, I realize he’s the Black man I’d passed shortly after my arrival. He’s the only person taller than I down here; I have to tilt my head back to meet his kiss. His heavy braids drape like thick velvet over my shoulder. I run my hands over his abs, his chest, still not completely convinced this is happening. Why in the world would a man of this caliber approach an old fart like me? Over his shoulder, I can see a gaggle of hopefuls still encircling him at a respectful distance, obviously hoping he’ll choose them instead. Yet I’m his pick, apparently.

Then, as I feel his hands once again sliding my shirt over my head, some very weary part of me speaks up. It’s because he finds you attractive, dumbass, it says, annoyed. Stop questioning. Start enjoying.

Like a good self-sub, I obey.

A new selection of symbiotes closes around us. They remove his shirt, pull down his pants, slide mine to the sand. The man’s dick falls huge and weighty in my palm. The tiny noises he makes as I squeeze it arouse me further. He swats off the parasites trying horn their way between us, and pulls me close to him for a full-on embrace. “Do you fuck, baby?” he asks.

“Yes,” I whisper, still marveling at the novelty of being in the arms of a man taller and larger than I. “Love to fuck.” Then I panic. Is this man asking me if I like fucking in general? If I like fucking as a top? Or if I like being fucked? Because from what I can tell, his uncut cock is roughly as thick around as my forearm, and my hole hasn’t been plundered in…nearly nine years? Ten? Is it too late to take it back? Tell him I don’t fuck?

He solves my crisis by spinning one hundred and eighty degrees in front of me and leaning backward so that now he’s in my arms. “I want that big dick in me,” he whispers. “Will you?”

I decide the question’s rhetorical.

It’s the work of only a moment to apply some of my spit to his hole, and another load of it to my cock. He bends from the waist like a dancer, scooping his deep chest close to the sand and drawing apart his legs. It's a dextrous pose. There’s no cry of dismay when I sink myself inside, no premature conclusion. Only warm flesh and a hole that needs filling. By the time I slide all the way in, the crowd has moved in around me. I feel hands on the point where dick meets hole, on my nipples, in my hair, my beard, my hole. One of my partner’s would-be entourage is trying to encourage him to suck his dick, but my partner is too busying urging me on with wordless combinations of consonants and vowels to comply. When the braided man reaches back to plant his hands on my hips to urge me in more deeply, I have to double-check to make sure it’s really him, following the fingers to wrists to elbows to their source.

He stands, though, once more leaning back against me while I continue grinding inside. Over his shoulder he cranes his long neck to kiss me, while between us falls that long and weighty curtain of braids. I place my hand on the side of his face, letting his light beard scrape my palm. My other hand searches for a nipple to tug on. Although I can trace the outline of his thick pecs, I can’t find a nipple. There has to be a nipple, right? Not on the other side, either. Are they innies, and I’m just not locating them?

Forget the nipples. They’re a minor detail in what should be a tidal wave of gratification. A man wearing nothing but a white jock and black harness leans over to kiss me. I let his tongue explore my mouth as I thrust, over and over, into the wet ass occupying my attention. My braided friend presses his palms against the bottom of the decking above and arches his back, easily spanning the distance from ceiling to shore. “Come in me, baby,” he prays. “I want your load inside all night.”

Encouragement like that is difficult to resist. The masses circulating around us seem to agree that it’s time. I feel a hand on the small of my back, urging me inside, a pair of lips on my neck, a mouth on my nipple. Someone reaches beneath to stroke my balls and coax out the seed within. Hard cocks press against me, anxious for attention. I keep my hands firmly planted on the braided man’s hips, however, and lunge away.

When I release, it’s with a loud cry that turns heads. The man leans back so that the tight coils of his hair fall onto my sweaty face; his convex posture urges me to empty myself as deeply inside as I can. Strange lips search for mine, but I’m too dazzled by the fireworks in my vision to respond. My thrusts become gentler, softer, the stirring of a spoon rather than the stab of a knife. Then, with a squelch, I flop out.

My new friend turns to wrap his arms around my neck and draw me close. His lips surround mine completely, in his deep kiss. “You are what every man hopes to find here,” he says, to my astonishment. Then he boops me on the nose with a fingertip. “You are a god-damned gem.” Half of me wants to dodge both barrels of praise. The more egotistical half wishes he’d fired them a little more loudly, for everyone to hear.

Then he grabs his shirt, slides it on without buttoning up, squeezes my hand, and disappears. A half dozen men scamper after him, hoping for leftovers. A handful linger around me, hoping to be my next choice, but I’m drained. After tugging up my shorts, I stumble weak-kneed over the sand, past the scores of men hunting for someone, toward the southern egress.

It’s not until I’ve climbed the steps back up and am stamping sand from my sneakers that I realize how thoroughly my expectations have been exceeded, for once. Maybe age is just a number. Maybe I can still hold my own.

After dark, I chide myself, before my head swells too much larger than it already is. Beneath the dock. Where it’s pretty damned dim.

Still, I consider, as I start the walk back to my accommodations. Maybe sixty’s not shaping up so badly, after all.

***

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Yes, And

The twenty-four year old wears his cap of raven ringlets like a crown. They are impossibly ornate, a fever dream made real of some long-deceased painter of the Pre-Raphaelite school. Golden morning light casts a halo atop those glinting curls. His skin is clear; his nose short and pert. The boy’s upper lip projects slightly over the lower.

Against the door frame of his parents’ home he leans, wearing nothing but a pair of beat-up white sneakers and cargo shorts too bulky for his narrow frame. One hand crosses his waist to clutch his side. He looks all the world like a portrait of St. Sebastian, aggrieved in martyrdom, yet still beautiful.

He’s looking me over, too. In my clean short-sleeved shirt and fresh shorts, I must pass the test, because he doesn’t send me packing. “I’ve never been with an older man.” The boy’s voice is deeper than I imagined. Soft, too.

“Well,” I say, equally quiet. “You certainly picked the oldest one out there.”

He tilts his head down, perhaps to conceal his amused smile. Through his fringe of circlets he looks me in the eye as he steps back to admit me into his home. “Come on in, I guess.”

At its root, lovemaking is expression. It’s performance. Improvisation. Two players—maybe more, but at least two—meet upon the stage to create a scene, each the other’s audience. A good performer knows that here the rules of improv apply: the yes, and of the stage carries just as much relevance in the bedroom. Each actor receives the words and energies of his scene partner and builds upon them. Hindering his enjoyment, negating what he has to contribute, refusing to be vulnerable—all these things lead to dead ends, whether enacted in a skit or upon the mattress.

Listening. That’s key. Taking in not merely words spoken, but the implications and possibilities behind them. When the boy says I’ve never been with an older man, I hear: Please live up to my fantasies. I hear: Please lead me. I hear: I picked you for a reason. When he says, come on in, I guess, I hear: Curtains rising.

On the edge of his bed in a surprisingly tidy room, the boy automatically begins loosening the heel of one sneaker with the toe of the other. “Let me, son,” I suggest, kneeling before him.

He hesitates, then leans back, his elbows planted on the colorful duvet. “Thank you, dad.”

Yes, and.

There’s a catch in his voice as he breathes his appreciation, though I cannot tell whether from the novelty of uttering the word dad, or from the touch of my fingers as gently I remove his left shoe. His feet are ridiculously large, like the comical paws of a puppy poised to become a much larger dog. I tug at his right shoe next, then carefully peel the no-show gray socks from his feet. When he stands, his distressed cargos slip slightly down his hips to reveal a forest of thick pubes. Once I’ve unsnapped the button and released the fly, the pants fall into a crumpled mass upon the wooden floor.

He steps out of them, stubby cock fully erect. His torso is perfectly smooth, save for a trail beneath his navel. The boy’s legs, though, are covered with a crazy amount of jet black fur. From the waist down, he looks as if he’s wearing a pair of dark, shaggy leggings. I gaze up with undisguised admiration. “You’re beautiful.”

Yes.

His dick leaps at the praise. I can hear his breath catch in his chest. “I can’t get over how handsome you are, dad.”

And.

“Thank you.” I hadn’t been fishing for praise, but his is pleasurable to hear. Yes. From my kneeling position, I pat the bed. “Sit down,” I suggest. He obeys, spreading wide those ebony-downed legs and folding his fingers over his bony knees. And. I whisper, “Lie back.” And. “Let me make you feel good.”

At first he resists, wanting to keep me in his sights as I run my hands over his flat abdomen, his sculpted pecs, the fuzzy planes of his upper thighs. Eventually, though, he settles down with his fingers interlocked behind his head, keeping it upright so he can watch. I kiss one thigh. Yes. Then the other. Yes, yes. I pingpong in slow motion between them, back and forth, moving upward inch by inch from just above the knees until I can feel his rigid inches baptizing my pate with sticky droplets.

And.

I bury my nose in his scrotum, inhaling deep of its soapy perfume. He has to be fresh from the shower. My tongue darts out. The tip tickles his taint, dances its way around the circumference of one of his eggs, then the other. And. Before he can protest or even verbalize what he’s feeling, I seize his short dick in my hand and squeeze hard enough to draw from him a gasp. And. Then I take it in my mouth and swallow it whole, to the base. I hold there, letting him enjoy the warmth and wetness.

“Oh my god,” he pants. “Fucking amazing.” Yes.

But I’m not done. I relinquish my position at the base and back off his meat, allowing my lips to cling and suckle at his dick and his swollen, cut head. Slowly. Deliberately. When I reach the tip, my tongue dips and plays around the slit. Then I slide back down again, in no hurry, until I return to my starting point. Several times I take him on this ride, aware that he’s watching as I nurse at his rock-hard dick.

Yes. I could do this forever.

He has the impatience of youth, though. It’s not long before he wriggles to a sitting position and pulls me off when I’m at the apex. “Can I do it to you?”

I crunch my brows and stare him in the eyes. My head nods as if he’s asked me the weightiest of questions, and I’ve given it all my consideration. Yes, and. “You’ve never sucked before?”

That’s what he’d told me on the app, at least. He nods, suddenly shy. “I’ve gotten head from two dudes. Just never gave it. I’ve eaten pussy, if that counts.”

While he speaks, I struggle to my feet and pull down my shorts. My own cock has been rigid this entire time, aching to be unbound. Now it bobs, free and proud, in front of his face. I feel a stab of satisfaction at the mingled look of awe and anticipation in the kid’s eyes. I’m at least twice as big as he. “You think you can handle this?” I ask.

He nods. Yes. “It’s so fucking big, dad.” I watch as he gulps. “Will you let me?” And.

Of course I will.

He assists by arranging and fluffing his pillows so I can lie back. It’s sweet, really, how solicitous he is as he ensures my comfort. For a moment, when our faces are close, I hope he might kiss me. He doesn’t. If he’s more experienced with women, perhaps that intimacy with another man is still too awkward. Yet when his curls brush my cheek and our lips are only inches apart, I yearn for another and.

Finally he flops between my outstretched legs and watches as I unbutton my shirt. The boy’s on his stomach, propped up by his arms, perky little butt flexing. In the moment, I don’t think I’ve seen anything so beautiful. The boy is miles and miles of creamy skin and unexplored territory, and I pine to be the surveyor to map him. “May I?” he whispers, stirring the hairs on my balls with his breath.

“You may,” I reply. In my appreciation of his beauty, I’d forgotten about my own dick. It has its own agenda, though, and certainly hasn’t forgotten its prey. Like a junkyard dog against its chain, it strains from between my thighs, angry and slavering and demanding release. When the boy wraps his fingers around it, though, I’m the one whimpering and growling. Yes. And. “Just do like I did for you, son,” I tell him. “Slow. Wet. Make me enjoy…”

He doesn’t need the direction. He sucks on his sulky lips to moisten them. Dark eyes looking up at me, he opens wide and takes me to the root. There’s no choking. No hesitation. Nothing but hunger, pushing him to devour as much and as quickly as he can. A cry flies from my lips and ricochets around the bedroom. His mouth still indulges my dick as, with a single strong hand, he presses me back into the pillows.

I could question his oral expertise. The kid knows exactly what he’s doing. And it’s his first time? Well, he could be extraordinarily gifted. A natural. Or he could be a liar.

In this space, though—this sacred theater, this place of performance and improvisation—I know better than to stem the flow with a no. He’s truly been the ideal partner. Why would I dare risk making him feel self-conscious, or foolish, or question his sincerity and experience? Riffing off each other, following the other’s cues, spinning a story without a script is how we craft this production. We do so together, as artists who share a mutual stage.

Not just here, today, this hour, this bedroom. Every encounter is a story of its own, a meeting of two performers, both of whom share a single spotlight. Two players who set and devise a shared scene. Who execute a single, choreographed bow at its conclusion. Who soak in the silent applause of each other. Who return to their lives happy, sated, and with a tale to tell.

“You like it?” he asks, emerging at last from the trance-like state in which he’s spent the last few minutes. He’s curled into an almost fetal position between my legs, and I revel in the selfishness of allowing him.

Yes. “Your mouth is amazing,” I manage to say, surprised I’m coherent enough for words.

He draws himself up. “Is it?” His eyes, half-covered by the fringe of his curls, bore into mine. We’re at face level again. Yes.

My fingers drape themselves on the back of his neck, beneath the heavy mantle of ringlets. He lets out an inaudible sigh and allows me to pull him closer. The boy’s eyelids become heavy, then close as my lips touch his. I give him the softest of kisses. Yes. “Oh, absolutely,” I tell him.

Without warning, he pounces, pushing me deep into the soft pillows with the weight of his body. His mouth presses hard, even painfully, against mine. Yes. When his tongue pushes deep into my mouth, I can taste myself on him. Hungrily we kiss, abandoning any pretense of taking it slowly. His hands wrench the shirt from my body. Oh, yes. Eager as he is to climb atop me, I take the opportunity to flip the boy onto his back. Still furiously making out, I feel his furry legs clasp around my waist as my cock slips between his thighs. Yes!

With moist, adoring eyes, he gazes up. “Dad?” he whispers. “Do you wanna fuck me?”

“Yes.” Arousal rasps my words. “Yes, son. I want to fuck you.” And into my curled fingers I scoop our mingled saliva from my tongue to press into his hole. “Do you want me inside?”

His head bobs up and down rapidly. “Yes sir.” It’s a plea. “Yes, I do.”

And as I massage my fingers into that hairy crevice, his legs lift into the air.

And I rise to my knees, readying myself.

And eyes locked, I guide his hand to hold me. “Help me guide it in,” I suggest.

“Yes,” he breathes.

And…

***

Hey! If you've made it this far, chances are you enjoy my sexual memoir pieces. May I suggest you invest in an upcoming work of no-holds-barred sexy fiction? I've written a story called Sleazy A for an anthology entitled Dirty Dorms & Fresh Men. 

Dirty Dorms & Fresh Men is a vintage-style collection of hot, retro college-themed X-rated fiction penned by some pretty great authors of man on man erotica. And Sleazy A is based on some of my own college sexcapades. I'm very proud of it, and would be most pleased if you'd preorder a copy today. I'm providing the link, below!

The publishing house for this project can be found at Peterschutes.com . There are already ten vintage-style pulps on sale over there, with more to come. If you sign up for their newsletter, you’ll be eligible to receive a free eBook.

Order your copy of Dirty Dorms and Fresh Men right now!

A Gentleman and a Circus

March 2024

You walk like a New Yorke, someone recently told me. At the time, I chose to take it as a compliment. When I’m on the city streets, my pace is brisk, my stride sure and steady. I don’t weave. I don’t make sudden and unpredictable detours from my path. When some dumbass stumbles along, staring down at their phone as they step into the intersection to wander into my trajectory, I don’t veer wildly to accommodate them; I halt and stare until they glance up at the six-foot-three impediment blocking their path. They usually half-mumble a quarter-apology and move out of my way.

When I walk in the city, I do so with a destination in mind and a hustle in my step. But I still can’t keep up with the man with whom I’ve spent the last several hours. I’m power walking up Third Avenue like I’m being pursued by wolves—elderly wolves with a little stiffness in their hips, maybe, and who had a snack a little while ago so that they’re not ravenous—but my so-called chaperone is a solid two streets ahead. He’d been only a half-block in front when he’d dashed out into crosstown traffic at 119th, leaving me stranded at a Don’t Walk light. Not once has he looked over his shoulder to see if I’m still with him. Not even when he turns the corner onto 125th and vanishes does he glance behind.

I could jog to catch up, true. But it’s a nasty, windy March Saturday. When we’d left his apartment, three-quarters of a mile ago, the sky had only been spitting down droplets, but by now it’s a torrent of sideways rain. My left arm is soaked from the storm and sore from spearing the umbrella against the wind. Though I’ve avoided as many puddles as I can, my sneakers are sodden. I’m not about to collapse, by any means. The walk’s only the better part of a mile. But in this weather, wet as I am, I’m already hustling about as quickly as I care to go.

My watch reads 4:44 when I turn the corner. He’s still way ahead of me, plowing on toward the Metro North station, pausing only at a light before hopping only on the white lines of the crosswalk to the street’s north side. A train with red accents on its sides approaches from the south, its squealing brakes amplified by the cavernous dark space beneath the elevated tracks. That must be my train. Plainly, I’m not going to make it.

I see the back of Amir’s bald head as he yanks open the Harlem station door and disappears inside. You’d think he was the one trying to catch the 4:45, but no. I glance both ways as I race across the street, shake off my umbrella beneath the bridge, and follow him into the building. I wonder why I’m hurrying, as I make my way up both flights of stairs to the tracks above. I’m winded by the time I reach the top, but mostly I’m just grateful to be out of the rain.

Much to my surprise, the train still waits. Amir leans with his hands on the nearest of its closed doors as if willing them to open for me. I burst into laughter. “That’s not my train,” I tell him. When he stares at me in disbelief, shaking his head, I point to the legend of New Haven spelled out in red dots on the car’s signage. “That’s not my train,” I repeat.

The train jerks into motion and glides off. My friend gives it a benediction of shooing hands.

“It’s very sweet of you to escort me here,” I tell him, as I refrain from pointing out that I’d been pretty much on my own the last twelve blocks of the walk. “But you’ve got to meet your friend. I’ll be fine.”

“But I promised to get you to the train on time!” he says with genuine anguish.

“They come every half-hour,” I say in my gentlest voice. “That’s how the trains work. Go. You’re supposed to be heading to Queens, for dinner.”

My tone is amused, but he genuinely seems to think he’s failed me. A horn sounds to the south; one of the blue-striped Hudson Line trains approaches the station on the opposite track. “I am so sorry, handsome. I will wait with you.”

“I’m a big boy,” I remind him. “Another train will come. Go meet your friend.” He’s not going anywhere, though. His gallantry charms me, but it’s truly unnecessary. “Look,” I say, tugging at his cuff to pull him to the screen in the platform’s center. “My next train arrives in—” The bright display says 0 Minutes. As I process the information, another red-striped train squeals into the station. “Well. Now.”

Amir’s handsome bearded face lights up; his arms open wide. “I got you here in time, after all!”

“You did!” I tell him, grinning.

He grabs me by the shoulders and gives me a big hug, accompanied by a kiss on the cheek. My soaked winter coat leaks water like a sodden sponge when he squeezes. Then I find myself being hustled onto the closest car, where I squelch my way to a seat and collapse on the unyielding plastic. It’s not two minutes later, when I’m speeding on my way to the next stop, that I get a text from Amir. Thank you for coming! You were super sexy in bed! I love how amazing at sex you are!, it reads, accompanied by a half-dozen heart-eyed emoji.

Now, that’s the mark of a true gentleman.

I’d connected with Amir on one of the apps, right at the coldest point of February, after I’d been away on vacation for a week. You’re very handsome, he’d written. I’d grimaced to see that he’d sent the message twelve days prior. The guy was going to think I hadn’t appreciated his compliment. I sent him a quick thank-you, an apology for the delayed reply, and an explanation that I’d been out of town. Almost immediately, he told me not to worry. You are probably still as good looking as you were week before last.

This silver-tongued devil charmed me, and I had to admit I found him handsome as well. His profile portrayed him as an older European fellow of Middle Eastern heritage—and I had to chide myself for thinking of him as older, when he was a full decade younger than I. In his photos, he’s flexing his big biceps in a tank top in front of the Parthenon, or standing shirtless, furry-chested, and muscular on a sunny beach. I’m most attracted, though, to the selfie in which he’s simply staring into the camera with liquid brown eyes and a big smile that creases his dark beard. Let’s spend Saturday together, making love, he wrote. I’ll meet you at the 125th Station and walk you to my place.

No one has ever offered to escort me home from the commuter train, before. I couldn’t help but think what a gentleman he was. But, because his profile described him as a top, I needed to be sure what we’d be doing. What would you be interested in getting into, with me?

I want you to breed me deep, he replied.

Okay, then. I was in.

The forecast on this Saturday is for rain, all afternoon. I’d spied only a few droplets on my windshield when driving to my local station, but now that my city-bound train is trundling over the Harlem River Lift Bridge, it’s a downpour. I unsheathe my umbrella. Sheets of water pour from the overhangs as I step onto the platform; the splatter onto the street below is so loud that it overpowers the sounds of the train’s normal operations. Ugh.

But the moment I’m down the stairs and out through the station doors onto the street, a taxi pulls up to the corner, cascading water near my feet. Its back window rolls down and a familiar handsome face peers out. “Get in!” says Amir, plainly delighted to see me. He bangs on the car’s door in emphasis. “It’s too wet to walk!”

I’ve never been so grateful to crawl into a cab in my life. Amir seizes my umbrella and whirls droplets from it out the taxi’s window as he gives the driver directions back to his place. What a fucking gentleman, I think to myself, as he wraps the strap around the umbrella’s exterior and fastens the velcro. Why does it have to be so difficult to meet a gentleman who’s both sexy and sane?

Amir keeps his hand on my knee the entirety of our short drive, squeezing it for punctuation as he makes small talk. Was my ride into the city smooth? Any delays? How long was my commute, usually? It was truly a pleasure to meet me, finally.

“Finally?” I query. “We swapped our first emails two days ago.”

He turns in his seat and takes my left hand between both of his own. Looking me in the eye, he says, “But it feels as if I’ve been waiting for this forever.”

I am suddenly a puddle of goo on the seat of a New York City yellow cab.

Awkward as it is around a couple of the tighter turns, we dash hand in hand up two flights of stairs in the tiny apartment building above a ground-level row of fast food restaurants and bodegas. His mouth is already on mine even as he’s struggling to fit the key in the door; I’m breathless when he shoves me against the wall, once inside, and presses himself against me. “You are so handsome,” he growls.

The praise sends a flush through my body. I’ve been erect since the cab. “The handsome one would be you.” I steal kisses between syllables.

“No, you.” He strips off my winter jacket and tosses it onto a hook. It misses and slides to the floor, but I don’t give a fuck. “I love how tall you are. Tall, beefy…” I feel his fingers tighten around the bulge in my trunks. “Hung.” His lips fasten on mine, hungry. I’m helpless to do anything more than welcome his probing tongue and allow him to untie the bow of my joggers. “Are you going to fuck me, this afternoon?” he wants to know.

“Anything you want.” I’m already panting. There’s a half-cocked grin on my lips. “Tell me,” I say, hoping he might be one of those bossy bottoms who gives me orders. “Tell me what you want and I’ll do it.”

His right palm riffles across my short hair as his left pulls me closer. “I need you balls deep in me.” Our eyes lock as he makes the request. I nod. In a hushed voice, he continues. “I need you to plant your seed inside me. Make me yours. Knock me up.”

“I can do that,” I say, equally quiet, but no less intense.

“I want you to lube me, shove your fingers in my hole and get me ready for that fucking big cock.” While he speaks, he removes his own shoes, then reaches down to help me off with mine. My sneaker rapidly rotates heel over toe as it flies down the little hallway into the man’s kitchen. “Then I’m going to get on my knees and you’re going to drive it all the way inside.”

“You betcha,” I promise. My heavy breathing isn’t entirely from the flights I climbed to get here.

Our passions are already riding high. In the moment, I’m a bit infatuated with the man, bowled over by his compliments, his courteous behavior, the intensity of his attraction. How long has it been since anyone from online has been simply nice to me? For months—maybe years, it feels like—whenever I consider hunting for sex, I’m met with conversations that end after I reply that I don’t host. I’ve endured countless men who talk a heated game until I press them to have me over. I’ve had to tolerate jerks who make promises and then ghost or block me. Hooking up has never been a weak man’s game, sadly, but at some point in this post-pandemic world, much of its sweetness has evaporated, leaving behind a noxious slick of its most oily and rancid components.

How amazingly refreshing, I think, to encounter someone who desired to meet, and who facilitated its happening, within the space of a couple of days.

“I want you, baby,” he whispers. Eyes still fixed upon each other, we disrobe where we stand. Sorting out our individual garments will be a challenge, later on, but in the moment neither of us cares how our socks knot or where our shirts land. I’m wearing only my gray trunks; he’s undressed save for a pair of brightly-striped red boxer briefs. Our eyes dance over each other’s bodies. Then, taking my hands in his, he leads me away from the entryway into the apartment.

I only have eyes for him. I get an impression of his home as we pass through it, though—a small living room cramped with furniture to the right and a small kitchenette to the left. Space is at a premium, as it is with so many Manhattan apartments, so from the corners of my eyes I can see how the walls are stacked high with…well, stuff. Atop a jam-packed china cabinet might sit milk crates, mouths pointed to the room’s center, containing folded summer clothing. Atop those, a teetering pile of books, or a collection of plastic hangers, or boxes of Christmas ornaments. Towers of Babylon loom across every wall, haphazardly heaped to the tall ceilings, forsaking tidiness for expediency. Down a hallway crowded with framed photos and primitive oil paintings we waltz, still glowing and thinking only of the other.

And then into the bedroom, where only the centers of the window wells admit light, so high are the stacked piles on either side. I don’t care, though. The bed is clear, and that’s our destination. Even walking backward, he knows exactly when to jump back upon the mattress. As he bounces, he beckons me atop him. Now, at last, my aching cock is free to grind against the bulge in his shorts, as he clasps me in a rough embrace.

Our lips meet, still greedy for each other. I lift for a moment to allow Amir to skim the trunks from my hips; we roll from side to side to do the same for him. Now we truly are naked. Nothing conceals either of us. There’s nothing I want to conceal. Our hands roam the other’s body unhampered. Our cocks mash and grind, craving attention, requiring release. I go down on him first.

Amir has a fat beast of a hog, dark in color and hanging heavy with foreskin, even erect. It releases a salty goo upon the back of my tongue I devour it, inch by thick inch. I hear him sigh, above. Fingers restlessly explore over and around my skull, as if he’s a phrenologist determined to coax out the most obscure aspects of my personality. I admit his fleshy knob as far as it goes and savor the way it stretches the back of my throat. The smooth skin of his balls contracts at the base of my chin, tickled and scratched by my beard. With my thumb and index finger curved into a U shape, I press the heel of my hand against his perineum, cupping the nuts with the crook of my fingers while shoving hard on the taint. He moans audibly, and pushes down on the back of my head.

When the sensations prove too much, he pulls me up to his lips. I’m atop him once again. Grinding. Thrusting. My cock slips down the side of his leg to shove against his ass. “Yes,” he hisses, his head thrown back. “I can’t wait much longer, baby. I want you inside me.”

“You don’t have to wait at all,” I assure him. I make a show of looking him in the eye and spitting on my middle three fingers. I reach down and let them maneuver their way toward my target. The slickness, when it spreads over his exposed hole, causes him to squirm. “Not if you want it.”

“I want it,” he whispers, spreading wide his legs. His own hands grapple down his sides and underneath his ass, spreading the cheeks for me.

“Do you want lube?”

“Just spit.” I take him at his word, and fill two fingers with saliva—once to probe more deeply into the warm concavity I desire, then again to slather over the length of my dick. I raise my body so I can pull up his hips and legs, aim my cock at his hole, and begin burrowing in.

I love this position: two men face to face, maintaining eye contact, while one opens the other. At some point, after I’m more than halfway in, I lean forward and plant my hands beneath his armpits. He lifts his head to meet mine. Our lips convene again, old acquaintances by now. Their reunion erases the last of his resistances: I glide to the base. He lifts his hips and wraps his legs around my waist. His arms clutch my back, pulling me in. Not the slightest pocket of air lies between us, we’re so close. I drive inside him, again and again, punishing the man for making me wait so long.

Sweat beads on my forehead, my nose. My beard must be a mess. We cannot get enough of the other, though. Like feral wolves we fuck, caring only for the moment, blind to everything around us. I cannot hear the sounds of the avenue over his heartbeat; my rasps and grunts drown the quiet pleas spilling from his lips. Everything around us darkens and fades until we’re the only two humans left in a private universe; we are completely enveloped within a cocoon woven from mutual gratification. Like a jackhammer I pound him, extracting my enjoyment stroke by stroke. For long minutes we clutch and kiss and growl until he begs, “Let me ride you.”

My eyebrows rise. Have I pushed him too far? Is he uncomfortable in our current position? But no. “You shouldn’t do all the work,” he pants. “Let me pleasure you.”

I signal agreement with a nod. I shouldn’t be doing all the work. And yeah. I do like to be pleasured. Pleasure and I are more than passing acquaintances. In fact, I like pleasure a lot. He doesn’t want to lose the connection between us, though. We both grin and snort as we shift our mutual center of gravity, rolling first onto our sides, then flopping like salmon to right ourselves once again with him on top. My dick swells and makes him gasp, from time to time. He retaliates by pinching my nipples, hard, the way I like. It’s not an easy process, this one-eighty flip with my meat wedged deep in his hole, but neither of us wants cock and ass to part ways. So while our grins acknowledge the silliness of the choice we’ve made, my hands still clasp him hips and draw him into me. At last, his knees straddle my ribcage.

“Beautiful man,” he sighs, smoothing my beard with his palm. “I am so lucky to have you.”

“You’ve got all of me, baby,” I say, gazing into his eyes. “Every fucking inch.”

“I need poppers,” he mumbles. He spares me a smile before rising a bit and leaning toward one of his bedside tables. The flat of his hand presses on my chest as he balances himself. “Your dick is just so big.” I laugh a little as he rummages around in the top drawer. Then, “Oh, fuck.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

All the time he’s been hunting for the poppers, I haven’t been lying there, lifeless. Oh, no. I’ve continued to thrust upward inside him, grinding my hips in a sinuous infinity sign, keeping his hole open and happy. But now he’s clambering off me. My cock slips out and slaps onto my belly with a wet and disappointed smack. “I’ll be right back,” he promises, giving me a quick kiss before, on his knees, he shuffles backward off the mattress. I observe how his muscular butt jiggles as he pads down the hallway. “I need a new bottle. Do you want anything to drink?”

Such a gentleman. “I’m good.” I settle back to contemplate my good luck, as from the kitchen I hear the sounds of the fridge opening and closing, followed by the clatter of ice cubes in a glass. This moment of solitude is the first chance I’ve had to take a look at Amir’s bedroom. Like the living area, it’s jam packed with stuff. Basic furniture at the ground level—the bed, a writing desk, a chest, a wardrobe. Then layers and layers more atop them, teetering upward in stacks toward the—how high are these ceilings, anyway? Ten feet? Maybe twelve?

That’s when I notice it, in the midst of my content reverie. A clown doll with a porcelain face, dressed in shabby orange and red clothing, ams outstretched, staring down at me from high stop a pile of books with its oversized, unblinking peepers. Fuck, that’s creepy. Then I observe that it sits next to a girl twin with flaxen hair and equally garish duds, fixing me with her unmoving eyes.

In fact, only now is it striking me that everywhere I look, the upper reaches of the bedroom are adorned with nothing but clown paraphernalia. I’d been too smitten to notice when we’d burst into the room in a blaze of sexual heat, then too preoccupied to look up when Amir had been beneath me. But now I’m on my back, alone, and not in a haze of pheromones. All I can do is gaze around the walls’ upper periphery in abject horror.

Dozens of clown dolls, each a glossy and inhuman mold of waxen perfection, stare down at me, a panopticon of carnival horror. They’re adorned in multi-colored wigs, pointed hats, in striped pantaloons and polka-dots. Some have oversized buttons on color-blocked jumpsuits; others have fussy frills and ruffled collars. Rosy faces congregate with neighbors bearing white-caked scowls. And these aren’t cute clowns, either. These are some freaky-ass, killer devil clowns from decades ago, when kids were apparently of heartier stock. Their smiles are uniformly maniacal; the pinpoints of their painted eyes laser-focused on my nakedness.

I’ve just sat up and am staring around the room, panicked by so many dolls fixed upon me, when Amir shuffles back into the room with a glass of ice water and a bottle of poppers. “Hey, beautiful man,” he whispers, as he pounces on me.

You can do this, I think to myself as I thrust. You’re not scared of clowns. Though, admittedly, this is a particularly menacing assembly of clowns. They’re toys. A perfectly innocent collection of old, antique, unsettling, eerie, macabre…no, stop. It’s just a collection of dolls. And not only dolls. There are some old Ringling Brothers posters with clowns up there, too, and a number of old LPs featuring red-nosed clowns on the cover. I saw a couple of incredibly gaudy jack-in-the-boxes, too, their spring-laden contents on display, bent by gravity. There’s even a miniature clown bus filled with miniature…shit,, I’m still thinking about clowns. What the fuck? I’ve got a hot guy on all fours for me, a position I’ve requested solely because it lets me look down at the bed instead of up at the brightly-colored collection of…is that a whole clown village, over there in the corner? Like, a Department 56 porcelain clown village? Has he actually strung extension cords so that it—yeah, it’s lit up, showing off a circus train car filled with clowns, a little bar where presumably tipsy clowns congregate, a clown town hall…good lord.

“Is something wrong, baby?” Amir asks, peeking under his armpit.

“No, everything’s good,” I fib. Jesus Christ. I need to get the job done, here. I try to keep any clown-related musing to a minimum while I pound away at his hole. He’s enjoying himself, at least. There comes a point where he navigates me onto my side, and then onto my back again, but the moment those dead-eyed dolls hove back into view, I toss him onto his stomach and finish the deed while laying atop him. Only then do I roll us onto our sides, my cock still in his ass, so that I can hold Amir and whisper filthy things into his ear as he finishes himself with both hands.

He pants heavily, gives my forehead a peck, and gives me a big squeeze. “Amazing,” he sighs.

I grumble in vague agreement. Then, after a spell, I clear my throat and ask in a perfectly normal tone—an utterly reasonable inflection laden with no hint of judgment—“So, um. You like clowns?’

His eyebrows raise. “Why do you say that?” For answer, I simply gesture in a circle, in the direction where walls meet ceiling, at the clowns that—my god, have they multiplied? Amir’s eyes follow my glance. “Oh. I suppose so,” he shrugs. “They’re not as fun as you.”

It’s a flirty gesture I would appreciate more if I’d not had scores of beady little circus eyes on me. “I should think about getting back to the station, soon,” I murmur, already thinking of my getaway.

“Not yet.” My friend grabs me by the hand and pulls me close, then kisses me. “The rain’s supposed to quiet down in an hour.” I feel his fingers tickle my sides, my belly, then tangle in my pubes. “I’ve got dinner plans with a friend in Queens. I’ll walk you to the station, then go meet my friend…I’m sure we can find something to do for another hour.”

Oh, man. He is so sweet. All those clown eyes, though. “I’m not…” His mouth moves down to my nipples, where he chews, gently. “I shouldn’t…” Now he’s kissing my belly, moving toward his destination, inch by inch. I glance at the room’s upper reaches. “I…” I gulp heavily, as he swallows me down, cleaning off his own juices from my hardening flesh.

“Just lie back,” he says. “Close your eyes. Let me take care of you, baby.”

Yeah, I think to myself, as I sink into the pillows. I can close my eyes. I do like being taken care of. In fact, I like being taken care of, a lot.

***

Hey! If you've made it this far, chances are you enjoy my sexual memoir pieces. May I suggest you invest in an upcoming work of no-holds-barred sexy fiction? I've written a story called Sleazy A for an anthology entitled Dirty Dorms & Fresh Men. 

Dirty Dorms & Fresh Men is a vintage-style collection of hot, retro college-themed X-rated fiction penned by some pretty great authors of man on man erotica. And Sleazy A is based on some of my own college sexcapades. I'm very proud of it, and would be most pleased if you'd preorder a copy today. I'm providing the link, below!

The publishing house for this project can be found at Peterschutes.com . There are already ten vintage-style pulps on sale over there, with more to come. If you sign up for their newsletter, you’ll be eligible to receive a free eBook.

Order your copy of Dirty Dorms and Fresh Men right now!