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
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.
0:02 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
0:08 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
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.