Saturday, March 31, 2007

Who's Your Daddy?

You remember how I said, just a few posts back, that nobody calls me "Daddy" except my kids?

Well, it turns out that I lied. There are (at least until I can think of some more) three possible explanations:

a. My children have started calling me "Dad" as they get older, so "Daddy" is freed up for the use of hot younger men.

b. "Daddy" is actually a Norwegian term meaning "respected bearish man of immense sexual prowess, who is, in fact, no more than ten years older than I, and who could not be my biological father, but who could conceivably have adopted me, strictly for the purposes of getting around immigration barriers, and whom I want to take me in a way that is not at all pseudo-incestuous." It's pretty cold in Norway, and the language evolved during a time when people needed to conserve energy, so they pack a lot of meaning into single words.

c. The strength of my convictions is inversely proportional to one or more of the following: my fatigue level, the hotness of the "boy," how long it's been since I've had any outside action, and how far down his throat my cock is. The exact equation is fairly complex and is left as an exercise for the reader. Please show your work for partial credit.

Anyway, I was exceedingly tired and exceedingly horny yesterday, in part because on Thursday, I'd seen the following ad on craigslist (the Maryland section, obviously):

Young boy, horny looking for older - 24

I'm young, cute and horny; looking for an older daddy. I'm straight, but been with daddys before. I love to please, am submissive. Available in Bethesda until 6PM today. Can host. I am skinny, attractive and uncut. Love to roleplay, love a masc. daddy.

Normally, I wouldn't give such an ad a second look (unless there was a picture, in which case I'd ogle a bit) because, in general, I don't much go for twenty-four year olds, straight men, or role play. Furthermore, although I have achieved my forties, I think the phrase "older daddy" applies to someone at least ten years older than I. I don't really think of myself as older (You may laugh, but do so quietly: you don't destroy my delusions, and I won't destroy yours, ok? OF COURSE you're masculine. Really.) at all, but, hell, if the guy's twenty-four, then I'm older, right? And the guy did sound kind of hot, and, well, he wanted it pretty much right then, and horny, horny, horny.

So I emailed him. His ad hadn't been up long, but it was already after 4:30 (4:37 -- I went back and checked) when I emailed, so I knew that even if I was what he was looking for, getting done by 6 was going to be a stretch. And, in fact, he didn't reply right away, and when he did (4:57, so actually it was relatively fast), he suggested the weekend. I (5:19) said I was driving to Ohio on Saturday. He (7:06) suggested Friday, and sent a picture (it's the picture at the top of the post; I have edited it slightly; can you tell where?), and I said, oh hell yes.

It was clear from our exchange that I needed to be authoritative and dominant with this guy. Dominance to me is a lot like boning a chicken1: removing the bones from a whole chicken is not the first (or second) thing I'd choose to do in the kitchen, but I can do it well and efficiently, I certainly don't mind doing it, and I'm very pleased with what I can do with the product. So I emailed him the next (i.e., yesterday) late morning and said I wanted to play and told him he needed to be able to follow directions, and the rest was just working out the time and location.

Since he had said he wanted roleplay, and since I wanted to avoid any situation like that one that wrote about in his "Worst Sex Ever" entry (sorry, it's blocked at work, so I can't link to it, but you know the one I'm talking about), I set him up with a relatively simple roleplay. I told him that I'd be getting home from work, and he'd be getting dried off from the shower, and he'd come and give Daddy a hug, and then things would get hot. He wrote me back to say that he might be a little bit late and that as a result he'd deserve a spanking, so I wrote back and said that I would just come a little later and that I almost always found that my boys (apparently I have boys; who knew?) had done something that required punishment, so he could be on time and have an opportunity to get nice and clean for Daddy. (Kink? Sure. Dirty, smelly, etc? No thank you!)

As it happened, I got lost on the way to his place. It's really not that far from my office, so getting lost required some effort. He'd said he didn't have any condoms or lube, and I had the latter but not the former in the car, so I had to stop on the way, and then I couldn't find the road I was supposed to be on. I don't ever go to that part of Bethesda. But I was so incredibly horned up that I actually pulled over, rolled down the passenger window, and asked2 a passer by where the road was. She told me, and ten minutes later (I had managed to get spectacularly lost in a very short amount of time. Go me!) I was pulling up to his house.

So, let's get this out of the way. I generally don't think it's polite to post a picture that a guy's sent me over email, even after some, um, subtle editing, without explicit permission. And I wouldn't have posted this one if it had been the guy's actual picture. When I first saw him, I thought, well, maybe it's just his picture from the summer of 1998, but upon further reflection, I'm pretty sure that he just sent me a picture of what he considered to be a hot twenty-four year old.

As soon as I got to the address, I knew that twenty-four was unlikely. Single family homes in Bethesda are not cheap, so unless this guy was a very highly paid escort (unlikely since he never mentioned money3) or had inherited substantial wealth, he wasn't affording this place (not palatial by any means, but still nice, and still probably $800,000 right now) at twenty-four. (There was a "for sale by owner" sign in the front yard, with a website. I'm not linking to the website because that would be invasive, but if you're looking for some Bethesda real estate, email me, and I'll give you the URL. The asking price wasn't listed, though.)

Anyway, I knocked on the door, and he opened it, wearing only a towel. Not 24. Probably 34. Thinner and less built than in the picture. Somewhat hairier, and with decidedly smaller nipples and paler skin than in the picture. Also, as I soon discovered, a considerably larger cock, though the apparent smallness of the cock (which you may not be able to see, oops) in the picture could be due to the camera angle. He was both cute and hot, though, and given that I much prefer thirty-somethings to twenty-somethings, I was very pleased.

I stepped in, and he hugged me, as per the script, and I started to kiss him and removed the towel. Then I asked him if he'd been a good boy, and he said that he had. So I asked him if he'd done anything bad, and he hung his head and said yes. So I asked him what he'd done, and he said, "I touched myself."

Now look. I want you all to understand that I had a great time with this guy and that I am in no way complaining about his behavior. And, certainly, compared to the role play that had to endure, our session was terrific. But listen up, submissives: it is time to exercise a little creativity! "I touched myself"? Come on. Is there any submissive anywhere who doesn't default to that confession when he's asked whether he's been bad? I know that you've touched yourself, and, given time, I'll get around to asking that question explicitly, perhaps when I'm yanking your hands away from your cock and telling you not to touch yourself while you're blowing me because I said so and that's all the reason you need, boy. Just one time, before I'm really old, I would LOVE to have the following conversation with a submissive:
Have you been bad, boy?

Yes, sir.

And what did you do, boy?

I shot a man in Reno, sir.

Why, boy?

Just to watch him die, sir.

Also, for future reference, if you want a real pounding, you could do a lot worse than putting Live from Folsom Prison in your CD player. I'm just saying.

Anyway, since he'd been touching himself, I had to spank him. I will spare you the inane Daddy-Son dialogue. You can imagine it for yourself. As it happens, as much as I love words, I am not particularly verbal during sex. If you're doing the dom-sub thing, though, you have to be verbal, so I put the dialog on auto-pilot. The subs never seem to mind, and it doesn't alter my enjoyment.

I put him on his knees and bent him over the bed. I looked around for his belt, but I didn't see it, so I pulled off my belt and administered the spankings (with requisite inane commentary). That got him really hard, and he was rubbing his cock against the bed. So I spanked him some more, and he started to moan. Then I pulled him up and told him that when he needed to be touched, he needed to come to me. Then I unbuttoned my jeans, and told him that I'd had a tough day and that he needed to make me feel better. He pulled down my jeans and briefs and started to suck my cock.

After a bit of that, I pushed him onto the bed, and we snogged for a while (nice lips, nice technique, no real hunger, but pretty good overall), then I put him back on my cock and started to play with his ass. He was very hairy from the waist down, which I find particularly hot on a slender man, and I ate his ass for a bit while he went down on me.

After a few minutes, I felt the intensity lessening, so I blindfolded him with his towel, and that made him more alert. Then I pulled his hands behind his back and wrapped my belt around them several times, and that made him really hard. Then I pushed him down on the bed and spread his cheeks with my hand and ate him more thoroughly. Lots of moaning from him.

I was on a tight schedule since b&c and I had tickets to a play later in the evening, so I had to move things along more quickly than I would have liked. I'd have eaten his ass for a half hour, but I couldn't, so I lay on top of him and sucked on his ears while I pushed my cock up near his asshole and simulated fucking him. Then I went for the lube and worked a finger and then two into his ass. I gloved up while he was still blindfolded and bound and tried to fuck him.

Some day I'll learn. Two fingers just wasn't enough. I really needed to go for the third finger and possibly the fourth before trying to stick my cock into him because he just couldn't take the girth. And, believe me, I tried and he tried, and we both wanted it. I got maybe two inches into him once, but no further. While he was bound, I tried with him on his stomach, then with him with his legs spread wider, then with him on his side. Then I pulled the rubber off and unbound him and told him to suck me some more, and I played with his ass a little more.

I told him to put another rubber on me, and he did, and I told him to sit on my cock, and he did, but, again, he couldn't get me all the way in. He tried facing me, and he tried facing the other way. No dice. Then I put him on his back and pushed his legs up and started to shove in. And, I'm sure that I could have shoved in, but, well, you know, that's just mean. He's gotta open up and accept it. After a while, I said, "You're not going to be able to take this, are you?" and he said no. Oh well. It is a thick cock, and he is a thin guy, and it was a tight hole, and there were alternatives.

So I told him to suck me off, and he did that like a champ. He had me really close for a long while, and I was loving it, but I was starting to worry about the time, and he wasn't quite pulling the trigger, so eventually I told him to back off for a minute, and I wanked a bit and then told him to finish me off. He grabbed and stroked, and tongued the side of my cockhead, and the first shot out of me flew past my shoulder. I'd expected him to swallow, but he clearly wasn't into that because shortly after I came, he ran to the bathroom to rinse his mouth out. I asked him if he wanted to jerk off with my cum (he had a really big foreskin; I'd wanted to hold it closed while he came so that the cum would make it balloon up), but he was pretty clearly done. He went instantly from being completely into it to not being able to look at me.

But I guess that's a part of straight boy submission, right? Oh, the shame, the shame! It's pointless, but it's not something you can worry that much about when you've just had a really intense ejaculation. I was totally relaxed and feeling great, so I went to the bathroom and rinsed off. I looked in the mirror, and I thought, "Damn, Teddy, you need to get some sleep." I did look pretty old right then, and I thought I finally understood what "rode hard and put away wet" really looks like. It doesn't look good, but fuck it: at the end of March, I'm supposed to look like I've been through hell. At least I felt good, and I'll look a lot better in a month.

We both got dressed, but he still wasn't looking at me. He'd put on some moss-colored cords, and I wondered whether he was trying to look like a graduate student, but I think that he's some sort of IT nerd (which I love, by the way), and that's just how he dresses.

I got a "Thank you, Daddy" email this morning, so I think there's a pretty good chance that I was sufficiently dominant and that at some point soon his hunger will again overcome his shame. If there's another session, I'm going to make sure that I have more than an hour to play, and I'm going to bring my toys, and I'm going to get all the way into that ass.

The play (The Pillowman) last night was pretty good, and I managed to stay awake through both acts. My mood is much better today, and that's hardly a surprise. I'm still exhausted, but whatever.

There probably won't be much Internet access over the weekend, so there probably won't be any more entries for a few days, but I'll be back. Also, at some point, I promise to edit more and ramble less, but, don't hold your breath on that one, ok?

1For the love of God, please appreciate the utter brilliance of this simile and how well it works on multiple levels. Also, I'm not lying or bragging here: I really can remove all the bones from a chicken and leave it in one piece.

2This is how you know that I'm really masculine. It takes the threat of losing a fine piece of ass to make me ask for directions. To avoid this situation, I'd gotten directions from Google maps, but then I hadn't followed them, because I'm just that butch.

3In case you're wondering, no, I have never hired an escort. Not that there's anything wrong with that: I intend to start when I'm in my fifties.

Friday, March 30, 2007

Because, really, what's sexier than desperation?

Submitted for your approval, readers. Three ads, all from today's Northern Virginia1 section of the Washington "Men Seeking Men" ads on Craigslist. Take a gander at (in reverse chronological order):

first Looking 4 Right Now-Bi-MWM lookin 4 youngerBi/Str8t FuckBud to Host - 42

42 -5'11", 170, Brn eyes, Brn hair, smooth, shaved balls and asshole. Lookin for a bud to slide some meat in my hole, and if they want some in yours all the better. I'm arried so u have to host. Hit me back, and let's get our nut off together

second Hot Bi-MWM for YOUNGER Bi-Str8t Dude to nail me/get nailed UHost NOW! - 42

Seeks bud, younger to hump and grind,rim, maybe try stuffing some meat in my tight ass. Me, W/M, 5'11", 170,32 waist, Brn Buzzcut/Brn Eyes, smooth. Prefer other str8t curious/Bi dudes,and am more than willing to stick some meat in a cute ass as well. General guy sex/fun. YOU MUST HOST. FREE NOW. PIC GETS FAST RESPONSE>

[Hey, does that look a little bit familiar to you? Hmmm.]

third Bi- Married Seeking Younger Str8/Bi F@*!! Bud For Fri. after 7am - 42

Married, goodlookin dude looking for younger brother type to put some dick in me for the first time. Reply to pics, and U MUST HOST. Me W/M 5'11" 170, 32 waist,short brown hair and eyes, ht/wt proportionate. New at this so don't ask me what I'm into. I've always banged women. I just want to fulfill my fanasy of taking thick meat up my ass from another dude. Willing to stick in a nice ass as well. Want a dude in Rte 1, Huntington, Hybla Valley, Kingstowne area. for mutual convenience.

[You know, I just can't help thinking I've seen you before. Were you a post-doc when I was an undergrad?]

I don't normally consider it my job (let alone a public service) to fisk CL ads, but I'm going to make an exception. Maybe my comments will help closeted married guys everywhere get laid a little easier.

Let's begin with the big picture (and I don't mean that one of his torso in the third ad): posting three CL ads in 8 hours is lame. I realize that your average CL reader has the attention span (and the intelligence, if some of the replies I've gotten are any indication) of a fruit fly, but even so, some people are going to notice that you've posted multiple ads. Especially when they're all on the same page. Maybe in NYC or San Francisco, the ads scurry down the page like cockroaches when the light goes on, but in NoVA, on a weekday, you can count on your ad showing up for a whole day. When someone sees three ads, they don't think, "Oh, wow, he's gotten so much action that he's lost his memory. I'm gonna answer the ad right now because amnesiacs are hot. Who didn't want to bang that guy in Memento?" No, they think, "Oh, the first two ads didn't work out, eh? Quelle surprise."You can sort of see how the ad changes over time, can't you? He's figuring that he just has to tweak a few things so that his marketing strategy will bear fruit (so to speak) and the invitations will pour in.

Now on to some of the details. I list below a few of the claims from one or more of these ads. I believe that each of these claims is to some extent at odds with either common sense or the available evidence:

1. 42 yo
2. 170 #
3. 32 waist
4. ht/wt proportionate
5. first time

Before I go on, I wish to make painfully clear the fact that I am not making fun of this guy for what he is. I have had delicious moments with men who were older, larger, or older and larger than this guy. I'm making fun of this guy for claiming to be what he's not. If you don't like who you are, then change it. If you like who you are, or it's something you can't change, then own it. Or, you know, remain silent about it. Just don't lie, and especially don't lie when you're providing contradictory photographic evidence.

Now, back to his claims. I'm providing my responses below, in no particular order. Today's Fun Pages game is to match my reply with the claim. You can draw connecting lines on the screen if you like. The answers will appear, upside down, elsewhere on the page2.

A. Little known fact about mathematics: you can take any two numbers and make a ratio out of them.
B. Right, because all m2m virgins shave their assholes.
C. Maybe in 2002.
D. Maybe in 1997.
E. So it's true that they make male girdles.

Married dudes: it's just not that hard, ok? You want to get fucked, and we want to fuck you. We don't care that you can't host. We know that we'll never hear from you again and that you won't be dramatic or clingy, and we like that. But be straight (ahem) with us, and be realistic. If there's some smoking twenty-five year old straight boy out there looking to plow a furrow for the first time, he can do better than you. And, really, that guy isn't out there. If you're looking for someone to bump your uglies, your best bet is someone who likes having sex with men and, more importantly, knows what he's doing. Think about how eminently sensible that last sentence was, and I'm sure you'll see the error of your ways. Or, hell, keep doing what you're doing, and perhaps after forty-five additional ads, you'll find some really horny straight guy who won't understand the concept of lube and will invite you over and then kick you out while you're still to sore to walk, that is if he doesn't suddenly realize that he's just fucked a man for the first time and go postal on you.

Because, you know, no jury who's read your ad would convict him.

1Ok, look, y'all. I realize this is a bitchy post, and normally I hate bitchy, but I'm in a mood, ok? I also don't normally cruise the NoVA ads, but I was salivating over the naked pics of the hotties perusing the Maryland ads, and I came across a couple that made me laugh, so I thought that I'd look for some really bad ones, and if you're looking for utter tools in the DC area, you look to NoVA. I love Virginia. Really. I was born in Richmond. But I would never, ever live there again. Not because of the abysmal traffic, but because they hate the gays there. Also, this set of ads was not (necessarily) the worst example there: it was just the first ad on the page when I surfed on over.

2Does anyone know the html code that would allow me to write "Made you look" upside down?

Thursday, March 29, 2007

Road Trip!

Somebody who I don't know died, so I have to drive to Yellow Springs, Ohio this weekend.

Don't panic: Dave Chappelle is not dead; neither am I stalking him.

You might have guessed that this is not the best time for me to be taking off work, but it can't be avoided. To minimize the damage, I'll be working until 2 or 3 pm on Saturday, then driving to Ohio. I'll be driving back Monday evening, and hopefully I'll be back home by 2 or 3 am Tuesday morning.

Upper management took the news pretty well. He keeps a defibrillator in his office, behind a sign that says "In case of an employee having a life, break glass," he picked up the hammer while I was telling him, but I didn't actually hear the glass break until I'd run away. That was kind of him.

Anyway. A roadtrip can't help but be awesome, right? You got your Kerouac-call-of-the-open-roadtrip or your fratboys-trying-to-bag-chicks-and-avoiding-their-obvious-desire-to-bang-each-other-in-the-middle-of-the-roadtrip models to choose from. To be honest, though, I never saw Road Trip. And I tried to read Kerouac, but after a few pages, cleaning the oven seemed like a more fun time.

Still, there's a road, there's a trip: how hard can it be? There must be fifty rest stops between here and Western Ohio. That means fifty potential blowjobs. Each way. But I can't help wondering: a) is that going to increase my travel time (google maps doesn't have a radio button for "recalculate without blowjobs"), and b) is wearing my "Pitcher" t-shirt too obvious?

Couple of problems, though. First, I'll be traveling with EFU, and "Dad, didn't you stop at the rest stop twenty miles back? And why are you looking so flushed?" are questions that I don't want to answer more than three or four times in any given eight hours.

And worse, I'm just not that good at sex in public places. It is, no doubt, very kind of perfect strangers to want to sap my precious bodily fluids give me pleasure before we've been properly introduced, and the idea is extremely exciting, but in practice, I'm too nervous to whip it out and let them have to. There are other things I'd be happier to do, but in my experience, when a guy taps his foot in the stall next to yours, he very rarely wants to make out. Or even let you chew on his nipples for a while.

Everyone's in such a hurry these days. Here's a thought: since you know who now objects to the term McJob, let's give that up. In exchange, we'll call the rest area quickie the McBlowjob. Brilliant, right? Imagine the drive-thru possibilities! Billions and billions served! Hang on a sec while I call my intellectual property lawyer, will ya?

Anyway, at least EFU has some pretty good music in her iPod, and despite the fact that she's eighteen now, she still hasn't figured out that she's supposed to hate me during her teen years. And since, starting this September, she'll be living far away from home (possibly even in Western Ohio), she'll have to hate me via email, or only during summer vacation. In less than two years, she'll be twenty, and after that, if she wants to hate me, I'll be all "as if, beeatch! You had your chance when you were a teenager! Get over your wicked young adult self!" Or, you know, words to that effect. I feel bad that she might miss her chance, but I am comforted by the knowledge that at least she hates her mother.

So the drive (if I don't fall asleep and end up starring in one of those drivers' ed movies) will be pleasant. And I'll have a day and a half to kill while EFU does whatever it is she's doing there. I'm beginning to wonder about that whole I-don't-want-or-need-a-laptop stance I've been taking: if I had one, I could probably hunt up men on the Internet. But I don't, so I'll probably spend all of Sunday and most of Monday hanging around the Holiday Inn, sleeping and jerking off.


Wednesday, March 28, 2007

Today's Moment of Introspection

I only worked until 10:30 last night, but when I got home, I was so tired that I walked right past the dinner b&c had left for me, grunted at him, and fell on the bed. At some point I kicked my shoes off, but I never went to the trouble of undressing or getting under the covers. B&c cracked a window for me and left me alone. I forgot to set the alarm, so I didn't wake up until after 6 this morning, and my first thought was to wonder whether I could just put on some shoes and go into the office without changing clothes, which would have saved me a lot of time. But my morning wood was harder even than usual, so I pulled off my pants and reached into my briefs and started to stroke.

I was thinking about my friend D., who really wants to be fucked by a string of guys but who's usually too uptight (and tight, but you just need lube and patience to fix that, and I have plenty of both) to be fucked by more than the skinniest of dildos. He's the strong, silent type, and he calls himself a cowboy, and when I jokingly asked him whether he smokes Marlboros, he told me he does. I was thinking that when b&c goes out of the country for a month later this spring, I might be able to have a bunch of my top and vers buddies over to have a go at him. I spent a while wondering about the practicality, advisability, and morality of that scene, but then I got caught up in the image of him tied to the bed with one of my friends fucking his face while I pound his ass, and I stopped thinking about much of anything and let a very healthy load shoot into my boxer briefs.

Truth is, D.'s not much of a cocksucker, and while I've played with and/or fucked most of my friends at one time or another, I'm not sure that I really want to have sex with a bunch of them at the same time. But I'm not sure that I don't, either. I think there's a compromise: there are two or three who I'm pretty sure would be into that sort of scene and who are generally very low-drama guys. I can invite two of them, and D., over for cocktails and sex and see how it goes.

I'm going to need a lot of gin. Not for me, but D. says that getting drunk really loosens him up, and the other two guys drink like fishes anyway.

I was thinking about all of this as I got into the shower, and it got me pretty stiff again, but I really didn't have time to wank out a second load, and I was still pretty tired, so I did what I usually do in the shower during busy season: I turned the water all the way hot for a few seconds and then I turned it all the way cold for a while, and then I repeated the cycle another two times. This always wakes me up and dissipates any remaining wood.

And I know that you really don't want to know this, but when I do the hot/cold water cure, I invariably time the cycles by singing La Vie en Rose. In the original French, of course. I realize that seems irredeemably faggy, but you will just have to trust that because I have a deep voice and immaculate intonation, it is totally butch.

Monday, March 26, 2007

Out of Uniform

I feel like I spend a lot of time here whining about how much time I'm spending at work these days, but, well, I do spend an awful lot of time at work these days, and it affects all the other areas of my life. Including, apparently, my ability to concentrate on and manage my schedule. I am pretty sure, for example, that I knew some time back that Saturday evening, b&c and one of his girlfriends were going to Baltimore to the opera. (The silver lining of busy season is the iron clad excuse for missing the opera. "Oh, Die Walkyrie? Really? Six whole hours of Wagner? Wow. And it's when? Oh, the end of March. On a Thursday. Oh, gosh darn it. Tax season you know. I just can't. Sorry. What do you mean you can hear the sarcasm even over the phone? Hey, I think this line's about to go...." And then, "What do you mean did I just hang up on you? I've been having a lot of problems with this phone. I think maybe it knows when I've got so much work to do that I can't be having long conversations about why I don't have six hours to sit through Wagner during tax season. Did I just say that out loud? I think you have a wrong number, sir." And then the battery on the cell phone dies. No, really.) And EFU (elder filial unit) insists that she had told me that she was going on a church retreat. And I'm sure that I did know that YFU (younger filial unit) had a ballet recital and that her mother was taking her, and that I wasn't going because I was going on Sunday. Sadly, I didn't realize any of these things until about 5:00 Saturday afternoon, at work, when it very suddenly hit me that I had a free evening.

If I'm at work, I can't get on Manhunt or any of the hook-up services that are even more sordid than Manhunt and that I may or may not know about and have used on occasion. That leaves me with and craigslist. But unless there's someone I already know on, it usually takes me a little while to find someone appropriate. And craigslist is in general a pretty slow proposition. And I really, really wanted to be out of the office by 6. And I was still trying to get some work done, so I had pretty much given up on anything less solitary than going home and spending a long time jerking off. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Especially when I haven't had much opportunity to do it lately.

But then (at about 5:40) I saw an ad on craigslist:

in need of a deep tissue massage here

need to unwind from stress
can u help out?
clean cut guy here

So I shot the guy an email, and thus began the craigslist shuffle. I emailed him, and he emailed me, and I emailed him, and he emailed me, and after just four eight twelve brief emails, I was on my way out of the office headed in the general direction of my new friend, to whom I'd given my number so that he could call with his address because he "[had] to be discrete." Normally, I would think twice about playing with someone who doesn't know the difference between "discreet" and "discrete," but, oh hell, who am I kidding? Some of the hottest sex I ever had was with a landscape architect whose vocabulary was, apparently, limited to "harder."

Anyway, he called me, and I put on my butchest voice (I'm a bass, so it's not much of a stretch; I just say less: real men grunt) and he told me that he'd already started on a glass of wine (which he'd recommended) and that he'd found the oil, turned up the heat, and darkened the room (all of which I'd recommended). And then he told me where he was and that he really appreciated my discretion because he was in the military, and he didn't normally do this sort of thing, but that he was just so very, very tense because he'd had the worst week ever. And I said "Anything I can do to support our troops." My exact words. And then I got off the phone because I'd had to pull off the road to write down the directions, and I wanted to get going again.

It is important to me that you understand that I am not making this shit up. I have, out of respect for Jim (not his real name) changed numerous details about him and about the particulars of the setting to ensure anonymity (not that I actually know his real last name or anything), but if I were making this shit up, it would a) be a lot steamier and b) end differently. I am, however, making up this next part, but only because it's easier to dramatize this way than to write out in tedious narrative. With that in mind, I invite you to imagine me driving down the highway, with a man on each shoulder.

Good Teddy (stylishly attired in a brilliantly white jockstrap and sporting a halo, tastefully covered in white feathers): You are so going to hell.

Evil Teddy (looking verrrrrry butch in a black jockstrap and carrying a riding crop): Oh god. Who invited angelboy?

GT: Dude. You are messing with a straight, military guy. Does this not set off any alarms?

ET: Alarms? Come on, this is how half of the entries in The Great Cock Hunt start, and it always works out just fine for Alex.

GT: I hate to be the one to burst your little bubble of decadence, but "Alex" makes that shit up.

ET: No way. The Great Cock Hunt is an honest look at sex among late twenty-something white men in New York City.

GT: Is not.

ET: Is too.

Real Teddy: Boys...

GT: Did you hear yourself? "Anything I can do to support our troops." You said that without evident irony!

ET: Oh, leave him alone. He does support our troops. You know that he almost cries every time they play a profile of a dead soldier on NPR.

GT: Fine. But a straight man?

ET: If he's straight, why's he on craigslist advertising for massage in the men seeking men?

GT: He didn't even know what "massage with release" is.

ET: Yeah, and I am Marie of Romania.

GT: I am not interested in your drag career. If he's straight -- and he sounded straight, Marie -- he'll be all nervous, and you'll be low-key and understanding, then he'll want the massage, and then you'll get him all relaxed, and then you'll flip him over, and he'll have wood, and then you'll engineer the happy ending, and then he'll freak out.

ET: So he's going to rub down a naked straight man and jerk a load out of him and then be home early. Where's the downside?

GT: He'll feel awful about it afterwards. Besides, he'll probably never get his on clothes -- let alone his own rocks -- off. And no kissing. He hates that.

ET: Listen, he's doing this guy a favor. He's introducing him to the fabulous world of m2m.

GT: In other words, sex with someone who has no skills and won't reciprocate. Besides, he doesn't want to be this guy's first man. He'll ruin him for everyone else.

ET: Oh yeah, because he's sooooooo great in bed.

RT: Hello! You're talking about me, and I'm right here!

ET: Whatever.

RT: And it looks like we've arrived. Listen, boys, I appreciate your input, but I did tell this guy I was going to show up, and not showing up would be rude. You hate it when I'm rude. Besides, look at this neighborhood. And there's his car.

GT: Oooooh, an Infiniti! He must be an officer!

ET: Slut.

GT: It's just as easy to fuck with the mind of a rich straight man as it is to fuck with the mind of a poor straight man. That's all I'm saying.

RT: You guys stay in the car, ok?

Jim opened his front door when I was halfway up the walk and said hello. I went in and scored some quick points by rubbing his cat the right way. He was holding on to a glass of white wine as if it were a life preserver and offered me a drink and a seat on the sofa. I sat down and asked for a glass of water, and when he came back, his cat was happily purring in my lap.

This seemed to convince him that I was an okay guy, and that was a good thing because he was extremely nervous. He looked very stiff (though I suppose that could have been his military carriage; he was just a few months shy of twenty years of service in the Air Force) and he kept talking about how nervous he was and how stressed he was. He also kept telling me what I nice guy I seemed like: he obviously needed to convince himself that this whole scene was okay. I mostly listened, stroked the kitty, asked simple questions, and gave simple replies to his questions. I was all about the non-threatening. (Which, again, is not much of a stretch. I find it much more of an effort to be threatening in situations where that will be helpful.) Eventually, he got up to get another glass of wine (his third, he said, and he was a man of slight build), and the cat jumped out of my lap. Then when he came back and sat down again, I told him to turn the other way, and I started to talk about tension and where it typically manifests itself in different parts of the body, demonstrating by lightly touching his neck, shoulders, and back.

He seemed okay with that, and he told me that it felt really good to be touched, so I kneaded his shoulders and neck for a bit longer, and he talked more about how difficult his job had been lately, and I murmured sympathetically, and he said "And they're saying I might have to go to Iraq."

Right about here I was thinking that I should have listened to Good Teddy because I was suddenly very sad and very much wanted to be somewhere else, but I wasn't raised that way, so I just said, "That's terrible. I'm so sorry." I guess that was the right thing to say because he relaxed a little bit, and after another minute or two, I asked him whether he wanted to go in the other room, and he said yes.

Truthfully, I was a little hesitant about getting him horizontal, but we'd been sitting in the living room, and it was cold in there, and he'd said the room for the massage was much warmer, and while I had some qualms about how he was going to react, my general preference for men without their clothing won out.

We went into a spare bedroom, where he had lit some candles. There was still a lot of light coming in from outside, so I drew the curtains. He asked whether everything was okay, and I told him it was. I asked him to get undressed while I went to the kitchen to get the oil, which he'd warmed slightly in the microwave. I took some time to run my hands under hot water and warmed the oil a little more so that he could get reasonably comfortable on the bed, and then I came back in.

He still had his glasses on, and I asked him if I could take them. He hesitated, but then he put them on the windowsill. He was still up on his forearms a bit, so I pushed gently on his shoulders so he would lie down, then I turned his head to the side so that it was flat on the pillow.

Then I oiled up my hands and started to work.

Considering how nervous and stressed he was, his back was really not all that tight. It was easy for me to get him physically relaxed within a couple of minutes. Mental relaxation was more elusive. He did, eventually, talk less, but the nervous chatter never entirely abated. If nothing else, he seemed to feel the need to tell me every thirty seconds how good I was making him feel. At first I just tossed it back to him with a "Good. That's how I want you to feel" or something similar, but then I just gave up. In another situation, I likely would have gotten impatient and told him to be quiet, but there is something about applying long, firm strokes to a guy's muscles that saps the impatience and tension out of me. And the more he talked me, the harder it was not to feel sorry for him. While I was still working his back I learned

  • that he had had three serious girlfriends, none of whom had worked out, and the last of whom ("she was in love with my credit card") he'd finished with about six years ago
  • that he had stopped going to family gatherings because he was tired of being asked when he was going to get married
  • that hetero sex had never done all that much for him
  • that on a couple of occasions, his married Air Force buddies had come on to him when they were drunk
  • that he jerked off "all the time"
  • that "all the time" meant twice a day
  • that he hadn't been touched by anyone in years
  • that he loved being touched

I am still not entirely sure what to make of Jim. When I was massaging him, I looked around the room, and I figured that he must have graduated from law school, and when I asked him, he confirmed that but said that what he did now was mainly administrative. I mention that only because it's hard for me to imagine that someone so well educated could be so naive about all matters sexual. I suppose that back when I was married and thought I was straight, I was somewhat naive, but I don't believe I ever achieved his level of cluelessness.

As an example, when I was just about done with his back, he told me that he needed "to go to the bathroom and urinate," and when I told him to go ahead, he got up and apologized for having an erection. And then he apologized for having very recently trimmed his pubic hair very short. He explained that I was the first guy who'd ever seen him with an erection or who'd seen him with trimmed pubes, and that he was worried that I would think it was gay. I explained to him, as gently as I could, that I was really not afraid of erect penises, trimmed pubes, or gay men, and that while I might very well be the first man to see him with wood, his was definitely not the first erection I'd seen. "But it is a very nice one," I added.

It was nice, too. Very average in terms of length and thickness, but it pointed straight up towards his face so that there was a straight line from his cockhead all the way down to his scrotum, which made it seem more substantial, especially against his very smooth body.

He seemed pleased, embarrassed, and somewhat incredulous that I thought he had a nice cock, but he came back and lay back down, and I got to work on his legs. He had thighs of steel. He told me that he used to run all the time, but that he'd gotten a herniated disk and that now his exercise was all on a bicycle. He was depressed about not being able to run, and he told me that as a result he'd started drinking a bit in the evening, and I suggested that drinking was not likely to help his depression, and he told me again what a nice guy I was.

I asked him to turn over, and I started to work on his temples. He had very soft hair, and I told him so: it seemed to make him happy. Then I started to massage his nipples and he told me that they were very sensitive. I had already figured that out from how perky they got when I rubbed them and from the little thread of precum that was leaking down onto his abdomen.

I poured a little pool of warm oil into his bellybutton and used that oil up and down his chest, working his nipples especially, and then running my hands down over his upper thighs. I sat behind his head and started to massage his arms and hands. Every so often, I would tell him something I noticed about his body, and he would be amazed. When I asked him whether he played an instrument, he asked me why, and I told him that he had musician's hands, and he told me that his grandmother used to say the same thing to him. When I told him that he was obviously right-handed, he was astounded: "You know so much about me!" He was facing away from me, so he couldn't see me roll my eyes, and I knew better than to say, "Dude. Even if one arm wasn't significantly bigger than the other, I could have said that to anyone and I'd be right ninety percent of the time."

Jim kept telling me how much he liked what I was doing to him and kept wondering what I was getting out of it -- and hoping that I was getting something out of it. I told him that I very much enjoyed massaging naked men. That's certainly true, but he said it so often that I started to wonder what I was getting out of it. But that's really never the right question when you're on the bed with a naked man. The right question is "Do I want to be here right now?" and in this case, the answer was clearly "Yes." Do my motives matter? Perhaps, but I'm pretty sure they weren't in any way malicious. I was definitely feeling sorry for him, and I was feeling needed, but I was also aroused.

There was something about massaging his hands that he found very intimate, and he started to talk more about how he felt abused by his job and isolated from his friends and, basically, that he was alone and lonely. I started to stroke his hair a little, and he told me that he had started to wonder who he would have to leave things to and how he had hoped to have children but that it seemed unlikely now. I turned him on his side and stretched out beside/behind him and wrapped my arms around him and held him very tightly and said, "You can still have children if you want. You can still do whatever you want: you just have to figure out what that is. You will be okay." I'm not sure any of that was really true, but it might be, and I mostly wanted to comfort him. Anyway, he seemed to believed me: I can be very convincing.

We stayed that way for a while, and he was quieter than he'd been, but he's definitely not the kind to just lie back and enjoy a moment. He kept telling me about how he'd been worried that this was gay, but that he didn't care any more because it felt good and how he hadn't been this relaxed in months or maybe years and so on and so forth. And I was able to just lie there and absorb it all because he felt pretty good in my arms, but then he told me that being held like this was kind of like regressing and being held by a parent, and I was all dude, you may look like a thirty-year-old twink who's spent a little too much time in the sun and got a few premature wrinkles, but you are only a couple years younger than I am, and the only people who are allowed to call me "Daddy" are my children. I didn't say any of that out loud, of course. Instead, I turned him on his back and started to play with his nipple with my left hand while my right hand stroked his cock. Regressing, indeed.

He pretty quickly grew the hell back up at that point and started talking about how much he loved what I was doing with his cock, along with how no man had ever seen him masturbate let alone jerk him off, along with how his buddies would be shocked if they could see this, along with "you won't tell them, will you?" I tugged on his balls some, and that really made him happy. It didn't shut him up, but I had stopped minding. Underneath all the insecurity and the pressure, he was a pretty decent guy, and I suppose that four decades of repression doesn't crumble without some noise.

Anyway, he was telling me (again) how good he felt, and I told him that I just hoped that he still felt this good after he'd shot his load, and he said, "Wow, you really do know me, don't you?" (Yeah, sweetie, you and every other soon-to-be-ex-straight guy in the world.) At some point, I got between his legs so that I could tug his nuts with one hand and stroke his cock with the other, and I was about to go down on him, when he asked me not to because "that would freak me out." So I didn't, but I did start to lick one of his nipples instead, and that produced an extra shot of precum.

I put him back on the side and wrapped one arm under him to play with the far nipple while the other hand stroked his cock, and I started to suck on the tops of his ears. That didn't freak him out, but it didn't do a whole lot for him, either, so I nuzzled the back of his neck, and he seemed to like that. I knew that kissing him was right out.

I had expected him to cum pretty quickly, but after a while he said that he always masturbated with Vaseline, and I asked him if he wanted some, and he leapt right out of bed to get it, handed me the container, and put his glasses on. I slicked him up well and when I started to twist my fist around his cockhead, his body got stiff and his legs spread out wide. His nuts had pulled up close to his body, and I thought that ejaculation was imminent, but while he was telling me more and more how "horny" he was, I wasn't quite able to pull his trigger. Not that we didn't both have a great time trying.

Finally, he took over, and I played with his nipples, while he stroked another half minute and pumped a huge load all over his chest and abdomen. I was pretty hard at that point, but I'd never taken off my pants, and every time his ass would press back against my cock, he'd scoot forward a little.

I had expected him to jump up and towel off and get that deer-in-the-headlights look, but he just lay there and told me that his heart was beating very hard, so I put my hand down in a puddle of semen and felt it. He finally seemed (relatively) relaxed, and we stayed in that position -- me on my side with my arms around him and my legs wrapped around his -- and talked for a good while. He asked a number of questions, and when I told him that most guys mostly wanted me to fuck them, he seemed so incredulous about the concept of anal sex generally, that I started to wonder a bit whether the whole thing was an act, but I eventually realized that he really was just that sheltered and clueless. And, kind of, sweet.

After I'd been there about 2.5 hours, in total, I mentioned that I probably did need to get going since YFU would be needing to be picked up in the next hour or so, and then he did leap right out of bed. He started apologizing and hoping he hadn't made me late, and I told him that I had my phone with me, and that I'd get a call before I needed to pick her up and that he really, really, really needed to stop worrying so much. He allowed that I was probably right.

He cleaned himself off, thanked me profusely, repeated yet again what a terrific a guy I was, hugged me a few times and saw me to the door. I got back in the car.

ET: Dude, you are so lame. Two and a half hours, and you didn't even fuck him.

RT: Some people would just say "hello."

GT: Don't listen to him. That wasn't lame; it was sweet. And he didn't want to be fucked.

ET: Oh please. Did you see his legs fly out? At least tell me that you're going to fuck him soon. Give that boy two years, and he'll be the biggest bottom in the uniformed services.

RT: Very likely, but I won't be the one to take him there.

GT: Because you have morals!

ET: Because you are lame.

RT: Maybe you're both right. Maybe it seems like it's more effort than it's worth. Maybe it's just that when that guy gives it up, it's going to rock his world, and I don't want to be the one to pick up the pieces.

GT: Maybe that's a mixed metaphor.

RT: Maybe.

ET: And kind of trite.

RT: Undoubtedly so.

GT: So are we happy or are we sad?

RT: We are happy that he had a good time and that we made someone feel better. We are sad that he might be going to Iraq. We are happy that we met a good person. We are sad that he is very fucked up. We are happy that he came like a geyser and that when we get home we will likely do the same.

ET: We are not amused by your use of the first person plural. And why you gotta think so much?

RT: Birds gotta swim, fish gotta fly, baby.

ET: Anyway, happy, sad, blah, blah, blah, the only question that really matters is, "Are we getting a cheeseburger?"

Oh, hell yes.

Saturday, March 24, 2007

Dinner Conversation

The scene: a dimly lit table in a Gotham speakeasy a booth in the suburban restaurant where they know us, last night, around 10:30.

B&c: How's work?

Teddy: I haven't killed anyone yet.

B&c: So, better than last year?

T: I said "yet." How's your fish?

B&c: Good.

T: You know that guy who's always out walking?

B&c: Who?

T: You know, the one that you'll see walking on Georgia Avenue all the way up past Aspen Hill and then again down on Connecticut in Kensington?

B&c: Oh, the really fit guy with the giant ponytail?

T: It's not a ponytail. It's a monolithic dreadlock. Or it was, anyway.

B&c: What do you mean "was"?

T: Dude cut his hair. The dread is gone, now it's just blond, curly, and not quite to his shoulders. He looks hot!

B&c: Is he still wearing the bright...

T: Yeah, hot pink shorts and an orange t-shirt. They go really well with that borderline insane aesthetic he's working.

B&c: You want him, don't you?

T: Well, sure, he stirs my loins, but how would I go about meeting him? Besides, it's bad karma to fuck crazy men.

B&c: How do you know he's even a bottom?

T: Dude. Don't bring around a cloud to rain on my parade.

B&c: Ok. So why is it bad karma?

T: It just is. Besides, if you fuck a crazy man, he's likely to attach himself to you, and then you can't get rid of him. Which is a problem, because he's crazy.

B&c: Poor Teddy. Always attracted to what you're afraid to have.

T: Yeah, yeah, my tragic life. Seriously, though, there's this really hot Tourette's case who hangs out in the Starbucks on the ground floor of my office building. He's there every day when I go in to get my mocha.

B&c: You mean your venti decaf skim no-whip mocha?

T: Bitch.

B&c: Thank you. It's a gift.

T: Anyway, he's there every afternoon, sitting at a table, reading the paper, listening to music with headphones and making his Tourette's noises.

B&c: And this is attractive because...

T: Because he looks like he's in his mid-thirties, but with gray streaks in his hair, which is very thick and moderately long, but always impeccably clean. Also, he's very fit, and fairly handsome, and you just know that if you fucked him, it'd be really loud. Plus, he twitches uncontrollably from time to time, and how hot would that be.

B&c: I thought guys already did that when you fucked them.

T: Good point. This guy would be hotter, though. I have this whole fantasy where some bleached-blonde Bethesda bimbo comes in and starts complaining about this guy, and I tell her off, and he's very grateful to me for rescuing him from the intolerance of others.

B&c: A mocha-wielding knight in shining armor. That's you, in a nutshell. Well, I suppose it could happen.

T: Nah. Nobody even bats an eye when he makes the noises or twitches. He's like a fixture there. If he's not there, it's like they've run out of Splenda.

B&c: Hmmm. Speaking of fixtures, Jerry asked me for advice about how to get rid of Van today.

T: He's tired of playing with him?

B&c: Well, you know how he is.

T: I've never had the pleasure, but as soon as he's ready to embrace his inner bottom...

B&c: I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you. He's, well, stubborn.

T: So what's the problem for Jerry?

B&c: I don't think it's a sexual problem. Van just always wants to talk about the same things and isn't all that interested in what other people want.

T: Like I said, embrace his inner bottom.

B&c: Oh give it up.

T: No, see, I want him to give it up.

B&c: You know what I mean.

T: But he's so cute.

B&c: Yeah, but he's a pain in the ass.

T: [meaningful stare]

B&c: Don't even say it.

T: I wasn't going to. It was too easy, even for me. Anyway, Miss Manners says that if you want to get rid of someone, the best way to go is the passive aggressive approach. Just refuse their invitations until they stop asking.

B&c: Yeah, I told Jerry to just stop taking his calls.

T: I've always thought that a short e-mail saying that you're not interested was the better approach, but I reckon you end up in the same place.

B&c: Anyway, I told Jerry that I knew someone else who's interested in him.

T: Oh? Who?

B&c: Ben, my Ph.D. buddy from Zaire.

T: The priest?

B&c: No, the other one. But I don't think Jerry's interested.

T: Really? Does he have a fear of big wood?

B&c: No. I think he just doesn't like black men.

T: Oh well: more for us.

Friday, March 23, 2007


Ah yes, readers, another misleading title. No underwear here. You can discuss among yourselves whether I mean that this post will not be about underwear or that no one's wearing any. I do love it when men go commando, though. Any time I'm going to be tying a guy to my bed, I tell him to arrive wearing jeans without underwear. If you drop those halfway down his ass and give him a few whacks with the belt... good times.

I am up to the tips of my ears in work right now, and that's where I'll remain for almost another month. Being at work at 8:30 on a Friday is bad enough, but knowing I'll be here for two more hours is worse. Adding further insult to injury is the fact that I just got an email telling me that the fulfillment house I just ordered some vintage porn from don't have it in stock and will have to order it from the distributor. They say six weeks. Egad. Fortunately, it was not the only porn I ordered this week. Or even the only porn I ordered yesterday. I have some hot French porn on order, thanks to a recommendation from Atari. With any luck, I should have spent my entire income tax refund on porn by the time busy season is over. (I have a way to go, though. Big refund this year.)

The back-ordered titles were two Danny Sommers flicks from the 90s. They would have originally been on something called videotape (for my younger readers), but they have now been transferred to DVD.

I was actually looking for a different title, which I believe also starred Danny Sommers. It was one of the first gay porn videos I ever owned, and it holds a very special place in my heart because I got it when I was first separated, back in the days when walking into the back of the video liquidator and going to the gay section was still something that frightened me. I think that this film was directed either by Jim Steele or by Chi Chi Larue, and it was about a married high school teacher who falls in love with a closeted military officer (Danny Sommers, I think). There was actually a plot, though it was mostly just a lot of hot sex, and the actors, well, they sucked, in all meanings of the word.

The film was something of an indictment of the Clinton Administration's DADT policy, though, again, mostly it was just a lot of hot sex. At the time I found it very touching, and I touched myself a lot while watching it.

Anyway, I hope to track this movie down soon. I am somewhat stymied when searching for porn titles at work by my office's content filters. Amazingly, though, the content filters don't keep me from getting onto and (when I have time) finding someone to hook up with. They are decidedly quirky. I cannot, for instance, go to or the malcontent (no great loss on that last one, really), but I can go here. Which I do. Daily.

Anyway, I will eventually be the proud possessor of two movies starring Danny Sommers, who, I am told, was the most popular porn bottom of the early nineteen nineties. I can certainly belive it.

He plays a gymnast in training in one of the films. How am I going to wait six weeks for that?

Thursday, March 22, 2007


One of the things that I like best about the times when b&c is out of town (aside from the unrestricted opportunity to chase men, of course) is falling asleep with the DVD player on. It's a throwback to my single days, when I did that all the time.

I used to have a lot of sleep issues. Some of these have to do with light: I have a terrible time staying asleep if there's any daylight in the room, and I go to considerable lengths to block it out. I don't give a flying fuck about how my window treatments (yes, "window treatments" is the appropriate term for several layers of heavy fabric thrown over a curtain rod and another heavy layer of fabric covering all that and tacked to the wall) look from either inside or outside of the bedroom, but if I wake up early on a Saturday morning because of the sun, I am one pissed-off motherfucker.

Mostly though, the sleep issues stemmed from NMS, or noisy mind syndrome. I think the way the medical literature describes NMS is "the inability to tell your brain to STFU," though it is possible that I'm paraphrasing. In any event, back in the day, if I tried to lay me down to sleep, I often couldn't because I would start thinking about stuff. I will spare you most of the details of my inner monologue, but I will say that at least these days I'm thinking mostly about sex. In those days, I was often thinking about Victorian literature and/or whether I still knew how to derive the quadratic equation. It turns out that with NMS, it is not enough to have derived the quadratic equation earlier that afternoon. You still have to get up and complete the square again that night/morning.

Anyway. While daylight and most other light from the outside made it impossible for me to sleep, the comforting flicker and glow from the TV wasn't a problem, and the images and sounds distracted me sufficiently so that I could fall asleep without running to the Internet to check whether the fundamental theorem of calculus had changed in the last forty-five minutes. Oh, shut up. It could happen. Did you ever think Pluto would suddenly stop being a planet?

I'd always pick a familiar movie. If I didn't know what was coming, I'd be too interested to go to sleep. And then I'd usually drop off within a few minutes of beginning to watch it. I'd often wake up again when it was over, especially if the DVD menu had annoying music on a loop, but by then I was usually tired enough that if I groped for the remote and hit off, I'd be able to fall right back to sleep.
(By the way, I hear that a lot of people who have trouble sleeping use masturbation as a sleep aid. I don't get that. Jerking off gets me all worked up and alert. It's a great way to start the day, when I have time, but soporific? Not so much. Though I will say that one of the great pleasures of tax season is that I'm so tired that I can crank out a load and still fall to sleep. Score. Generally, though, if you need to sleep, you're much better off with sex with a real boy. It's easy to drift off when you've got somebody warm to hold onto. Especially if you've just fucked a load out of him.)

I mention all of this primarily because within the past few days, I've watched two movies that are excellent to fall asleep to. Sadly, I didn't purchase them with that in mind, but lemons, lemonade, whatever, right? The first was Gone But Not Forgotten, an American film about amnesia and park rangers. You must be thinking that a gay film about those topics cannot help but be hot, but in this, reader, you are mistaken. The movie is predictable, somewhat amateurish, and depressingly void of down-and-dirty. There is one semi-explicit sex scene, which -- don't let the cover fool you -- does not take place out of doors. If you're planning to jerk off to this scene, you won't want to dawdle: it doesn't last all that long. I will say that both of the male leads (hot guys in their thirties) are men that I'd happily fuck. Preferably both at the same time. The movie does have a certain sweetness to it, but it's the kind of sweetness you get when you absent mindedly put too much Splenda in your latte. Not that it's ever happened to me, of course. By the way, if you're looking for this movie, be aware that there is another movie of the same name. Presumably, that Gone But Not Forgotten doesn't have any gay sex at all, which, sadly, wouldn't distinguish it very much from the one I saw.
Comme un Frere is a French film that clocks in at just under an hour, a time that is entirely appropriate since it's pretty much an unrated After School Special. Almost everything about this movie -- beginning but not, alas, ending with the main character's ass -- is depressingly shallow. At the end of this movie, if you're still awake, you're likely to find yourself saying, "so what?" or, if you're culturally aware, "et alors?"
Most stories of young gay love deal with situations that are vastly removed from my own experience; nonetheless, most of them are very compelling. How hard is it for a story about a young man experiencing his first love and/or sex with another young man to be compelling? Harder than I thought, apparently. The biggest problem here is that the main character is unattractive. Not physically unattractive, emotionally unattractive. He's very detached: at every moment, you are half expecting him to say "Aujourd'hui, Maman est morte. Ou peut-etre hier, je ne sais pas." And because of this distance, all of the sexual energy between him and various other men (any one of whom I would happily eat with a spoon) falls flat. The situation is not helped any by the fact that he's very inexperienced, so he's (appropriately) bumbling in the sex scenes. There are, at least, a few of those, and in most of them, he ends up being fucked by someone with a very nice ass, so you can imagine that the hottie is the meat in your sandwich. Or you can just lust after his straight best friend, if you're into that sort of thing. I'm not, but the guy in question is very cute, and you can probably interpret the film to be saying that his sexuality is at least slightly ambiguous, so go for it.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

My So-Called Stalker

I don't mean to make light of stalking: I'm sure that some of you (because I know that some of my readers are young and cute, and, of course, you're ALL fabulous) have probably had real stalkers who've caused you real problems. All I've got is some weird-o Texan who calls me every day, forcing me to open my desk drawer and press "Silence" on my cell phone. I know that doesn't sound like much, but it's an ancient cell phone (three years old, I reckon), and the battery runs down pretty quickly, so, um, yeah, so it's not really much of a problem, is it?

The whole incident started innocently enough. B&c was out of town somewhere (NYC, maybe, or Denver, I can't really remember) and I'd already jerked off a couple of times that morning, so I wanted something a little more than that, but I wasn't really in the mood to deal with a full-blown (so to speak) hook up, so I hopped on ye olde and looked for some phone sex.

I'm aware that phone sex isn't for everyone, but I have a long history with it. Back in the days when I was still married (though no longer having sex with my wife) it was how I made my first tentative forays into the world of m2m eroticism. And before I ever met the first man I fell in love with (I really must start calling him TFMIFILW, except that I don't have all that much more to say about him) in person, he and I would spend a lot of time on the phone, and during some of that time, we'd both be naked and, eventually, covered in cum. Or, at least, I was generally naked. Unbeknownst to me, TFMIFILW was still living with his wife, so he'd sometimes call me on his cell from his car. He'd cum in his jeans, while still driving. That was awesome.

Over time, I acquired and developed other outlets for sexual expression, and phone sex became a rare experience. But every once in a while it seems like the path of least resistance, and I'll talk to a few guys on the phone. It usually takes a few because with a lot of guys I only have to talk about shoving them up against the wall and kissing them hard and forcing them down on their knees, and they've shot before I've even shoved my virtual cock in their virtual mouth and then the line goes dead and because it's a cell phone, I don't even know right away that they've hung up, and I feel silly for a moment, but then I go back to the computer, and there are a couple more guys wanting me to call them and tell them that I'm going to leave their nipples sore for a week. (This, of course, is a total exaggeration, because even when I chew hard on a guy's nipples for an extended period of time, he's usually right as rain in three or four days. Five days, tops.)

So anyway, I chat for a bit with this guy from Austin, and he calls, and he's pretty good. He's no pushover, and he talks a good game about wanting to top me before I flip him and eat his ass and then pound him long and hard until we both come at the exact same time. I mean, none of that actually happens, of course. What really happens is that we both lie on our beds and jerk off while I provide a compelling narrative and he plays along, and then the porn that I'm watching on mute gets to a really hot part, and I shoot a nice big load while keeping my voice relatively level so that I can pretend to be cumming when I hear that he's either cumming or pretending to be cumming. But still, it's a lot of fun, and I end up covered with cum, and when he says that he wants to do it again, I tell him to look for me online, and we'll play some more. But he means he wants to do it again right then, and he starts asking me a lot of questions about guys I've fucked and about my partner and all that, and it's kind of hot because he has this delicious Texas redneckish accent that I just love. (I love all accents, but I especially love whatever accent I'm hearing at the moment the twangy ones.) So I give him some more of my time and I pump out another load, and I tell him he can email me if he wants to keep in touch, and then I get up and take a shower and go do some errands. (It was long enough ago that I had time to do errands, so that means January, which probably means that b&c was in NYC, not that it matters.)

So the next day, I'm at the office, and my phone rings with a number that I don't recognize, and I pick it up and say hello, and it's AustinBoy, and he wants to play. I tell him it's not a good time and say I can call him back after 5, but he says he'll call me. Then, when I'm in the car, on the way to pick up the kids, the phone rings, and it says "Private Number," and I pick it up, and it's AB again, and now he REALLY wants to play. I'm driving, and I've never been very good at having sex while I'm driving, but I figure I can put the conversation on auto-pilot and he can have a good time. So we talk about baseball and the weather erections for a while, and he keeps trying to say that he wants me to sit on his erection, and I keep telling him that I'd flip him over and make him squeal like a stuffed pig (one that's still alive, presumably; God knows where I come up with these similes, but it seemed appropriate at the time, and AB didn't complain) and so on and so forth.

As it happens, phone sex is the only area where I'm semi-versatile. And by "semi-versatile," I mean that every once in a great while, I'll pretend to be the bottom, which, as it happens, is relatively enjoyable for me if I'm pretending so that I don't actually have to fit a cock up my ass. I don't do it often, though, because it's mostly enjoyable as a novelty. Besides, if I'm phone bottoming, I end up screaming a lot (it's easier than making up descriptions of how good it feels), and it's bad for my voice.

But I had no interest whatsoever in phone versatility with AB, so I got him off as quickly as possible and then I hung up and went home and had some real sex.

That was the last time I said more than three words to AB, but it was certainly not the last time he called me. Lately, it's only been once or twice a day, but for the first few weeks, he was calling (and I was not answering) multiple times a day. People would hear the phone ring and ask me why I wasn't answering, and I'd either say "Oh, it's just my stalker" (if it was b&c asking) or I'd explain that I don't answer when the phone says "private number." "But what if it's important?" Well, they'd leave a message, wouldn't they? AB has left precisely two messages. The first one was about a month after the last time we talked, and it just said that he wanted to play again. The second one was about a week after that, and he said, "Hey. It looks like I'm pregnant. We need to figure out what we're going to do about that." At least he has a sense of humor.

In general, I don't believe that you have no obligation of politeness to someone you've tricked with. If the guy emails you and says he wants you to fuck him again, it's kinder and easier (in the long run) to email him back and say that you aren't interested. But someone you've talked with on the phone twice and gotten off three times really shouldn't expect some sort of continuing relationship. I mean, I know I'm amazing on the phone, but come on. Am I the only rich-voiced, articulate, incredibly sexy bass top out there? And even if I am, wouldn't six or more weeks of my not answering your calls make you stop trying? Or at least try something different? AB has my email address, after all. (But not my real name, home phone, or physical address, thank God. Then it might not be funny.)

Maybe it would be easier if I'd just pick up the phone once and say, "Dude. What the fuck? Stop calling me," but he almost always calls when I'm at work (partly because I'm almost always at work, but he tends to call around the same time every day, and I suspect that's when he's on the way home from his job to his wife and/or partner and/or dungeon full of phone sex operators) or when someone else is around, and I just don't feel like dealing with it. Besides, he really does know how to work the twang, and if I talk to him, I might end up giving him what he wants, and then I'd have to change my phone number to get rid of him.

Or continue to have phone sex with him on a regular basis. And that way lies madness. Before you know it, he'd want a phone-commitment, and I wouldn't be able to phone-fuck other men. Then he'd want us to be phone-partners, or, worse, phone-married. And while I certainly support equal phone-marriage rights for all people, I just don't know the etiquette. I presume that you send out an evite, but where do you register?

Modern life, eh?

Monday, March 19, 2007

Papa Was a Porn Writer

I was checking my stats the other day. This is a new blog, and while I get the occasional comment (yay!), I wonder whether anyone's wasting his precious time reading my prattle. Anyway, I noticed a number of visitors who were coming here from Cooper, so I surfed over to his site (which I do twice a day, anyway, to see whether he's updated and to drool over appreciate his pictures: shaved heads, yum), and I saw that he'd put up a link to me. In his pornography links. My initial thought (where "initial" means following close upon "Mmmmm, Cooper"; "Hey, you can post links to other blogs! I should post links to other blogs. I read blogs. How do I post links? What the hell is a sidebar, anyway? Ooooh, shiny objects. What was I thinking about?"; and "Mmmmmm, Cooper") was "Holy Falcon Studios, Batman! After all these years, I am finally NSFW! Go me!"

[By the way, I'm afraid there's not going to be a lot of writing about actual sex in this entry. I spent most of the weekend (the part that didn't involve me working or having friends over for dinner, that is) in a sleep-deprived haze after I was kept up all Saturday night by an intense but short-lived illness of mysterious origin, the further details of which are the opposite of sexy. Long story short(er): my already tenuous relationship with sticking to the point is undergoing a (hopefully temporary) separation. In case you're wondering, while I was unable to sleep Saturday night, I watched the John Cameron Mitchell DVDs that I ordered last week. They were great and helped distract me, but it does seem a shame to watch Shortbus when you're in too much pain to jerk off. So I watched it again Sunday, and jerked off.]

For a brief, shining moment perhaps eight or ten years ago, I was a real, honest-to-God pornographer. I had a story published in Torso. It was about having sex in the laundry room of an apartment building. It was called "Spin Cycle," and my nom de plume was Dakota North. I still think that "Dakota North" was the best name ever made up to write porn under, and part of me wishes that I'd been more persistent in following up my, um, maiden effort. I did get a letter from Guys (I think I have that right, but I'm not 100% sure) saying they were going to buy a different story, but I never saw it in print, and I certainly never got a check for it, so I think that they changed their mind.

I got such a trifling sum ($100) for "Spin Cycle," that I just didn't see the point in writing more, especially after my third effort got its first rejection. The editor said that it "failed to convince" (though, really, I suspect that maybe he'd just had one too many to drink before attempting to jack off to it). It's likely that if I'd been a bit more savvy about the business, I could have gotten more money for my work. I subsequently hooked up with a part-time pornographer (his other job was writing history textbooks) in the Baltimore suburbs, and he told me that if I'd had an agent, I'd have gotten a lot more. He said that he would write up our encounter (I suspect he would change the details. He shot his load after I'd been chewing on his nipples and yanking his nuts for less than ten minutes, and then he spent the rest of the time apologizing to me and offering me donuts. I declined: God only knows where those donuts had been.) and that he'd probably net about $800 for it. He told me that he wanted to play another time and that he'd give me some more info about agents and such, but then he never returned my calls. I don't know whether he was afraid that I'd want a cut of the money from his next article or he was just offended by my refusing his donuts. (It is important to me that you understand that when I say I refused his donuts, I mean that he had actual, literal donuts [assorted varieties] in his apartment and that I declined to eat them. I am not talking about some weird anal sex scene that I declined. I am all about the euphemisms, but I am not using one just now.)

Anyway. Before my glorious porno career was cut short by the combined cheapness of publishers and fickleness of submissives, I spent a fair amount of time thinking about gay porn, in ways both general and specific. I purchased a number of relevant publications and analyzed the stories for form and content. It was apparent to me from the outset that with porn, you were dealing not with art but with product, and the best way to succeed commercially was to determine and follow the formula. Thus, I spent a lot of time counting words, paragraphs, and sex scenes to figure out how they worked. I developed a list of synonyms for various acts and pieces of male anatomy. It was tedious and mechanical in the same way that a lot of actual porn is tedious and mechanical. And, for that matter, in the same way that sex can be tedious and mechanical if you have the misfortune to be having it with someone who fucks by formula.

I have more to say on this topic, but it will have to wait for a time when I'm less fatigued and when I can say it in a way that doesn't bore myself. It really does please me to be called a pornographer, as long as I can remain anonymous. I don't think my kids would be especially pleased to find out. Though, now that I think about it, my older daughter (almost all of her male friends are gay) did once ask me whether I'd be willing to buy some porn for her underage gay friends who were too shy to get it for themselves. When I started shrieking "OH MY GOD YOU DID NOT JUST ASK ME THAT!!! TELL THEM TO GET IT OFF THE INTERNET LIKE EVERYONE ELSE," she just rolled her eyes and said, "Geez, Dad. You could have just said 'no'."

Fortunately, it's is a secret that's easily buried. Unlike arcane baseball statistics, pornography disappears after a few years. You can't find the particular Dakota North who was I by Googling. Somebody probably still has a copy in a basement somewhere, but the only solid evidence that he and I are the same person is probably buried within the mountain of documents that were filed during my divorce proceedings. From the distance of this many years, the memory of my ex-wife's attorney asking me about my second career during the deposition is mostly funny. He couldn't quite bring himself to use the word "pornography," so I had to say it for him.

Maybe I should buy him a subscription to Torso. And have it sent to his office.

Saturday, March 17, 2007


After days of unseasonably warm weather, a winter storm moved in yesterday, just in time to make the roads icy for the evening commute, resulting in five different guys calling within ten minutes to tell me that they had to cancel for dinner last night. Wimps. There were two other guys who I could only reach by email. I was pretty sure that they wouldn't venture out (the roads were pretty bad, I guess, and there were a lot of traffic incidents), but I emailed them when I got home to make sure, and I was right. That still left two guests: one who lives less than a quarter mile away and one who works way over in Northern Virginia and who I figured might be coming directly from work and probably wouldn't get the message I'd left him.

And, hell, I'd already made all the food, so I started heating things up and figured that if the last two guys couldn't make it, then b&c and I could drown our sorrows in chili and beer. Or chili and wine. Or chili and martinis. As it happened, they both made it, and it was a great evening. I drank wine while I was cooking, then switched to a martini while we were standing around the kitchen talking and then beer with dinner.

Dinner was a little comical. I'd cooked for a crowd, and we had our table open all the way with the leaves inserted. If it hadn't been for the weather, there would probably have been eleven or twelve of us, and we couldn't have all eaten at the table, probably, but with four, we could have all passed out on the table without touching each other. Nobody did, though, not even A., who had three or four of my martinis as well as some wine and a small glass of Port with dessert. That boy can hold his liquor.

[Just so you know, the way I make a martini is to drain a big jar of olives and then add some lemon zest to the olives and then fill the whole jar with Vermouth. I keep a bottle of Tanqueray in the deep freezer. I take a toothpick and spear three of the olives on it, then I drop that in a martini glass, and then I pour the gin over it. So basically, you're drinking below-zero gin and eating olives. Best martini ever.]

So we ate and sat around and talked about sex for four hours. We talked about everything, but all topics should and do lead back to sex. It's really too easy with four people, but I like to draw little mental maps of who's had sex with whom at any party. So there were b&c, C., A., and I. Obviously I have sex with b&c frequently. C. and I just met a couple of weeks earlier, and we've had sex, but only once. I've had sex with A. a number of times, and he, b&c and I, had a threeway once. C. and A. were meeting for the first time last night, but C. was -- verbally -- all over A., and while I doubt they hooked up after dinner last night (they left after midnight, and C. had to be at work early this morning), I'm pretty sure that within a week they will have hooked up. Still, as of last night, I was the only one there who'd had my hands in the spunk of each of the others. Go me.

[Late update: I asked b&c tonight whether he'd noticed how C. seemed to be really into A., and he agreed that it was a surprise that C. had managed to restrain himself from leaping across the table and taking A. over coffee. As it happens, he nearly did: I just got an email from A. saying that after they left here, they went back to C.'s place. ]

I was thinking during dinner that it probably wouldn't have been that hard to get everyone into bed together, but I was too tired, full, and inebriated, so that my mind was all horny, and my body was all "Dude, you are not getting out of this chair." Besides, I would have needed a shower. And I'm not sure that I'm ready to get that much of a reputation. Yet. Maybe sometime soon, though. It would have been two tops, one vers/bottom, and one bottom, and it could have been pretty hot, especially since I know what pushes all their buttons.

I think that's it for my social life for another month. I'll still be doing some limited hooking up, but it's work, work, work, work, work from here until the tax deadline. No time, and I'm a bundle of hormones. I might have to start jerking off in the shower.

Friday, March 16, 2007


I finally reconnected with S., my young (compared to me), thin (compared to most everyone), super-sweet (compared to anybody) Indian massage buddy last night. We'd been trying for a while, but schedules weren't meshing, and I was beginning to wonder if maybe he was too shy for a second meeting, especially after he e-mailed late Wednesday to say that the guy installing his carpet was going to be coming by Thursday evening, so he wasn't sure it would be a good time after all. But he did finally e-mail me again last night to say that the carpet guy was gone and to ask whether I could still come over. So I told him 9:00, which gave me time to finish up some more work and then head over.

I realized as I was headed out of the office that my fingernails were too long for me to be probing his ass, so I made a quick stop at CVS to get some clippers and emery boards. I should have these in my car at all times, and I used to, but late last year, after years of exemplary driving (really), I wrecked my car, and when I went to the junkyard to clean it out, I somehow forgot a few things.

So, anyway, I clip the nails, and then I'm driving up Wisconsin Ave, filing my nails like I'm a housewife of Orange County or something, feeling entirely ridiculous but at the same time getting worked up thinking about my fingers in his ass. His very tight, very pretty ass.

I get to S.'s place, and I wrap my arms around him and start to kiss him, and he's very shy but he's responding, all at the same time. Damn, but that boy has lips. So we do that for a little while, and then we head for the spare bedroom, so I can give him a massage. He apologizes for the state of his house (the old carpets have all been pulled up, and everything's been taken off the walls in preparation for whatever work he's having done; I note the bare wood floors and hope that he's not going to cover them back up with wall-to-wall, but my mind is really elsewhere), but he's got a bed, and there's a chair with a towel and the baby oil, and what else do I need?

He leaves and comes back in his boxers and lies down on the bed. I start to rub his back a little, but it's very warm, and that makes me realize my hands must be cold, so I excuse myself, head to the bathroom, and run some hot water that I put my hands and the baby oil bottle into. Then I head back and get to work on him.

He's a lot more relaxed this time around, and he asks me about my party. I'd invited him to dinner the next night (which is now tonight). I work all kinds of hours at this time of year, and I still have my normal family obligations, and my social life usually takes a two-month nap, but this year I said screw it I'm going to invite my friends to dinner and make a big pot of chili and some sides and buy some desserts (which I would normally only make myself) and get a bunch of beer and wine and make some of my amazing martinis, and we'll all have a great time on Friday night, and then I'll be back in the office at 7:30 am on Saturday, and maybe I'll be exhausted, but at least I'll be happy. So while I'm working S.'s neck and back, I tell him that it'll just be very casual and a bunch of good guys and ask whether he's coming, and he says that he'd really like to but that he doesn't drive and he'd be happy to take a cab there, but he'd worry about getting home.

I'm working on his lower back, on the left side, now, and I know that's a problem area for him, but he's really enjoying the massage, so I don't say much, but my mind's working while I'm oiling him up and sliding the waistband of his boxers halfway down his very tight, very pretty ass, and I come up with a solution, and it makes me smile, and I tell him that I'm pretty sure I can get him a ride home, but we can discuss it later, and I'm not sure he's listening any more, anyway, because he's purring a little.

I knead his buttocks really well, and then I run my index finger down to his asshole and play around the outside for a bit and then put the fingertip up against it. With my other hand, I dribble some oil onto the top of his ass crack, and it runs down and makes a little puddle where my index finger dams it up. I press a little and my finger goes in, and it's very tight, and I can tell he likes it, and I take my other hand and work that problem area on his lower back while my index finger hunts down his prostate. After a little bit of that, I decide to work his legs, so I get more oil, and I work down his thighs and calves and then, one at a time, I massage his feet, which he really likes. Then I run my hands back up and get into some more serious ass play. Index finger first, then middle finger, but when I put them both together, it's already more than he can take, and I'm thinking "this boy is too sweet and too tight for me to ever fuck." With time and persistence, I'm sure I could get around the tight part, but I decided right then that I probably don't want to get around the sweet part. There are plenty of slutty bottoms out there for me to fuck. I'll leave fucking S. to his (as yet nonexistent) boyfriend, who hopefully will be someone like me, only five years younger, and with a much thinner cock.

But S. was enjoying the single finger and the rubdown, and there's way more to sex than fucking, so I told him to roll over on his back, and I took off my pants (but not my boxers) and lay down next to him and we started to make out. Damn, but that boy can kiss. I was flicking my thumb over one of his nipples and feeling his very full, very soft lips dance with mine, and it was just heaven. And you know that moment when you're with a guy and he's having a good time but he's still a little bit guarded and then suddenly the last bit of his defensiveness melts away and his whole body simultaneously relaxes and engages you as he surrenders to pleasure? Yeah, that happened, and, well, wow.

So we stayed that way, his arms around me, our lips playing, my hands working his small-but-perky nipples for a while, and then I started to play with his cock. Mmmmm, small dick. I love it. After a few minutes of that, I grabbed his hand and put it on my cock, and he held it lightly and stroked it, which I liked even more than I usually do. Then I spread his legs and started to finger his hole again, and then I told him to turn back over (I got rid of my boxers), and I spread his cheeks and started to eat his very tight, very pretty (and very clean) ass. He wasn't, I think, expecting that, but I'd been looking forward to it for days, and he loved it. He is, by nature, not demonstrative in bed, but where before I'd had to infer his enjoyment from the (very clear) reaction of his body, he now vocalized his excitement, and that really got me going. After some protracted tonguing of various degrees of intensity, I ran the tip of my tongue up his back to his neck and started to lick his ear while my very hard cock played between his nuts and his asshole.

He was moaning now, and I kept alternating between kissing his ear and kissing the back of his neck as I readjusted my cock so that the head was right up against his asshole. I pressed a little bit, and he said, "Ted, no" very softly, and I laughed a little and said, "Don't worry. I'm not going to enter you. I would never fuck you without a condom, and I don't think there's any way this cock would fit inside that ass, even if I wanted to." So he relaxed and enjoyed feeling my cock rub him, but after less than a minute of that, I told him to roll back over. I was ready to finish him off.

We went back to kissing, and I grabbed his cock and started stroking. I was going pretty slowly because I knew that's all it would take, and after a couple of minutes, I decided to suck on one of his nipples. A minute of that had him really worked up, and he said, "Ted, I think I'm going to cum," and I said, "Well, I sure as hell hope so," and then I kissed him and kept stroking him. He jerked a little, and the semen began to flow. I kept stroking until he had a nice load on himself, and then I grabbed the towel and started to mop him up, kissing him all the while.

I held him for a bit longer and told him that I was going to call a friend about a ride for him, then I picked up the cell and left a message to that effect with my buddy G. G. is the living proof that it is, indeed, possible for me to have a gay male friend whom I've never had sex with. (In fact, I have many. Or at least several. Or at least two.) Then I embarrassed S. by telling him how nice various parts of his body are and by telling him that he was going to be the cute young thing at my dinner/party and how he was exactly the kind of guy that G. goes for in a big way. I'm sure that S. was now blushing furiously, but one of the many reasons that I'm jealous of men with dark skin is that they can blush all they want, and it doesn't show.

I got dressed and got in the car and G. called me back, and I told him that the guy I wanted him to give a ride to was a cute, young, Indian schoolteacher, and I'm pretty sure I heard him salivating. G. is a terrific guy. He's in his mid-fifties, but he looks more like mid- to late-forties, and he mostly goes for guys about half his age. S. is actually a bit old for him, at thirty-two or thirty-three, but if you met him, you'd think he was at most twenty-five (it's the smooth dark skin and the shyness), so he's just right for G. And since G. already has a boyfriend (who lives in NYC, though), he'll be entirely happy to just fool around with S. without any butt sex. And I'll probably get to keep giving S. massages with happy endings. Everybody wins.

I felt GREAT after playing with S., so I ran off to the supermarket and then home, where I made the cole slaw. I mixed it with my hands, and my fingertips stung a little from the close clipping I'd given them. They're still a little sensitive today, and that's a very nice physical reminder of where they've been.