Wednesday, May 9, 2007


I know what you're thinking, and don't worry: this post isn't about that. I don't do that. Well, okay, I have done that in the past, but only once, so that I could say that I'd done that. Well, okay, maybe more than once, but definitely no more than three times. And not recently. Not that there's anything wrong with that, you understand. In fact, that is pretty intense, especially if a guy's going down on you at the same time, and he starts to cum, and you feel him clamping down hard on your wrist while you're shooting down his throat. But that is, I think, the sort of thing that you have to seek out, and I'm not really interested in doing that, though I suppose I would do that again if asked nicely.

But I digress. The title in this case refers not to "f fuck," but to "fuck F." You'll note that I have no trouble slinging around what most people call the F-word. "Fuck" falls from my lips like water from the heavens during a monsoon. I do have my own personal F-word though. A word that should not be used in polite company and that is difficult for me to utter: "fabu...", "fabulo...", well, I just can't bring myself. No, wait: "fabulous." Whew. I only pray that no children are reading.

Anyway. The second F refers to F., who is just some guy who I have allowed to take up space in my consciousness for far too long just because he's got nice brown skin and a South American accent and an ass that is absolutely [f-word]. I mean it's bubbly and brown and smooth and when I stick my tongue in it, the very annoying person who's attached to it just goes wild and begs me to fuck him. Which I do.

Or did, rather.

I'm not entirely sure, but I think that I first met F. when he replied to an old Yahoo personals ad. In any case, he emailed me, and we went back and forth a few times, and then we talked on the phone, and I told him that I really wanted to fuck him, and he got very excited and invited me over. F. lives in Northwest DC, in an un-air conditioned apartment building, and he doesn't have a window unit, and it was a hot day, so I went over pretty late. I think it was 10 when I knocked on his door and he let me in. After minimal pleasantries, we sat down on his couch, and I grabbed him and we started to make out. There's no doubt that F. is a great kisser and an eager bottom. We were quickly out of our clothes and into his bedroom, and I put him on his back and climbed on top of him, and grabbed his wrists and pinned them down over his head while we made out more. I was all over his nipples for a while, and then after some more kissing, he went down on me. Very ably. Credit where it's due.

After lying back and enjoying for a while, I pulled him around and slid my head between his legs so that I could eat his ass. That was always the trigger. He went from a capable cocksucker to a devouring dickhound as soon as my tongue hit his hole. It was pretty intense, but after a few minutes of that, he was begging me to fuck him.

It's pretty hot when a guy cums while you're fucking him, but it's a mixed blessing because his ass loosens a bit, and he loses some of his interest in keeping on keeping on so that you get off, too. F. was always kind of like that. Once he shot, he'd go through the motions, but you could tell that he was wondering whether he'd set the Tivo correctly. Still, it was a hot ass, and I was usually relatively close by the time he came, so it was fine to finish myself off by hand and shoot a big and forceful load (as I always shoot when I'm really worked up) all over his chest.

After that, when F. wanted to play, he'd tell me to call him when I was parking, and then he'd leave his front door open and be waiting for me: in bed, naked, ass up. The sex was always great, though sometimes when we'd talk on the phone, he'd complain that I wasn't using him enough: that when he seemed to lose interest after cumming, I should just keep fucking him harder. He also would say that he'd like it if I'd fuck him a second time before leaving. Except that whenever I came over and fucked him, as soon as I came, he'd always say that he was going out in half an hour and he needed to jump in the shower right then and I'll see you next time, ok?

So even though he'd also say that he wanted us to be friends, all he ever really wanted -- and asked for -- was a fuckbuddy. I, of course, am perfectly happy with being a fuckbuddy. I don't even mind, much, listening to you say that you want to be friends and then rolling my eyes when I'm jumping your bones because it's clear that that's all you want. As long as the bone jumping is hot.

After a while, though, F. began to be unreliable. Instead of saying, "sure, come over Friday night and fuck me," he said, "Well, I might be doing something Friday night, but I'm probably free, so call me Friday and then come fuck me," and then on Friday, he'd send a text message saying that he was busy. It happened twice.

I'll let a guy do that once to me (but only if we've had really good sex multiple times), but if you try to pull that shit a second time, I take you off my dance card. I just didn't call him again, and I consigned him to the large heap of former fuckbuddies (the FFB heap is quite large; I'm not sure how I feel about that, but I probably just think it is what it is; which it is, isn't it?) and forgot about him.

Then maybe a couple of months later, I got another text message from him.

Now please: will somebody explain the text messaging concept to me? I'd think that it was a generational thing, but F. is only four or five (and maybe fewer) years younger than me. All I know is that kids these days seem to text each other constantly. I cannot ever remember getting a text message that I was happy to get. Obviously, I can afford the dime that Cingular charges me for each text message I receive, but why does somebody want to sit there and push all those phone buttons (I do not, and will not, have a Blackberry; every summer I go and pick a couple of gallons of wild blackberries, but that's as close as I'm getting; in any case, when I get something from a Blackberry, it's in my e-mail inbox, so I don't mind) when they could make a phone call or send an e-mail? Using a real keyboard that has one character for each key! F. always said he didn't like using e-mail, but he never said why. Texting someone an address IF they're lost and they've asked for the address might be a good idea, but texting someone just to say something is passive aggressive. It's like you want to tell the other person something but you don't want to take the huge risk that they'll actually have something to say back.

Anyway, I started getting all of these "I hope u r having a good day hugs F." text messages, and I'd get out my phone and hit the little keys to say "How are you? When can we fuck?" That happened a few times, so I finally broke down and called him, and he told me that he thought I didn't like him any more because I never called him, and he wanted us to be friends, and so on and so forth, and I rolled my eyes and made nice noises at him and then he invited me over, and it was hot, as usual, and he had somewhere else to be after the fuck, as usual, and I rolled my eyes some more. As usual.

I did actually invite F. to our holiday party last year, and he seemed touched to have been asked, but he told me he was going to be out of the country, and then every time he texted me to offer me another e-hug, I'd ask if he was free to fuck, and he'd say no. So after a few tries, I gave up, and there were no more text messages, and then it was 2007 and there was busy season, and I forgot about F. entirely.

But then, last week, I got a text message. When I bought the Razr, I only moved a few of my numbers over to the new phone. I probably should have just moved the tiny little card over, but I didn't, so I put in the numbers that I know I call regularly, and then when I needed another number, I'd go to the old phone, retrieve it, and put it in the Razr. So when I got the text, it didn't say who it was from. It only said the number, but I knew it had to be from F. It was sort of vague, so I sent a vague message back to him. (I was going to quote it, but it's gone. I must have deleted it.)

Then, this week:

From F.: I send u morning hugs! Hope u'll have a gr8 wk!

From Teddy: Are you free tomorrow night?

From F.: Don't know yet, why?

From Teddy: Because I want to fuck you.

From F.: Wow!

From Teddy: You are such a tease.

And he really is. I mean, you can pretend all you want that you texted me after five months of silence because you wanted to be friends, but you know and I know (and you know that I know that you know) that you're hard up for the thick piece of meat. And there's nothing wrong with that at all, but, as the youngsters say: own it.

Apparently "tease" set him off because he called me right afterwards to complain about my having called him a tease. He went into this long spiel about how he was trying to be friends and I had shocked him by saying that I wanted to fuck him and how he was just responding to that. "But you love it when I fuck you," I told him. He allowed that he indeed did, so I asked him whether he was free the next night. He said that he thought he was, but that he wasn't sure. So I asked if Friday was better. He asked how long I'd have on Friday, and I said I could give him all night if he wanted it. He sounded excited, and we rang off.

So when I got out of work the next evening, I called him and left a message asking whether he wanted to get together. I went off to do some shopping, and he called back, and the conversation went something like this:

F.: I still have a lot of work to do tonight, so I cannot play tonight. I will think of some times that I'm free and call you and see when we can get together.

T.: Do you have plans Friday?

F.: No, that is not how I want it to be. You don't ask me. I want to tell you when I am free.

T.: I am really not interested in that.[hangs up]

The really annoying thing about cell phones is that you can't dramatically hang up on someone. There is no receiver to bang down. When F. gave me that shit about how it was going to be (which was delivered in a tone simultaneously petulant and condescending), I was pissed off. But I don't say extremely rude things on the phone, so while I may have let a bit of annoyance creep into my voice, I really just said what I said and flipped the phone shut, put it down on the passenger seat and muttered "douchebag" and went home.

Verily, I say unto you: if you don't want to have sex with me, I'm fine with that. And if you don't want to hang out with me, I'm fine with that. But don't text message me out of the blue after months of silence and act all chummy and interested just because you want to annoy me.

And while I'm ranting, there are a few other things that guys shouldn't do. If we've had sex and you obviously liked it, don't get all pissy with me when I ask you to have sex again and then tell me that you just wanted to be friends. If you want to be friends, then here's an idea: ask me to do something friendly. Or here's an even better idea: act like somebody that I would actually want as a friend, not like a douchebag.

And when someone asks you to do something, have the decency to say yes or no. Don't say that you will if you're free. Don't say, in effect, "Yeah, I'll do something with you unless I get a better offer." Of course, I blame myself partly for that one because I don't usually put up with that. If a guy says he isn't sure, I usually just tell him that I'll make other plans.

Anyway, despite modern technology's theft of a dramatic hang up, the whole interaction was empowering. There's always a bit of a rush associated with telling someone (however politely) to fuck off. It feels good to reclaim from that person the ability to annoy you. And it always feels good to have things settled, to know that there won't be any more text messages leading nowhere.

On the drive home, it occurred to me that to some extent I walked into the whole situation willingly. I mean, sure, there was a hot ass at the end of the tunnel, but I knew that the tunnel often gets blocked and leads to frustration. I am old enough to have learned (multiple times) that it doesn't pay to pursue people who really aren't interested. I knew that F. had probably texted me in a moment of horniness and that, for whatever reason, he would probably only ever put out if I was willing to be far more coy than I am ever willing to be. When I want to have sex, I say that I want to have sex. I don't ask whether you'd like to see a movie and then say that I'll stop by and we'll see what's playing and then expect you to be in your bed, naked, when I arrive. If I say I want to see a movie, I want to see a movie.

An e-bud of mine posits that for most of us sex with (relative) strangers really isn't about sex: it's about validation. It's a way of demonstrating to yourself your own worth in the marketplace. This, ultimately, is a self-defeating behavior, but I have certainly engaged in it from time to time, and I think that F. probably falls at least partly in that category.

And maybe I'm a slow learner for making that mistake again, but even a slow learner learns eventually. I had emailed one of my FWPs to see if he was free this weekend, and he'd emailed me back to say that Saturday and Sunday were out, but that Friday was free. I got his response after F. had said he might want to play Friday, so I didn't temporize with C. (i.e., I didn't reply at all, but if things had still been up in the air with F. twenty-four hours after getting C.'s email, I'd regretfully have written him to say I had other plans) because, as I've just finished ranting about, that would be very rude, and C.'s a nice guy (for a top, anyway), and while no one is deserving of rudeness, nice guys are especially undeserving. But the email was still less than a day old when F. pissed me off, so I picked up the phone and called C. He'd been having a tough day, so we chatted for a while, and then I said that Friday was good for me if it was still good for him, and just like that, I had plans with somebody nice who actually enjoys my company. It might be mostly that he enjoys my kissing and my [F-word] martinis, but he's clearly not after my cock, so I think it's mostly the companionship he likes. We'll still get naked and off, of course, but it'll be very friendly, too.

Then, for something a little more, um, athletic, I got online and found my old buddy R., the man who's an 8 on my nipple scale. He's hell in the sack, but he's around the beltway, so I haven't played with him in some time. Sexually, he thinks that I'm the greatest thing since, well, the greatest thing ever, really. I certainly don't think I'm all that, but it would be rude for me to disagree with him on this particular topic. Anyway, he and I are lined up for Saturday morning, and we're both salivating at the prospect. (I really have to find a way to include him in more threesomes with me and b&c.) And Saturday and Sunday afternoon, I have a few massages scheduled. A whole weekend of having a great time with guys who aren't douchebags.

Now if only I can find a hot sub with a lawn mowing fetish to come over and cut the grass, life would be perfect. Craigslist, here I come!

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