A Conversation with the EFU

Today, on a Very Special Episode of The Neighbors Will Hear, I recount a conversation with my eighteen-year-old daughter, aka EFU (aka world's biggest fag hag). I apologize for the lack of filth. There was filth in the last entry, and there'll be more filth in the next entry.

The scene: Teddy has picked up EFU from her mother's house, and they are on their way home.

Teddy: How was your weekend?
Elder Filial Unit: I did a lot of stuff.
T: Did you have fun?
EFU: Yeah, some of it was fun.
T: Am I allowed to know details?
EFU: Well, on Friday night, I went with D. to the gay dance at Churchill.
T: Wouldn't the point of a gay dance be for him to go with a guy?
EFU: Apparently I'm more fun than other gay men.
T: If you only knew how true that is.
EFU: And then on Saturday, I went to Youth Pride with the RYA [Rainbow Youth Alliance].
T: I see. Were there any heterosexual-related activities?
EFU: No. There never are.
T: Well, I'm sure you'll meet some suitable straight guys at college. What's the male-female ratio?
EFU: I think it's 60-40 female-to-male. And half the guys are gay. I'm doomed. I may as well keep hanging with my gay peeps.
T: I guess. But maybe you'll get lucky and meet a nice straight boy who hangs out with lesbians.
EFU: A girl can dream.

Sling, Slang, Slung

So I guess you really do learn something new every day.

I, for example, was under a complete misapprehension as to what it means to "milk" someone. (I do, however, understand exactly what it means to milk a dairy animal, so if you were about to explain that to me, there's really no point. I have a fair number of relatives who are farmers.) I had thought that milking typically involved restraining a guy and then masturbating him to orgasm and continuing to stroke him after he had ejaculated so that all his ejaculate was gone.

Not so.

Milking aka prostate massage apparently involves draining the seminal fluid (known to us common folk as precum) by rubbing the prostate. As you can see from the aforementioned links (and more: just google "prostate milking"), there is some ambiguity as to the eventual goal of milking, but the technique appears to be relatively well defined.

Lest you think that I sit at my computer all day and research sexual variations (not that it wouldn't be a sweet job if I could get funding for it), let me explain that I was chatting with a sub with whom I play from time to time, and he asked me if I knew about milking and whether I was willing to milk him.

This guy is something of a demanding bottom, though I suppose that's as much my fault as his. After all, if I said, "fuck no" to any of his requests, it's not like he'd refuse to put out. And he does do pretty much anything I ask, within certain broad limits. (As with almost every sub I know, his limits are a lot less restrictive than my own.) But I often gratify his requests, if only so that I can say that I've done something.

Anyway, I wasn't sure that I was right about milking, so he gave me a url which wouldn't pass the office's content filter. So he emailed me the information from this page, and then it all made sense. This guy's first request is almost always that I don't let or make him cum during the session. When I'm in a petulant mood, I punish him by shoving a dildo in his ass and pounding hard until he shoots. I don't reckon that he's too upset about that since he invites me back. Besides, whether I deny him an orgasm or I deny denying him an orgasm, he's still being denied either way, so he's happy. I really can't say that I empathize with the mindset of a submissive, but I reckon that I understand it, at least on an intellectual level.

This guy proposed having "a buddy" install him almost entirely in his sling before I got there. (I'm pretty sure that means he does it himself.) Then when I arrived, the door would be unlocked. I'd lock it behind me, restrain his free hand in the sling, milk him, and fuck his holes.

I haven't always had the greatest experience with this guy's sling. It's because I'm short. Well, sort of. I'm six feet even, but I have the body of a guy who's 6'4 and the legs of a guy who's 5'8. (I hasten to add here that I don't think of 5'8 as short, or, at least, that I find guys of that size almost unbearably sexy. Though I suppose the same could be said for guys ranging from 5'4 to 6'9. I'd go farther, but I don't think I've ever fucked anyone taller than 6'9.) The last time I was there, I'd told him to three-quarters tie himself to the bed, but I told him he could have the sling set up and we'd move him to the sling after I'd fucked him on the bed. But he'd set the sling up for someone of my height, so I had to stand on my toes to fuck him, and it was kind of tedious and tiring. I managed by grabbing onto the top of the sling and sort of hoisting myself higher, but it's hard to fuck like that for long, and, frankly, this guy's not so tight that I'm likely to cum without fucking him for a long time.

Anyway, I told him he could be in the sling, but he had to set it lower than before, and after we negotiated the correct height, I gave him a time that I'd show up. Miraculously, I found a parking space near his home (he lives right on Logan Circle) and made it in time.

I hadn't bothered to give this guy the usual instructions this time around. I always tell him to be naked except for a blindfold or hood, and I assumed that he'd remember, but when I got there, he was hooded, but he was strapped into the sling, wearing some camouflage boxers (with the bottoms cut to allow easy access to his hole) and a gray ribbed tank. I was a bit annoyed because I'd planned on taking a picture of him in the sling, but the room was probably too dark to get a decent picture anyway. And, after all, I could still reach underneath the tank and pinch his nipples hard. He also had his ball gag in (he lives in mortal fear that I'm going to insist on kissing him), and he was wearing some white ankle socks that weren't all that clean. They didn't smell all that great, and that was a bit of a nuisance to me, but I decided to go with the moment. He is, after all, an eager and fun fuck, and he never complains about hard nip or nut work. Or if he does, he's got the gag in, and I can't tell.

He was, comme d'habitude, already lubed, and I'd trimmed my nails on the way, so (after securing his free hand) I grabbed the DVD remote and started the porn that he'd cued up on his massive TV, and I pushed a finger in and started to rub it around the periphery of his prostate. Every once in a while, I'd hit the center of the prostate pretty hard, and his body would go rigid, and the chains in his sling would rattle, and he'd make some sort of noise.

After four or five minutes of this, I'd gotten a lot of incoherent moaning through the gag, but I wasn't seeing much precum, so I pulled the gag out and replaced it with my cock. Naturally, since I was now at the other end of the sling, I couldn't easily massage his prostate, but I could tweak his nips pretty hard and rock him back and forth on the sling, sending my cockhead in and out of his throat. That did get the precum flowing, and it was fun besides, so I kept that up for a while. When I'd swing him too hard, my cock would come out of his mouth, but he'd root around for it hungrily, so I assume he was having a good time, too.

I guess that the head pulled back position gets tiring after a while, and he asked, between gasps for air, if I could come around to the side where it'd be easier for him to suck me. Ever the gentleman, I complied, and started bumping into him and swinging him from side to side rather than back to front.

When we were having our milking discussion, he'd said that some people use ice to keep the bottom from cumming when he's being milked. Accordingly, he'd laid out a small bowl of ice. It was the half-moon shaped ice that comes out of home freezers with ice makers. While I was fucking his face from the side, I grabbed one of those pieces of ice and rubbed it on his nuts and then around his hole. That made him moan some more, which was nice for my cock. Finally, I took the piece of ice and pushed it inside his ass and left it there. There was a lot of noise when I did that, but since I kept my cock in his mouth, I couldn't really be sure what he was trying to say. I decided it was easiest to assume that it was "thank you, sir!"

He had most of his toys out, and I grabbed a dildo that I'd probably call a silver bullet. It was metal with a handle, and I rammed that against his knob for a while, which caused a lot more muffled exclamation. But the silver bullet falls out if you don't hold it in, and I was tired of holding it, so I found a more flexible rubber dildo with a handle on one end and a rubber ball on the other. It did a good job of bumping up against his prostate, but it also stayed in when I let the handle drop. Unless I pinched his nipples really hard, and then it would plop out and I'd have to reinsert it.

I left the ball-ended dildo hanging out of his ass and started fucking his face from the end again. It was fun, but I'd already been there almost forty minutes, and it was clear that he wasn't going to get totally milked, and we'd arranged for me to be gone within an hour (B&c was coming back from Mexico City that evening, and I had to get over to Lambda Rising and buy him a pornographic birthday card), so I figured it was time for me to fuck him. I put on a condom and lubed it up a little then stepped up to his ass and slid in. Fortunately, he'd set the sling to the right height (and the ice cube had fully melted), and he never really requires (or wants) a gradual entry, so I pushed right in and started to plow. I pushed forward a few inches so that gravity would bring him back towards me, and then I stood still and pushed the chains forward so that I could fuck him without moving much. He started moaning more loudly (the gag was back in) and nodding his head up and down. Every so often I'd grab his cock for a few seconds (he never gets soft when he's in the sling) and stroke him just to make him think that I might make him cum, and occasionally I'd just rub my finger tip against his frenulum to make him writhe, but mostly it was just a nice, hard, rhythmic fuck.

When I was at the fifty-five minute mark, I knew that I wasn't going to blow a load within the hour by fucking him, so I pulled out, pulled off the condom, lay down on his bed, and stroked while watching the porn. He couldn't see me, and I stayed pretty quiet, but he must have known I was still there since he would have heard the bedroom door open if I'd left. I got pretty close pretty quickly, so I stood back next to him, made a little bit of noise, and let fly with five or six stripes of cum, all the way across his tank top. It was a good look for him, and he didn't cum, so I think he must have been happy.

I went to his bathroom and cleaned up quickly, then dressed silently, released one of his hands, walked out of his bedroom and then out of his townhouse right at the one-hour mark. I hadn't said a word to him the whole time I was there.

More Massage

After my recent hat trick, I was in the mood for something a little more relaxed. Having three discrete sessions in a period of a few hours is exhausting. Not the sex so much, but trying to decide which of the three I liked best can keep me up all night. As tired as I was when I wrote that last entry, I'm not sure that I conveyed how very much fun sessions two and three were, and having to choose between them would be tough indeed. The pseudo-sub from session two was pretty hot, and he really loved being fucked. On the other hand, the S&M (sex and martini) scene in session three was what every FWP relationship aspires to be.

Anyway, as I've mentioned before, I have a burgeoning interest in massage. I'm on a local m2m massage email list, and I just recently acquired a massage table and some related supplies (sheets, oil, etc.), and I've been waiting for an opportunity to use them. My initial posting to the e-mail list received a number of responses, and there are two guys with whom I've been trying to arrange sessions. I finally managed both of them this week.

I remember a character in some 90s sitcom having a conversation about his body and saying something like "I think of my body as basically something that carries my head around." I'll admit that I had a very similar notion for a lot of years. Perhaps not concentrating on my body was one of those mechanisms I used to deny my attraction to men and to allow me to stay married, but the exact reason doesn't really matter (and isn't very interesting; if you want endless introspection about that sort of thing, there are other blogs: you know who you are); the upshot was that as long as my body wasn't actively annoying me, I was content to ignore it.

Bad idea. Again, I'll leave it to others to expound on the ways the body feeds the mind and vice versa, but let's just say that I finally (yeah, I'm slow) came to understand that my body and mind are co-equal partners (kind of like the President and the Congress, only for real) in my happiness.

Anyway, there are a few reliable ways to live more fully in your body. Sex is one. Dancing is another. Massage is a third. And they're all good: you will certainly never hear me say a bad word about sex. But as wonderful as sex is, it's not (or at least it shouldn't be, if you're doing it right) a calming, comfortable thing. It's an exciting, explosive, spontaneous thing. Massage is deliberate and meditative. It takes you to a different place than sex does, but it's still a very good place.

The first guy I had on my table had interacted with me entirely via email. I had given him my cell number, but he hadn't called me, and I wasn't quite sure that he was going to show up, so when my doorbell rang, I was actually on gay.com exploring alternate plans of a more exciting, explosive, and spontaneous nature, and I had to abandon those explorations very quickly. Oops. And, after a very brief initial conversation (He mentioned that he needed the massage because he'd played tennis on each of the last four days.), he shed his clothes and there wasn't any additional conversation. That worked for me. I've always said that when you're massaging a guy, his body will tell you everything you need to know, and this was going to be a good test of that premise.

Although he was older (mid-fifties, I think), he was very fit, and it was an easy body to massage. I started, as usual, with the neck and shoulders, since that's where most guys carry their stress, and most guys carry a lot of stress. It's also the area where I can provide the most immediate relief, and cause the fastest relaxation. And you really want a guy to be relaxed when you go in for the prostate massage.

Anyway, my neck and shoulder work prompted a lot of deep exhalations and murmurs of appreciation, so I kept it up for a good long while before moving on to the lower back. After the lower back, I always give the ass a good kneading, but I'm pretty careful to avoid the asshole just then. I worked his right thigh, calf, and foot and then did the same on the left side. At this point, I like to do several full-body strokes. I start at the bottom of the calves, run both hands up along the backs of the legs and over the buttocks, then cross hands on the lower back and run them up over the upper back and shoulders. Then I do the whole thing in reverse.

If there's a part of massage that I don't like, it's that a lot of the guys who want a massage are not very good at articulating exactly what they want and don't want. They'll tell you that they have sore shoulders or thighs, but they won't say, "please make sure you hit the prostate and don't forget the nips when you're giving me the happy ending." Anyway, I did go in for the prostate massage. Most guys love that, but it also tenses them up a little, so while one finger is busy polishing the walnut, the opposite hand works on the upper back and shoulders.

When I was done with the dorsal side, I went to wash my hands. I told him to stay put, but he didn't hear me over the music. So when I came back in the room, he was getting up and was looking a little confused. He was also dripping a LOT of precum. I told him to lie on his back, and I worked on his face a little bit.

Massaging a guy's front is, obviously, very different from massaging the back. When you're doing the dorsal side, there are a lot of muscles to work on, and they're not (butt excepted) very padded, so it's easy to feel what's tense and where work is needed. On the ventral side, there's not as much to work with. Besides, it's really tough sometimes to avoid the temptation to go right to the guy's nipples and cock. In fact, the first guy I massaged from the Yahoo group told me that I had a very nice touch and that I was very good on the back but that I was somewhat lost on the front "except for the very nice cock massage."

I wanted to do better this time around, so after working on his face, I worked on his shoulders from the top side, and then I massaged his arms and hands. When I massage hands, I cradle the arm against my body and work the guy's hand with both of mine. It's really very intimate.

After the hand massage, he was very relaxed, and his cock had calmed down some, but then I started in on his torso, and that involved a fair amount of work on his pecs and, especially, his nipples, and that got him hard and dripping again, pretty fast. He had a nice cock. Not large, not small, not fat, not thin, but straight and nice. I ignored the cock for a while and worked on the fronts of his thighs and then went back to his torso. Then I zeroed in on the nipples again, and I worked them until he brushed my hands away. At that point, I went back to his thighs, and I brushed his cock a few times with my forearm. He pushed my forearm away from his cock, and I got the sense that he was afraid that he'd cum before I was ready for him to. I did a few more strokes on his thighs, without touching his cock, and then I wrapped my fist around his cock, and on the first stroke, his body went rigid and he began oozing cum. I stroked the whole load out of him and then wiped him up and told him to turn back over onto his stomach. I worked his back for another few minutes and gave him two or three more full body strokes, and we were done.

He asked if he could shower, and I pointed him to the bathroom right next to the room where I'd set up the table. He was done in a couple of minutes, and then we chatted some while he got dressed. He asked me whether I'd had any formal training, and I said that I hadn't but that I was considering getting some. He encouraged me to do that, and said that he thought I might have more fun as a massage therapist than as an accountant. Well, sure, though that's setting the bar kind of low, isn't it?

The second guy was a lot like the first: tall, fit, and smooth, but he was better looking and about fifteen years younger. He'd also played tennis a couple of times this week, and he was also very quiet.

Massages tend to follow a set pattern with minor variations, so I won't go through the second massage in detail. The differences: the second guy got more prostate massage but didn't leak much precum. He was slower to get erect, and it took more nipple stimulation to get him there. And he took a fairly long time to cum. At least compared to other guys I've massaged. Most guys cum pretty quickly when you've been working on their bodies for forty-five minutes first, even if they don't get erect until the end of that period. This used to surprise me, especially given how long it takes me to cum. If I were getting a massage and the masseur tried to stroke me off, I'd probably still be on the table.

Anyway, with the second guy, his nice, thin, straight cock was hard for several songs worth of stroking (I was playing a Mamas and Papas compilation), and I had tried simultaneous stroking and nipple play and simultaneous stroking and prostate stimulation, without apparent effect. I was about to ask him whether I could do something to help him along, but then I tried stroking him with both hands for a while, and he started to shift around and make more noise, so I did that a little faster, and he spurted. It was a nice load, too.

After I wiped him off, I put him back on his stomach and worked on his back until he told me that he was about to fall asleep, so I asked him if any areas needed more work, and he said no and got dressed. He seemed a little embarrassed by the whole experience, though, you know, he's a guy, so who can tell? Anyway, he was clearly at least relaxed, and I did get a nice thank you email from him today, so I guess it was all good.

I don't really get the embarrassment, and I don't really get the inability to articulate what you want. Really, do we live in so prudish a society that we can't talk openly about our bodies and sex? Well, ok, obviously we do. I blame the Republicans (seriously) and various churches. Can you imagine how much happier people in general would be if we could all say what we want sexually and then go and get it without embarrassment? If we thought of sex not as something evil or sinful but as something healthful and recreational? I realize that if all that tension went away then there'd be no more reason for a military, but we could employ all of those hot young men as sex workers. It's a win-win situation.

Triple Play

There is nothing like making up for lost time. As I've spent the last two months whinging incessantly about here, tax season was not a good time for getting any action on the side. It wasn't even all that great a time for getting any action with b&c. But the deadline passed, and then b&c and I took a short trip where I got thoroughly acquainted with all of my favorite parts of him, and then we came home and after a very pleasant weekend with the kids, I went back to work, and b&c headed off to a foreign capital. He is having some sort of conference with the group for whom he consults. He'll be back this weekend, but then he's off for three more weeks in another foreign capital. Tonight (well, I suppose it's last night by now; in any case: Tuesday night) was my first opportunity to play.

So there's this married guy. MG1 we'll call him. He and I have been trying to hook up forever. It was always clear to me that he was sincere, if unsure of exactly what he wanted, and we came pretty close to playing a couple of times before, missing out only because of events beyond our control (for example, the network at work died one time just when I was about to give him directions). Anyway, because gmail counts all of the emails back and forth, I can tell you that it took only 77 e-mails and three telephone calls for us to actually get together. We had originally planned for 7:30 tonight, but after I talked to him at 5 pm today, he called back to say that he was more comfortable playing at 8. He lives pretty near to our place, and he wanted to be sure that it would be too late for his wife to be driving around and see his car. Kinda paranoid, but he's married, so: whatever.

So I had this set up for the early evening, but I knew that he wanted to be home by 9, so I figured we'd be done by 8:50, so when I saw my buddy D. on gay.com Monday night, I told him that he should come over tonight (Tuesday night) and either watch me play with MG1 or show up after MG1 had left. In either case, the plan was for me to fuck D. later. D., who is very nice but very repressed/fucked up, asked again about the possibility of a gang bang, and I -- again -- told him that he really needed to let me fuck him first before expecting me to go out on a limb with any of my top friends. He agreed, but then it occurred to me that I'd heard from my top friend C. that he wanted to get together. C. lives just down the street, but I hadn't seen him since the night he came to dinner and hooked up with A. Since D. is kind of flaky and will never commit until the last minute, I dropped C. an email saying that there was a bottom who wanted to be multiply fucked, and that if C. would like to drop by the next (i.e., Tuesday) evening, he could fuck D. if D. actually showed up and consented to bottoming. If not, C. and I would fool around: we have a good time doing that even though no one gets fucked.

So this (Tuesday) morning, I got a reply from C. saying that he was down for what I'd proposed, and I emailed D. to tell him that I now had a mini-gang bang set up for him. I figured this would encourage D. to actually show up.

Anyway, it was getting on towards the end of the afternoon. I was supposed to call MG1 to confirm at 5, and I still hadn't heard from D., though I had talked to C. to confirm that he'd show up at about 9:15 that (Tuesday) night. I wasn't getting much done at work, so I hopped onto gay.com again, and I happened across another married guy (hereinafter MG2) who also said that he enjoyed being restrained and dominated. He was looking for something right then, and I was still at work, and it can take an hour to get home at that hour, so I told him 6 would be better, and I gave him my cell number.

I got in the car, called MG1, confirmed for 7:30, and then sat in traffic. A few minutes later, MG2 called and confirmed for 6:00. He said that he absolutely, positively had to be back home by 7, so I figured that I could turn it around. A few minutes later, MG1 called back to move the time to 8, and that made me relax a little. At 5:50, I was still not home, so I called MG2 and told him to come ten minutes later. I got home, did a quick washing up, and the doorbell rang.

MG2 wasn't quite what I was expecting, but he was certainly within the parameters of guys I'll do. Mid-40s, 5'10, and in decent shape. Hairy chest, small but perky nipples, and a decent ass. I grabbed him and realized, when he pulled away, that I hadn't made sure that he likes to make out, but I pushed down my disappointment and went for his nipples, which he really liked. He wouldn't let me blindfold him, but I hadn't mentioned blindfolding, so I can't really blame him for that one.

I marched him up the stairs, playing with his ass all the way, and then I pushed him across the bed, pulled down his jeans and started to spank him. He was worried about marks (you really have to spank somebody pretty hard to leave marks that last more than a couple of minutes, but: whatever), so I eased off on the belt and used my hand some. I turned him over and held him down on the bed while I worked on his nipples with moderate (for me) intensity. Then I pushed his head toward my cock, and he started to go down on me while I started to play with his ass.

For whatever reason, I wasn't all that into it. It was probably the lack of kissing. He did, once I had him worked up, allow me to kiss him some, but he was awful at it. He was a good cocksucker, but I really didn't feel like fucking him. Instead, I went with lube and a couple of fingers. After about half an hour of messing around, I got a little more insistent with his cock and kept him on the edge of shooting for about five minutes. When he seemed sufficiently crazed, I got him off. Big, big load. Then he put his clothes on and left.

I had some laundry (fresh sheets) to deal with from the dryer, and some other preparatory matters to tend to, so I came downstairs and dealt with them, and then I hopped on the Internet to look at some porn.

MG1's instructions had been to enter the (unlocked) front door, remove his clothes, put on his jeans (he was coming from work), put on the blindfold, and tell me that he was ready. I don't know how he did it, but he showed up without parking in our driveway, so when I heard the front door open, I was kind of surprised. But then he said he was ready, and I went out to see him standing there, blindfolded, and I was very happy. He was shorter and darker than I'd expected from the pics he'd sent me, but short and dark both work for me, and he had a nice body and an especially nice ass. I strapped the wrist restraints on him, fastened them together behind his back, and marched him upstairs.


I'd known that he hadn't done much bondage or submission, so I wasn't too surprised when he balked when I threw him down, face first, on the bed. He asked me to uncouple the wrist restraints so that his arms would be free, and I did. He kept trying to take off his jeans, but I wouldn't let him. I told him what I tell all bottoms: that's my job. It is, too. Union rules. Anyway, undoing one button on his jeans (size 31 but still pretty loose) was enough to allow me to slide the back of the waist down over his very nice buttocks (the pictures in this post are of MG1; I can finally get pictures off my cell phone). I wanted to play with them, but I also wanted to work on his nips, so I went for the nips first. He really liked that.

At some point it became clear that he wanted to touch me more rather than not being allowed to use his hands, so I wrapped his arms around me and kissed him. Yowza! Big, soft lips. Excellent, married-man technique. We made out a lot. Or at least for a while, given that we had less than an hour to play. Eventually, I realized that I needed to move things along, so I told him to suck my cock, and I started to eat his very clean, very pretty ass. He liked that a lot, too.


I alternated between ass and nips for a while, and then I started trying to work a finger into him. Very, very tight. I went for the lube, and eventually I got three fingers into him, but he seemed so tight that I wasn't sure I'd be able to get my cock into him, and I wasn't sure that he really wanted to be fucked as much as he'd earlier said that he did. But some more kissing made me really want to try, so I gloved up, put him on his back, and pushed his knees up towards his chest.

It didn't really work very well. He wasn't taking more than about an inch of me. It was getting pretty close to 9, so I considered giving up, but when I asked him if he wanted to sit on my cock he seemed very eager, so we tried. That did work, eventually. He bounced up and down on my cock for a while, and it was pretty hot because he was so tight. Then I put him on his stomach and thrust in from behind. He told me that he wanted me to come inside him, and it was getting really close to 9, so I made some noises like I was coming, and when I pulled out and he asked me if I came, well, I dissembled a bit.

It only took a few seconds of nipple biting, kissing, and stroking to bring him off. He was in the shower when D. rang my doorbell. I ran downstairs to open the door, and told D. to hang out in the den. Then I said goodbye to MG1, fixed D. a martini, and went to change the fitted sheet again.

D. and I were sitting on the couch and chatting, and I was encouraging him to drink his martini. He's really one of the most uptight guys I know, but he's got a great body and a really nice ass, and it's becoming a project of mine to loosen him up, both literally and figuratively. C. was late, which is very unlike him, so when it got to be 9:30, I gave him a call, figuring he might have fallen asleep (he gets up very early). In fact, he'd been confused about the night, thinking I meant tomorrow (that is, Wednesday) night, but since he lives just down the street, he came on over. I started making out with him when I opened the door: great kisser. Then I poured him a martini, and the three of us sat on the couch making small talk about travel and such. When D. went to the bathroom, C. and I made out some more, and when D. came back, he enjoyed watching. I kept kissing C. and started groping D. and then I suggested that we all take our martinis up to the bedroom.

I had some porn (Folsom Filth, which D. loves) playing, and we all got undressed. C. and I both started chewing on D.'s nipples, which are hot, hot, hot. Then we put him between us on the bed and started working on him. He liked watching C. and I kiss, so we alternated between that and some nipple work. Also: plenty of groping. After a while, I went down on C. for a couple of minutes, and then C. went down on D. for a bit, while I chewed his nips a little longer.

Finally, I turned D. onto his side and dove into his ass with my tongue: his favorite thing. C. was stroking his cock, and he said he was getting very close, so C. backed off a bit. After my tongue, C. tried loosening up D.'s ass with his fingers, but D. said that he didn't want to get fucked tonight. Typical, but by then we were all having such a good time that neither C. nor I really cared that we couldn't fuck D.'s very tight ass.

C. and I got into some more intense making out, and D. got up on his knees. C. was on his back, and D. wanted to cum on him, and he did. C. was getting really worked up, and I started to stroke myself off. The kissing was getting me going, and I was also working C.'s nipples, which got me going even more. D., because he's a dork, went right off to the bathroom to wash off rather than staying around to see C. shoot his load, but of course C. and I were still making out, so I had a ringside seat. I was pretty worked up by then, too, and after D. had shot his modest load and then C. had an intense but similarly low-volume ejaculation, I emptied my clip. I don't mean that as a cheesy metaphor. I mean that I shot about eight times, with impressive force and distance. C. was covered.

I switched to some less intense porn (some of my Cadinot), and the three of us hung out on the bed and chatted for a couple of minutes, and then D. headed back to D.C. C. stuck around, and he and I talked for another half an hour. I'd mentioned my blossoming interest in massage, and C. said that he really could use one, so at that point I decided to give him one. It was kind of a short massage, no more than twenty minutes, but by then C. was hard again, so I stroked him while we made out yet more. After a few minutes of stroking and a few minutes of oral, C. decided to take matters into his own hands, and in another couple of minutes, he had his second load of the evening. Then there was some more kissing, and then he went home. He really is a lot of fun, and he's very convenient, so I think I'll have to give him a more thorough massage soon. I might give D. one, too. Anything to loosen that boy up. I keep telling him, "Dude, I am trying to bring you some sexual freedom, and you are not meeting me half way." But I'm going to get in that ass, eventually.

I'm kind of tired now. I think that three different guys and/or sets of guys in one day is my limit. I've done it before, but I don't think I've ever done three different guys/sets of guys in less than six hours before. Go me.

Briefly

I'll be back with reporting on some real action soon. I promise.

In the interim, I have yet another piece of advice for those of you seeking your soulmate via the Craigslist missed connections. Don't. No, wait, that wasn't it (although it is good advice).

If you're going to post this ad about a missed connection, you might want to consider waiting a more than three minutes after you've posted this ad about a (different) missed connection. I mean, really, how many soulmates do you need?

Listen, I understand using a broad marketing strategy. But don't you think that if guy 1 sees these ads, he's going to wonder whether you don't really like guy 2 better?

It's not that hard. The people who read missed connections in hopes of learning that they're the object of someone else's desire (as opposed to those of us who read the MC so that we can point fingers and laugh cruelly at you) aren't all that bright, but nobody's dumb enough not to realize that the same guy posted those two consecutive ads. Either wait a few hours between posting ads, or make it seem like they could conceivably have been written by two different guys.

Think about it. Let's say that either guy 1 or guy 2 answers your ad and you start dating, fall madly in love, and are about to pool your resources to buy that dream Logan Circle townhouse. Don't you think guy1/2 is going to be reading the missed connections every day to make sure that you're not looking for guy 3, guy 4, or guy 6,786? And while he's reading them, he might find someone better than you who's interested in him. And there you'll be: another missed connections-related tragedy.

Listen up, People

I have a very full schedule today, so I'm going to make this brief.

The phrase "play for my team" is over. It was, in fact, over a year ago. If I have to read one more craigslist missed connection ad where the writer says "I don't even know if you play for my team, but if you do, let's have coffee," I'm going to have to start hunting down the perpetrators and breaking their thumbs giving them stern talkings to.

Let me break it down for you:

1. If you want to know if someone's gay (or bisexual), ask if they're gay (or bisexual). Better yet, ask if they do the particular thing that you want them to do to you.

2. If the person's straight, why the hell would he be reading the m4m section of the craigslist missed connections, unless it's to laugh at you. And do you really want to know that he's laughing at you? Do you really want to open your inbox one day and see:

Dude,
I'm the guy in the Metallica t-shirt who smiled at you last Thursday in Logan Circle. Except I wasn't smiling. I was smirking because your tongue was hanging out of your mouth. I don't get that whole "play for my team" thing. Is it some kind of recreational football league? How can you not know who's on your team? Don't you end up passing the ball to the wrong guy a lot that way? Anyway, I'm straight, but if I were gay, I still wouldn't do you. And if I were gay and I was attracted to you (which, let me reiterate that I am not), I would have just said hello and asked for your number instead of placing a lame ad. At first I was embarrassed when my gay officemate told me there was an ad that sounded like it was for me, but then we both thought it was pretty funny, especially since I wear that Metallica t-shirt with a sense of irony. My entire office thinks it's (the ad and the t-shirt) funny, too. In fact, there are straight women all over Arlington laughing at you now, so congratulations.

Anyway, I'm not much of a coffee drinker, but if you ever see me in a bar, and I've had six beers, maybe I'll let you give me a blowjob and then wonder the next morning whether it really happened. But probably not.

Have a nice day!

Guido

3. Coffee? If you want to have sex with the guy, just say so. I will even allow you to use euphemisms, provided they aren't too trite.

Have a nice day.

Silence

Before we begin today, I have two apologies. First, there will be no significant talk about sex today. By which I mean that while it is impossible for me to write more than two paragraphs without sex coming into play, I will not be reporting on any actual sexual acts of my own, mostly because there haven't been any. Second, I took what I thought was an arcanely appropriate picture for this post in the men's room at the cinema last night, but apparently one of the things that my new phone does not do is talk to my computer. Also, it does not seem to be able to email the pictures to any of my email accounts. Apparently there is some sort of synching software available to rectify the former problem, but I am a bit leery of spending money on something that might not work and that I really shouldn't need. Though I suppose that if I were to apply those criteria consistently, I wouldn't buy very much. Anyway, if I ever figure out how to get the cell phone to spit out its pictures, I'll put it on the post.

Busy season, for the most part, ground to a halt late Friday afternoon. There are still bits of work that will arise at the last moment, and there are still returns and payments to be shepherded about, but the returns that were to have been completed have been completed, and the others have been extended. Because the official deadline is Tuesday, I'll be at work Monday and Tuesday, but then on Wednesday the office is closed, and I am taking Thursday and Friday off. B&c and I are traveling to an undisclosed location for a few days of something or other.

I had not expected to be free Friday evening. I had one or two opportunities for a little slap and tickle, but I was not feeling it, so I called b&c and said we needed to catch a movie. You might think that after the crushing tedium of busy season, I would be in the mood for something rousing like 300 or something fun like Boy Culture, which happened to be opening in DC. I don't want to offend anyone who liked 300, but everything I've seen and read about it lead me to believe that I'd rather spend two hours on line at the MVA (that would be the DMV in most states, I reckon) than go see it. And while I will probably catch Boy Culture at some point, it will not be on its opening weekend. (Indeed, it is hard to imagine that I will miss much if I wait for the DVD.)

Anyway. I looked at the listings for the local art cinema, and I squealed with delight (you will understand, of course, that my version of a squeal of delight is a raised eyebrow and a quiet "ooh" in the bass register: on the portion of my most recent evaluation regarding professional demeanor -- or whatever they call it -- my boss had actually criticized me for being "too composed," and it was hard, hard work to stifle a smile when I read that comment) when I saw Into Great Silence (Die Grosse Stille) listed for 6:00 and 9:30. I immediately called b&c and asked him whether he could make a 6:00 show, and I gave him a brief summary of what I knew about the movie. I told him that it was a documentary about a group of largely silent Trappist monks and their daily life in a monastery in the French Alps. I also told him that I had heard a very good review of it on NPR. I may not have mentioned that it was two hours and forty-four minutes long, but then I can't be expected to remember everything, can I?

Anyway. I have always had something of a romantic fascination with the monastic life. I was raised Southern Baptist, so my actual experience with real monks or a real monastery is, shall we say, limited, but the excess of contemporary life often leaves me with a hunger for a quiet place. Also: I love plainsong.

In my notional monastery, life is ruled by the cycles of nature. We rise with the sun and we chant, making beautiful music for forty-five minutes. Then, after our morning lattes and croissants, we have a period for quiet reading and meditation. After the pre-lunch chanting and lunch is a period for working in the monastery's gardens and taking care of such other chores as must necessarily impinge upon our life of contemplation. There follows another period for study and contemplation, followed by the sunset chant, and dinner. Then more quiet time and a final chant before bed. There will be special ceremonies and/or feasts at each full moon and, of course, for the solstices and equinoxes.

Before you deride my notional monastery as, well, boring, I ask you to remember a few things. First, the food would be really good. Second, the periods of study and contemplation are largely self-directed, and you'd have high speed Internet. Third, you'd be surrounded by men with a common set of values and worldview. Fourth, the common set of values and worldview would mean that much of the period of study and contemplation would be spent fucking like rabbits.

As far as I can tell, the Trappist monks, though they chant very nicely, spend no time at all fucking like rabbits. And, trust me, they should: they don't have that much else to do, and a number of them are kind of hot (I'd do about half of them: thirty- or forty-something year old Frenchmen with really short hair and in very good shape: yummy). And you know they have to be even hotter in the context of all that nothing to do.

Anyway. All of my romantic notions of monastic life have been thoroughly shattered. Broken up with a wrecking ball, then pulverized with a ball pean hammer. To be honest, the sense I got from the monks was not so much that of men in communion with God as it was of men with nothing better to do. To be fair, perhaps a sense of communion with God doesn't come across so well in a documentary that is almost entirely silent. But there was nothing in the film that would make any sensible person desire the monastic life. (My parents will be so pleased.) The monks themselves seemed tranquil and content (and a little bit dull), but they all had thin lips. Thin lips are a sure sign of a life without sufficient pleasure. More to the point, it means that they give lousy head.

None of which is to say that I didn't like the movie, because I did like it, very much. I just can't recommend it to anyone else because I can't imagine that three viewers in a hundred would enjoy watching two hours and forty-four minutes of nothing happening. (Think of a greatly slowed down Koyaanisqatsi, but without the soundtrack.) B&c hated it. First he started looking at his watch every ten minutes, then every five minutes, and finally -- two thirds of the way through (which, to be fair, would be about the entire length of most movies) he got disgusted and walked out. It made him angry. As it happens, it made him angry because it reminded him of Benedictine retreats that he'd been forced to endure as a child.

Not having that particular Catholic baggage to carry around, I was able to find within the movie a calm and meditative space. There was something very comforting and expansive about the film's rhythms, even while they were convincing me that I would never want to live the monks' rhythms.

Unless, of course, it meant that I never had to do taxes again. And that I could teach the monks how to fuck like rabbits.

I Want To Be Jackie Onassis: A Tale with Too Much Backstory

At the moment, a sinus headache is kicking my ass (better not to concern yourself about the sensibleness of that metaphor, I reckon), so while the nasal spray is working its magic, I'm going to ramble a bit about my weekend. Pour yourself a drink and sit back. Better yet, light up something illegal. I've always theorized that my writing is best appreciated by the stoned (someone smoking weed, that is, not someone who's just been executed for a religious infraction), not that I'd really know.

First of all, as Billy says (though I suspect he is hardly the first to feel this way), a lot of men suck, and not in a good way. When the same death of a stranger that sent me to Ohio last weekend (by the way, in case you're keeping track, two days after we got back from Ohio, EFU got her financial aid offer from her first choice school -- Antioch having been her second choice -- and now she's going there, so the sixteen hours of driving were all for nothing; the first choice school is an equal distance away, but in Vermont; fortunately, I don't have to drive there until the fall term begins) also sent the filial units to New Jersey this weekend, my original weekend plans (which involved Easter baskets and Sunday morning service with the kids) vanished, and I was left with a small amount of free time. Not a lot of free time because I'd initially turned down a friend's fortieth birthday party because I'd have the kids, so my Saturday evening was pretty much spoken for already. The party was supposed to start at six (though I wasn't planning to show up until eight because at six I'd still be in the office), so I figured it would be over by eleven.

Now there's this guy. This guy responded to a CL ad of mine a month ago, and he claimed to be into a scene I'd proposed, but finding a time when I could host him had been tough, and then he seems to work as much as I do, so that made it tougher, but he kept on telling me I want you, I need you, but there ain't no way I'm ever gonna love you so don't be sad 'cause two out of three ain't bad that he was very serious and that he really, really wanted to show up at my place, come inside, put the blindfold on, have me put the restraints on him, march him upstairs, tie him down, fuck his face, fuck his ass, and punish him as I otherwise saw fit, and then untie him and put him out in the hallway so that he could leave without ever having seen my face or without me having seen his eyes. I have done this before with other men and it is always super hot because the subs get immensely turned on by it, and they tend to be really good cocksuckers.

Anyway, I emailed this guy Thursday night (as soon as I figured I'd be free Saturday night at midnight) and he got back to me Saturday afternoon and said he was up for it, and we made arrangements, and he said he was definite and that he'd call me when he was on his way. This guy was clearly hungry for this scene.

Anyway, I was at the office on Saturday, and it was just about six, and I was thinking that I had to go home and that on the way home I had to stop at the liquor store and get a birthday present for A. -- and, yes, I know that liquor is a terrible gift for a fortieth birthday, but A. really likes his liquor, and I hadn't even known until Thursday that I was going to the party, and really, when the hell was I going to shop for something more appropriate? -- and then go home, shower, change, and set up the bedroom for bondage. For reasons that are directly traceable to b&c's vanillatude and his inferiority as a decorator, our bedroom -- especially the bed -- is not well suited to tying men down. I have managed to overcome these limitations through a combination of ingenuity and trips to Home Depot. Still, b&c doesn't like it when I leave the bedroom in bondage mode. He says that it freaks the cleaners out (whatever!), so I always have to spend some time getting it ready.

So there I am at the office, and I just happen to have gay.com on and I just happen to get a message from this other guy in Rockville who I've played with before and who is terribly sexually repressed but who loves intense nipple play and whom I've managed to train to accept making out, which he is pretty good at. And this other guy wanted it right then, and I didn't have time so I countered with Sunday evening, but he wanted it right then, so I got to thinking that if I just got this other guy off, I could probably be out of there in fifteen minutes, and it would leave me pleasantly horny throughout the party, which would make me a better conversationalist and leave me really horny (not that I ever really have much trouble getting to really horny, but still) for this guy. And this other guy happens to live pretty close to one of the county liquor stores, so I told this other guy that I'd be there in twenty minutes and that it'd be a true quickie. This other guy was thrilled.

So I drove there, I got out of the car, I went inside, and I assaulted him.
0:01 upstairs
0:02 out of his clothes and on the bed
0:03 hard and moaning while I alternate between kissing him and biting hard on his nipples
0:04 not letting him undo my belt
0:05 him telling me that if I don't ease up on his cock, he's going to cum
0:06 squirt
0:08 back in the car and on the way to the liquor store

At the liquor store, I picked up a giant bottle of Bombay Sapphire. Fittingly, it came to exactly $40, including tax.

Maybe it's different in bigger cities with larger gay populations, but around here, if you go to a friend's birthday party and there are ten other gay men there whom you don't have any good reason to know, chances are pretty good that you'll have seen at least one of them naked. (I mean naked and in person: if you count Manhunt profiles, then you've probably seen most of them naked.) This sort of thing still disconcerts me slightly, but we've all learned to handle it. The first man I met when I got to the party is someone whom I went on two dates with a little over five years ago. I wasn't sure at first that it was him, but then he started talking. This third guy has one of the two ugliest voices I've ever heard (the other belonging to a former member of my church who sounds just like him). It's as if there's a little man inside his head whose job it is to constantly deviate his septum. Really, why bother opening your mouth if you're just going to talk out of your nose. Though, if memory serves, this third guy was a pretty decent kisser, so there's that.

Anyway, I could really have done without ever meeting this third guy again. He's nice enough, and time and having found a partner have softened him in ways that are mostly good, but I couldn't help remembering just how fucked up he was back in the day. In the fall or winter of 2001, I met this third guy at one of the best (and cheapest) restaurants in Silver Spring for a date. He was a vegan, and I'd chosen the restaurant for that reason. We had a very nice conversation, despite the fact that I was sitting next to an exterior wall so that I was freezing. Then we'd gone off to see a movie, but it was sold out, so we went and had coffee and then we sat in my car for a while and talked and then we made out for a while and groped each other some.

This, reader, turned out to be a big mistake. (Sort of.)

I suggested that we go back to his place, which was nearby, but he thought it was way too soon for that, so we talked some more and groped some more and then said goodnight. For our second date, we met at an Indian restaurant, and he'd been doing some yard work which mostly left him too sore to walk, let alone grope, so we pretty much said goodbye after dinner. Then there were emails and calls back and forth, and he invited me, at the last minute, to see something in DC, but I already had plans and regretfully had to decline. Then, out of the blue, he started to tell me how he really had a big problem with the fact that I'd groped him on our first date. And I was all, "Dude, you groped me right back! And you liked it." Anyway, he had issues, probably to do with having been cheated on by his last boyfriend. (I never asked, but, really, do you know any gay man who wasn't cheated on by his last boyfriend? I mean, except for me, but that's only because you can't cheat on me if I give you permission to get fucked by anything that moves and wears a condom, can you?) Also, he was between jobs, so he was spending every waking moment working with a career coach and job hunting, and he was very insecure. And, within about a week, I got so sick of hearing that awful, awful voice on the phone that I just gave up. There were plenty of other reasons, but the voice would have been enough. Still, he'll always be that guy who had trouble committing to a third date because we groped on the first date. There are plenty of men like that, but they mostly have the decency to tell you about their baggage up front so that, you know, you don't grope them on the first date. Anyway, he wears a wedding ring now and seems very happy with his monogamous relationship. In spite of his partner's immigration problems and the fact that he may have to emigrate to Canada so that they can be together. Until last night, I probably hadn't thought about that third guy in a couple of years, and I could have happily gone another couple of years before the next occasion when I was at a party and guys started talking about the most fucked up men they'd ever gone out with, and I would have pulled him out as an example.

Anyway, I've never actually seen that third guy naked, but there was this fourth guy there who looked familiar, but who didn't really register until this morning, and I had seen him naked, probably three years ago, when he'd come by early one Saturday evening when b&c was away on business. This fourth guy was going out with his friends, so he came by in your standard early-forty-something-hitting-the-bars uniform. That encounter started out ok, but that fourth guy didn't have much time, and he was the sort of man who won't let you kiss him after you've been eating his ass. And then after he turned out to be the sort of man who won't let you kiss him after you've been eating his ass, he turned out to be the kind of man who won't tell you that you need to go slower when you're first fucking him and the kind of man who decides that your cock is too thick for his ass which is now very sore because he seemed to be wanting you to shove it in when he really needed you to be taking your time. (Don't you hate guys like that?) And then he was the kind of man who needs to be leaving to meet his friends, which made me the kind of man who had to go back online and find a more suitable hookup. Which, fortunately, I did.

Also, fortunately, I didn't remember any of that until this morning, but I suspect that this fourth guy remembered it last night, because he was looking at me funny. Anyway, he was there with his partner or bf or whatever, and they were all over each other, and it was kind of sweet and also erotic.

A few of us were sitting around the table, eating the very good cake that this fifth guy had brought and that he and I had insisted on sticking forty candles in. And this fifth guy was talking about music and iPods and how he'd been listening to an early eighties punk band, and I asked which one, and he said "Human Sexual Response," and I said, "Oh yeah. I saw them in concert once at MIT." His eyes got really big, and he said that he'd been a student at BU when I was at MIT and he'd been at the same concert and he'd never met anyone who'd heard of HSR before, and we got into a long conversation about GAMIT (the MIT gay organization, which I didn't belong to because those were the straight years, alas) and Toscanini's and at some point we were both singing:

I want to be Jackie Onassis
I want to wear a pair of dark sunglasses
I want to be Jackie Onassis
Oh yeah

and other HSR songs, which, apparently, I can download. This is a very good thing to have learned.

The party was fun, but it broke up not long after ten. Everyone left except for A., the one female guest, me, and this third guy. And after I asked this third guy whether he and I really had had a couple of dates five years ago and then we'd argued a bit about how long ago it had really been (because he's been with his partner for five years, so it must have been longer; on the other hand, I know that it was after 9/11, so it can't have been that much longer; whatever), I felt like I needed to be going.

When I got out to the car, I got a text message from this guy saying that he had to cancel. That put me in a mood, so I texted him back: "Why?" This guy didn't even have the sense to come up with a good lie. He said that he hadn't gotten enough done at work and that he'd be exhausted tomorrow even if he slept and that he was just too tired to play. Then I got mad, and there were a couple of additional text messages where I basically told this guy to go fuck himself, which made me feel a little bit better. When a guy like this guy cancels, there's no point in trying to change his mind: anyone who wants to come to your place and be anonymously used is not the sort of person whose honor you can appeal to. But sometimes it feels good to tell a guy to go fuck himself. Anyway, I went home and watched some fine vintage French porn (thanks for the recommendation, Atari), and I felt better.

Recently, I joined one of the local yahoo user groups, one for massage. I'd put my first message up yesterday. It said that I wanted to give someone a massage today, and I'd gotten a few responses. (Most people are busy on Easter: go figure.) I made arrangements with the first one who looked promising. I was trying to offer something that was semi-legit, and this guy said that he normally preferred his massage without release (though he was, naturally, open to whatever happened: of course you are, baby), so I hadn't bothered to ask for a picture or anything. But we'd chatted briefly on the phone, and he sounded nice.

I got up this morning and the headache descended. Two rounds of jerking off didn't drive it away, and I didn't think to take any nasal spray. When I started to drive into DC, the headache intensified, and I didn't have any nasal spray with me. I just figured I'd suffer through the massage, but then when the guy answered the door, the headache lessened considerably. I don't know what I was expecting, but he was totally cute. About 40, 5'11, with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and glasses that made him look a little bookish. Rowr. He'd cut his hand on a table saw, and because he was living in this big, old house in DC which obviously had had a lot of work done but needed a lot more, I asked him whether he had cut himself doing rehab, but he said he'd done it at work, so I asked whether he was a carpenter, and he said "sort of." That probably means that he's something like a set designer, but I figured I'd just assume carpenter. Leave me my fantasies, ok? I mean, over the long-term, set designers are probably sexier than carpenters, but when your acquaintance with someone is going to last an hour, carpenters are right up there with cellists and prison guards.

We went upstairs, and he showed me his usual massage room, which he's currently redecorating, and then we went to the spare bedroom where he currently has his massage table set up. He had the heat very high in there, and I regretted saying in my ad that I'd be keeping my clothes on. Anyway, his clothes came off, and he got on the table, and I worked on his back and especially his shoulders for a long time. He was relaxing admirably and audibly appreciating my work, though I think at that point I was the only one getting turned on, and it was only a mild turn on. The headache was still pounding my sinuses, but the visceral, non-verbal massage aspects were taking over my hands, and the rest of my body was very happy.

I worked his ass and legs without making any overtly sexual moves. There was some inevitable grazing of his (very large) nuts when I was exerting heavy pressure on his thighs, but I stayed away from his asshole. It was all very professional. Except for the lack of payment, of course.

I had him flip over, and his adorable uncut cock was still soft, but I was getting more turned on, so I decided that was going to have to change eventually. I worked on his face and the front of his shoulders some, and he looked very peaceful and very happy, and that was gratifying in its way. But when I rubbed his nipples and stroked along his clavicle, I saw his cock jump, and that was gratifying more in the way that I wanted to be gratified. So I rubbed his chest and nipples and shoulders and face for a while longer, and then -- after a brief tour through his arms and hands -- I started to squeeze the fronts of his thighs. I brushed up against his cock more at that point, and it started to fill out, so after I'd worked the fronts of his legs more (I find that when I'm massaging, most of the real work is on the back; once the guy flips over, there aren't as many tense muscles left to work, so all of the attention goes to the nipples and the cock), I oiled my hands well and started to stroke him.

I alternated between plain oily stroking, massaging his shoulders and face, and playing with his nipples, and over the next ten minutes, he got increasingly excited. There was a lot more moaning, and then he started to lick his lips. I wasn't sure that was an invitation for me to kiss him, but they were very nice looking lips, and I found that I couldn't resist them. Soft and full and yum. I still don't know whether the licking was an invitation, but he certainly responded fully when I started to kiss him, and he had great skills. We made out for a little while and then I stroked him harder, and then we kissed some more, and then I stroked him more, and he started to breathe hard and then he came. I wiped up the impressive load with the towel that I'd been using to wipe the sweat off my face (it was really hot in there) and then I flipped him back onto his stomach. Ejaculation tends to make the muscles tense up, and I certainly didn't want to leave him tense. About ten more minutes of working on his back and especially on his left shoulder (which he'd told me was still problematic when I asked) and then we were done.

He was very grateful and very sweet, and I was feeling much better, despite the headache. I mentioned that I was thinking of getting some formal massage training, and he had a couple of suggestions for me. Then he hugged me and I left, grabbing a bottle of water from the trunk. I was feeling a little dehydrated.

But happy. It really doesn't take much. You can be working far too many hours and run into a whole string of men who seem to want to harsh your mellow, but then you can get up on a Sunday morning, and one moderately intense non-verbal muscular conversation with a nice guy can restore your faith in humanity. That, some nasal spray, and the knowledge that you can probably talk your kids out of some of their Easter candy is really more than enough to get by on.

And I'm sure that if I'd gone to church this morning, the pastor would have said the exact same thing.

Reaching out in a World Full of Strangers

So my mood improved a lot this afternoon (sorry about that little rant) when somebody who needed some tax research done brought me a bag of m&ms. (I am so easy in so many ways.) I was, once again, ready to embrace my fellow man, and when I am in this sort of expansive, benevolent mood, I like to temporarily leave behind my scorn for those who substitute words for actions.

In other words, I spend my lunch (quarter) hour reading the Missed Connections section on craigslist. (Note: the following ads are all actual ads, and were all posted today. You never have to look very hard to find gold.)

I'm pretty sure that I don't know anybody who's ever written or responded to a CL MC ad (my benevolence extends only so far, after all), but there's something undeniably poetic about the naked yearning that goes into them. There's something touching about people who are willing to really put themselves and their emotions out there. In an anonymous and noncommittal way, naturally:

Georgetown mall bathroom - m4m - 26

A couple of days ago u fucked me under the stall in the bathroom. as you came you called me baby...anyways it was hot. would love to do it again either there or maybe somewhere else where you could pound me a little longer..you dark hair me blonde.

Now it isn't stated explicitly here, but the "fucked me under the stall in the bathroom" leads me to believe that faces were not seen, so the "you dark hair me blonde" refers mostly to pubes, and how touching is it that a guy who knows nothing about another guy other than, presumably, that said other guy has a nice cock and shoots fairly quickly (entirely forgivable under the circumstances, I'm sure you'll agree) and whether he manscapes is reaching out to his fellow man to establish an ongoing connection. You can tell, from the fond way he recalls the single term of endearment, that he probably wants even more, but I would have to advise against these two guys dating. In addition to the fact that their wives/girlfriends would almost certainly object, eventually their friends are going to start asking them how they met, and they'd probably rather break up than actually answer that question.

I know it sounds like I'm making fun of the missed connections crowd, and, well, ok, maybe I do occasionally snicker at the notion that someone who's too afraid to walk up to a guy and introduce himself thinks that that same guy is just as lame as he is and is, therefore, trolling the missed connections in the hopes of finding his soul mate. Certainly, a number of the ads fall into the clueless category:

this guy in my class at Nova - m4m - 22

I am just crazy about you. And yet don't have the guts to come and talk to you. If you read this post then I am certain that you'll know who I am. Send me a mail.

or

guy manning the door tuesday night at Halo - m4m - 25

would love to grab a drink sometime.
i am 25 ... 140, 6'1".
email me and ill send you a photo.

Examine, for a moment, the unwritten assumptions underlying these ads. In the first case, some people might go so far as to suggest that a eensy bit more specificity would be of assistance here. On some level, pretty much any male student in Nova (I don't know whether he's referring to the entirety of Northern Virginia or the community college, but they're both pretty big) could respond to this ad. Heck, maybe that's the point: maybe this guy's just a big old slut and wants to bend over for every gay, bi, or curious man within a ten-mile radius. You go, girl!

The second ad is admirably specific, but come on, dude. If there's any guy who's not afraid to tell you that he thinks you're cute, it's the guy who works the door at a gay bar. Think about it: if you don't respond at least politely, he can refuse you admission.

Sometimes, I wonder whether someone's making the ad up for my amusement. Because this one's just great:

Burglary and Coffee????? - m4m - 34

You are the police officer who rang my door at 1am after the burglary across the street. I wanted to bring you coffee when I woke up a few hours later as you guarded the broken window, but you were gone when I woke up.

If you are interested in a rain check on that coffee, let me know. You have my number from your white pad.

The whole scenario is reminiscent of, and nearly as touching as, a fifties romance remade in the eighties and starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan. Some people might suggest that the writer is not quite thinking clearly because he was blinded by a combination of sleep deprivation and the glint of a badge, I wouldn't say that at all. Nosiree, Bob. I'd say that I need to email that guy and tell him that I have handcuffs.

Some of the ads, alas, are neither touching nor humorous, though they are very sad. Example:

Paul of 8th Street - m4m - 38

You won't read this, but I just needed to put it out there just in case...

We never get enough time to talk alone, uninterrupted, or as often as I'd like. And based on who you're in a relationship with, I suspect I'm not your type. Just know that to make you smile, to see those eyes dance and that gentle face light up makes my day; when I look back at my day or my week it's those fleeting moments that sustain me in a job that doesn't fulfill my potential.

And, yes, so you know, you have a very sweet, adorable puppy, you're right to be a proud papa, but when the weather's nice it's your legs which I've seen too briefly I'll admire not the dog at your feet.

Ah, me... to fall for the unattainable, untouchable guy.

I suppose that CL provides a service for the person who wants to unburden himself but who's too lame to take charge of his own happiness, the person who wants to complain about the state of the universe rather than to make his own place in it. I mean, really, if this guy didn't have craigslist, he'd have to get a blog!


For what it's worth, the other day, on my lunch (quarter) hour, I did some statistical analysis of the MC ads. In the DC area, between 12:01 am and whenever I was eating (probably about 1:30 pm), 59 MC ads were posted. Of these, 26 were in the m4w section, 19 were in the w4m section, 13 were in the m4m section, and 1 was in the w4w section. I consider this compelling evidence that the population of the DC metro area breaks down along the following lines:

Straight men: 44%
Straight women: 32%
Gay men: 22%
Lesbian: 2%

These results are not entirely expected, but clearly they are a more accurate indication than, say, a survey by some statistician. On the whole, I'd have to say the figures are great news for both me and straight women, but disappointing for straight guys and Rosie O'Donnell. I guess NYC gets to keep her.

Further good news for the gays: you really, really don't want to read the MC ads in the m4w section. You may think that we gay men are lame, but, compared to the lameness of the straights, we are totally the shit.

Grrrr

Working 65 hours in six days is tough enough, but working 65 hours in five days is downright unpleasant, especially when we have tickets to something with a 7:00 curtain tomorrow night. Next year I'm just going to have to lay down the law with b&c: find someone else to take to the symphony/opera/theater during tax season. At least tomorrow night's the symphony, so I can either take a nap or ogle the bass section. I swear, I'd do every one of the guys who play bass. Preferably all at once, but one at a time would work, too. One or two of the cellists are pretty hot, and you know that their legs have to spread pretty easily, but I suspect that they're a little bit bitchy. There are also a few hot brass players, and you have to figure their breath control is going to come in handy. What? Am I supposed to be concentrating on the music?

I can't even remember the last time I had sex (yeah, I do realize that I could just scroll down the page and read about it, smart ass). Yesterday morning, I was feeling like I hadn't been fulfilling my conjugal duties with b&c, but I really didn't have time to fuck him, so I just rolled over and started to play with his dick while he was still asleep, then when he woke up, I worked on his nipples pretty hard while he jerked himself off and then as soon as he came, I sprinted (literally) to the shower to try to get to work before 8. Pretty soon my cock's going to be all backed up, like a bottle of lotion gets when some of the lotion dries at the tip of the dispenser, and then you have to press down hard on it and a stream shoots out and misses your hand and gets all over your pants. Fortunately, it's a lot more fun when it's a stream of cum and I'm naked. And even more fun if I happen to be shooting in some guy's mouth, but I'm not sure I'll have time for that before the weekend.

The boy I messed with last Friday has been back in touch a couple more times, but I think he's purposefully being semi-coy so that I'll be in more of a mood to punish him if and when we finally hook up again. Bitch, please. I was raised Southern Baptist: I will find something to punish you for. If nothing else, I can whip your ass for impure thoughts, and I know you got those going on. But I've learned that you can't really speak plainly with a guy who wants to call you "Daddy." Besides, I want at least two hours with him the next time (I've already put my toolbox in the trunk of the car so that I'll have everything I need to treat him the way he wants to be treated; I also figured out how to silence the shutter sound that my new phone makes when it snaps a picture), and where the fuck am I going to find two hours? Maybe Saturday, if he's still in town.

Anyway, back to the salt mines. Tax season ends soon, and then after a short vacation together, b&c is off to Mexico City for a conference. I think I'll call in sick a couple of days and fuck some of the married men who hang out on squirt during the day. Something to look forward to.

500 Miles Is a Real Long Drive Inside a Car

I'm exaggerating, of course. It's really only 462 miles from Bethesda, MD to Yellow Springs, OH, and even with a lot of stops, it takes less than eight hours to make the trip. It's still a lot of driving, though, especially when you do it there on Saturday afternoon/evening and back on Monday afternoon/evening. The things I'll do to get a day off.

There were no sexual escapades on this trip. I had sent out some feelers and had arranged a meeting with a married guy who was very eager to bottom for the first time and who, in exchange, was going to provide my introduction to 420 (yes, yes, very sheltered life here: whatever), but it turns out that your rural Midwestern married man is every bit as unreliable as your suburban Eastern married man. I was fairly disappointed about the weed, though not so much about the sex: virgins are generally more trouble than they're worth. Playing with them is the sort of thing that you do because somebody has to do it, but the benefits from your actions generally accrue to other people.

The lack of sex (unless we're counting all that very fun masturbation) notwithstanding, it was a terrific weekend. I had the opportunity to experience boredom for the first time in recent memory, and, friends, it was sweet. I got to sleep a lot, and I got to spend some time in a very nice (and extremely hippy: I saw as much tie dye walking around the streets as you'll see on the racks of the Haight-Ashbury tourist shops) small town. I got to know the school where EFU might spend the next four years and to satisfy myself that it would be a great place for her (ultimately, though, it's her decision, so I absented myself from most of the parent activities: they seemed like a lot of unnecessary marketing to me).

Most of all, I got to spend a lot of time with my daughter. She spent Sunday night in the dorms, so she was up until 3 am and slept for about half of the drive back, but we still had the drive there, and we hiked to the yellow springs (they're really more of an orange), and we talked a lot. It was a good reminder that there are things that are more important to me than sex. Like my children and... Well, there's one thing more important to me than sex, anyway.

By the way, if you ever find yourself in Springfield, Ohio on a Sunday evening and decide that you're going to check out the bar scene, do yourself a favor and stay in your room and drink instead. It's a pretty good bet that if I walk into a bar and the bartender says "Hi, kid," it's not a happening place. On the other hand, both he and the other customer there were probably old enough to be my father, so you have to give him points for accuracy.