Seasonal

(Yes, I've posted the same picture twice now. It took me hours to carve those pumpkins. Deal.)

My profound personal and spiritual relationship with Reese's Peanut Butter Cups notwithstanding, I don't really get Halloween. I'm not sure I see the point of adults celebrating pagan rituals in strange outfits unless it leads to large amounts of sex. I'm fine with the kid portion of it, and last year I devoted an entire weekend to making costumes for the girls, but as for claiming it as a gay holiday, well, since when do the gays need an excuse to throw a party?

(Apparently, there's some feeling somewhere that the gays are losing their hold on Halloween. I was in the living room the other day, and I saw a copy of The Advocate on the coffee table. The cover story was something about how Halloween was losing its special place as a gay holiday. I would have thought more about it at the time, but I was too busy wondering why b&c decided to subscribe to The Advocate. This is a person who makes fun of me because I'm not willing to sit through Wagner operas, and he's reading The Advocate? I can only hope that he got a free subscription when he bought some sex toys, but I haven't seen the sex toys yet. I didn't read the article, of course: I couldn't be bothered to wade through "Yet More Interviews with Straight Actors Who Play Gay Men" and the viatical settlement ads.)

I'd like to go on record as saying that I think it's really too bad that earth-based, polytheistic religions have largely disappeared from the planet, but disappeared they have. I find modern day Wiccans and practitioners of other attempts at paganism well meaning but largely insufferable. The sad fact is that history favors the literate (and the victors), so there isn't much in the way of reliable documentation of pagan practices and rituals. Trying to take what you think was the philosophical core of paganism and align it with contemporary humanism always just makes you look silly.

I can't help but believe that most pagan religions were far sexier and more violent than what neo-pagans are coming up with, and I wouldn't mind hanging out with people who practiced, say, more authentic fertility rituals. If you want to celebrate the summer solstice, for example, by binding ten bottoms to poles and having the avatar of the sun god ravish them from dusk to dawn, then by all means: call me Ra.

Anyway. Halloween may not do much for me, but I do love this time of the year. The air is crisp, and it's a pleasure to be outside. Also, it's cold enough for cuddling under a comforter with your man, so it's a pleasure to be inside. There's been a fair amount of each lately. (Plus an amusing threeway last night, but I'll put that in another entry: I know how little my readers care about sex.)

Last Saturday, b&c and I went walking for a while in the woods. It was a perfect day: clear and cool with low humidity. We headed over to Lake Needwood and went for about four miles. I think I have b&c fairly well trained: if I engage him in about fifteen minutes of semi-intelligent conversation, he'll shut up for the rest of the time and let me enjoy my surroundings in silence.

Towards the end of the walk, I heard and then saw a woodpecker. I couldn't get close enough to get a good picture, but if you look carefully, you can see it on the underside of the fallen tree. It is not visually fabulous, but it knocked convincingly on wood.

B&c started to tell me that he'd read an article about how the leaf color wasn't as good as in prior years, but I was already past my semi-intelligent conversation quota, so I didn't pay attention. I have learned to murmur "hmmm" convincingly at appropriate intervals. The leaves themselves were a bit on the drab side, but there were plenty of other sources of color.


This past weekend was also pretty great, after the rain stopped. Here's a picture of the pumpkin patch where YFU and I went to get our carving pumpkins.

I think ours were each about twelve pounds. When we got them home, we were each going to carve one, but YFU pretty much picked out a design and had me carve it for her. She did, however, scoop the seeds and pulp out of her pumpkin like a champ.

Word to the wise: it's fun to wash and then roast pumpkin seeds, but remember that they're very high in fiber. If you eat an entire pumpkin's worth at one sitting, expect to be forcibly reminded the next day. I'm guessing the pagans knew that.

Boston Marriages Always End Badly

Don Giovanni is Mozart's opera about longsuffering bottom Leporello, and his womanizing companion/BFF/boss, Don Giovanni, who, despite repeated inducements and warnings, steadfastly refuses to ditch the bitch and make the switch. As a result, he is dragged off to hell by a statue. (No, really.)

As the other principals all sing at the end, let that be a lesson to you.

The other lesson you need to learn is that if you have a chance to see Erwin Schrott (and, dude, get a hotter name), you should take it. He's got a great voice, sure, but, more importantly, he's also got abs that carry all the way to the second balcony. These pictures don't do him justice (the one up top is from the Kennedy Center production; the one below is from London), but this is a man who was born to play Don Giovanni -- in tight leather pants and naked from the waist up. I mean: damn.

You could tell he was having a great time with the role, too. The other principals came out for their curtain calls as if they were happy but exhausted. Schrott bounded out as if he wanted to do the whole thing over again right then.

Everyone else was also in good voice last night. Placido Domingo was conducting, and he kept the orchestra well controlled so that no one's voice got drowned out. And the music, of course, is fantastic. My only problem with the opera itself is that it's too long. (The curtain last night was at 7pm, and we didn't get home until almost midnight.) There's a great deal of (beautifully sung) superfluity involving Don Ottavio and, to a lesser extent, Donna Anna. You could cut that (stick it in another opera, Wolfgang) and get it down to 2.5 hours, including intermission, and you'd have a better opera. Seriously, during the second act tenor aria last night (Ok, ok, Don Ottavio, you're going to avenge her father: we get it. Now STFU.) I was rolling my eyes and playing "Which Orchestra Members Would I Do?" (Pretty much all the male ones: it's not a very hard game.) If you're going to run an opera for more than three hours, then you need to put Erwin Schrott in a leather harness and jockstrap and swing him from the ceiling while the other principals are singing. Hell, I'd sit through Wagner for that. Maybe.

Last night's performance suffered a bit from staging problems (I mean in addition to the huge problem of not having Erwin Schrott in a jockstrap swinging from the ceiling). There are a lot of scenery changes taking place on the back half of the stage while there's singing on the front half. There's a curtain so you don't see it, but you could hear it. In several places I thought, "What? Are they getting elephants in place for a late night production of Aida?" This seems like the sort of situation that people at the Kennedy Center should know how to avoid.

The other problem was that there wasn't much chemistry between some of the performers (though Masetto and Zerlina were suitably lustful). The clear exception was between Don Giovanni and Leporello (ably sung by a Russian bass who's name is too long to type). It was evident how much affection (if not, perhaps, respect) DG had for Leporello, and Leporello's own love and jealousy for his master were even more apparent. Sure, he wanted the Don to give up women to keep him out of trouble, but he also wanted him for himself. Ultimately, though, the Don chose the big baritone statue, which really only made sense in the (very) short run. He'd have been better off with Leporello as his principal bottom and with Masetto (dumb but cute) and a few peasant boys on the side.

I foresee that my masturbation fantasies for the next couple of weeks are going to involve the two male leads sharing a dressing room. And inviting me backstage. Go for the high notes, boys. I'll help.

All Wet

Remember the good old days, readers? Back when I used to make fun of the poor, unfortunate souls who posted ads in the Missed Connections section of Craigslist? I was feeling nostalgic earlier this afternoon, so I went and checked them out. They did not disappoint. Exempli gratia (The pictures are not from the ads: I just thought you might enjoy looking at them.):

Aquatic Center Changing Room - Have some Decency - m4m - 24
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Reply to: pers-462894572@craigslist.org
Date: 2007-10-29, 11:30AM EDT

For god's sake, there is no need to walk around with your nasty old-man meat hanging out. I realize that there are showers, and it is a changing room, but you have a towel for a reason. wrap it around yourself when you're strolling around.

You most likely JUST got out of the pool, and are still wearing your bathing suit... keep it on for another few minutes. it's actually easier than removing it, and walking back to the shower.

Are you bitter that you're now old and wrinkled? thus sharing your pain with the world? what makes you so special that you think your over-cooked hot dog is worth showcasing??

And this is a special note to the guy in the sauna. Thank you, now I have a completely rational fear of closed doors. Every time i approach a door, I recoil in fear at the thought of you on the other side, striking a captain morgan pose, sans towel... so whenever anybody opens the door, they get a face full of your nasty hispanic churro.

The funny part was, you had a towel, and there was more than enough room in the sauna. so next time, wrap up, and don't camp on the other side of the door. you will give somebody a complex.

I used bold for the last two paragraphs because the poster used bold. I guess he really wanted to make it a special note.



I've noticed an odd disconnect lately. I very much enjoy looking at young, fit men, but I have no visceral sexual interest in them. Perhaps this guy exemplifies why. How full of yourself do you have to be to be offended by seeing someone naked in the shower or sauna, just because that guy's not as attractive as you think you are?

I'm really not saying all twenty-four-year-old guys are like this guy: clearly they're not. But I think that it's natural and expected for younger guys to be vain. I just find that vanity makes a guy less desirable. (I still find them plenty fun to look at, obviously.) And around here, there's no shortage of fit older men who either don't know or have the sense to act like they don't know how hot they are.


And then there's this.

carl - daytrader - thank you - m4m - 43
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Reply to: pers-462684838@craigslist.org
Date: 2007-10-29, 3:28AM EDT

it goes something like this:
man i was very attracted to pointed you out at omega
you were w/ one of the nicest guys i know in dc
a master painter from minnesota who did a fine job on richard's apartment
struck up a convo w/ you so as to introduce you to mr dubai
convo over a cigarette about your mystery lebanese boyfriend
shared some convos about your "vault" diana and her love life
more convos about your first official "date" in many years
and much deserved excitement from us both
summer of convos about would-be escapes to peaceful beaches
discovery that we both love microcaps
warm hugs when i was recovering from my mr guatemala summer fiasco
an invite to a mormon "mountain meadows massacre" movie date
some fiery sunday conversations at our lady of fox n hounds
more convos over my friend mike
who was pining away and lusting after you
for good reason
a warm feeling whenever i saw you because i was growing to like you
and then this evening...
you put your hands on my back and gave me
the unsolicited massage i have waited for
during many months as i sat and dealt w/ the gay jungle
and the constant obsession of gay men over dicks
or
at most
the outfits that clothe the bodies they are appended to
longing for a little substance
and a little warmth
from a real man
amongst many who seem to have forgotten that even a gay life
can be at least a little more
than just another orgasm
and that a little warmth
can go a long way
on a chilly fall night

I'm going to surprise you all by admitting that I'm not such a hard ass that I don't find that sweet and even a little bit touching. So much so that I'm willing even to overlook the antipathy towards capital letters. (Someone who's 43 should know better.) But, dude. If you're going to be sweet about someone who obviously has at least some sort of significant affection for you, send the guy an e-mail (or, you know, talk to him, but I reckon I shouldn't expect miracles). It sounds like you move in a fairly tight but fairly large circle. Somebody's going to see this, recognize Carl, and tell him. Maybe you're counting on that. But if the shoe were on the other foot, wouldn't you want to hear it directly from Carl, rather than from some of your friends who might, let's face it, snicker?

There's more going on in that ad. It raises (but does not beg: don't get me started) the question of why it can be so difficult for American men to admit and display affection for each other. It also makes me wonder why people think that -- perhaps except within a committed partnership -- orgasms and warmth have to be mutually exclusive. Sure, a hot fuck can be just a hot fuck, but you can still have some warmth for the other guy, and there's nothing wrong with that. Climate change notwithstanding, we could all use a little more warmth. I think both of those things are tied up with the puritanism that I ranted so inelegantly about in my last post. I don't want to explore the connection any further right now, but it's something to think about.

Pumpkins Are Never SFW

I was in an intermittently pissy mood for much of last week. People would stop by my office, and I would scowl. I am famous around the office for being laid back (My boss once dinged me on an evaluation for being too even tempered: I chuckled and shrugged when he told me. I am who I am. And what I am. I hear that life's not worth a damn if you can't say "I am what I am," but I can't be bothered to figure out whether I believe that.), so people were starting to talk about my being unhappy, resulting in a call from my boss asking why I was unhappy. I explained to him that the shift in time zones from Italy to hear had resulted in me waking up at 3:30 am every morning and that I had further spent considerable amounts of time sitting in traffic. I then explained to him, yet again, that if I were unhappy about something going on at the office, I would be sure to let him know. I don't know what I have done to engender such paranoia, but every time I take a sick day, my boss is convinced that I'm out interviewing. As if I could be bothered to take a suit to the dry cleaner.

Anyway, since I've been in this pissy mood, I would be remiss if I didn't take advantage of it to vent about something that bothers me. I am sick to death of American puritanism. It's hypocritical, arbitrary, and suffocating. We all know that I can get away with the picture at the head of this entry. Nowadays, there's even a good chance that I can get away with this:

But it's pretty clear that I can't get away with this:

And even if I could, by some wild stretch of the imagination, get away with this:

I'd still never be able to get away with this:

By the way, I don't feel like changing the title of this entry, so below is a gratuitous pic of the pumpkins I carved yesterday afternoon. I'll probably write more about the weekend another time.

I understand a lot of the objections to sexual freedom generally and pornography in particular, but I don't sympathize with them. A lot of those objections seem to come down to religion-based morality. If your religion makes you happy, then go for it, but don't expect me to be swayed by your insistence that God is saying what I'm doing is wrong. If God's so convinced that my having butt sex or looking at pictures of guys having butt sex (or whatever) is wrong, then he can come tell me so himself. If he has to take the form of a burning bush or a pillar of cloud, then fine, but tell him to speak audibly and in standard English, please. And I should let you know in advance that I'm going to have some questions for God. If he wants me to stop having sex with men, he should be willing to explain why he's made them so attractive to me. You're going to tell me that I shouldn't be kissing guys because God told somebody that and that person wrote it down in a book that your Mama told you was God's law. No sir. God needs to come and talk to me personally and then he needs to make it so that I find the girl boobies more attractive and exciting than the guy chests. Because I gotta tell you: right now, my appreciation for the female bosom, while not insignificant, is purely aesthetic.

I'll admit to a bit of sexism here. I have a tendency to think of straight porn as, well, icky, and it's largely because I assume that there's been some sort of power imbalance. When I see (not that I actually look at such things, mind you, because: ewwwww) pornographic images of a woman, I tend to think that you're looking at someone who was abused by her father and then exploited by a male-dominated industry. When I see pornographic images of a man, I tend to think that you're looking at someone who maybe isn't all that bright but who has nonetheless figured out the best way to generate a revenue stream from his most valuable assets. I realize that analysis likely drastically oversimplifies the facts on the ground, but I still think that it's pretty easy to find male pornography where the actors/models were willing, informed, and compensated participants. In other words, when I look at porn, I'm not exploiting anybody. And the same is true when I enter into any consensual sex act.

The simple fact is that my voracious love of the male nether regions, in and of itself, doesn't hurt anyone. There are lots of potentially harmful ways in which that voracious love could find expression, but unless and until I'm doing something harmful, then everyone should just back off. If you don't like gay sex, then don't have it.

I realize that I am largely preaching to the choir here. Certainly there is puritanism within the gay community, but I don't reckon most of those people would bother reading this blog. I know there are readers of mine who are in monogamous relationships, and, really, more power to you. Unlike others, I believe that it's possible for some gay men to be happier and more fulfilled within the context of an exclusive sexual relationship. I'm just not one of those gay men. But hopefully those for whom monogamy works will be grateful that it works for them and not judge the others for whom it's not entirely satisfactory.

And if not, well, I'm not going to worry about it. I'm going to worry about my commute, and if I get too anxious, then I'm going to contemplate this:

Travelog(ue) X: Roman Roundup

Pickpockets notwithstanding, we had a terrific time in Rome. Sadly, I must say that our hotel there, near the Porta Maggiore, is the only place we stayed for which I cannot provide an unqualified recommendation. The room was clean and quit spacious, but given the price and the season, the location was a bit remote, and the breakfast was slightly subpar. It's only real problem, though, was the lift. We were three floors up from the lobby, and the lift (the stairs, for some reason, didn't go to the
lobby) took one minute and forty-five seconds to go from the lobby to our floor. On the plus side, it only took a minute and twenty-five seconds to come down. The lift also had a habit of stopping on occasion, just because, though it would generally start up again when you pushed your floor button again. Anyway, the view from the window was nice enough, and there was even a balcony.

Apparently, it's impossible to go to Rome and not make fun of the monument to Vittorio Emanuele II. Most people think it's extremely ugly and tacky, but I think that it's extremely tacky and only moderately ugly. I guess I grade on a curve.

You need to plan at least a day to explore ruins in Rome. Fortunately, the VEII monument is very close to the forum, so you can point and laugh in passing. All that pointing and laughing will take it out of you, though, so stop and have a cappuccino before descending into the bowels of Ancient Rome.

Someone who sat next to us on the train from Florence said that the great thing about Rome is that you're walking on things that people have walked on for four thousand years. I didn't bother to check whether his timeline was right. I thought he was a bit pompous. He told us that he and his wife "work so that they can travel." I guess that's a lot more fun than working so that you can pay your kids' tuition, but I sometimes think that people who overly romanticize travel are simply unhappy at home. I'm sure I've said that before. I spend a lot of time wondering whether I'm repeating myself here, but in the long run, I never really worry about it. In any case, how ever many years they've been there, and how ever many people have walked on them, the ruins are extremely impressive and beautiful.

One of the displays posted near the forum said that excavation, etc. is an ongoing business. We saw a bunch of students doing some digging. Apparently, once they've gotten everything dug up, then they'll decide how much they need to keep. I regard this as an internal matter. Why did Constantinople get the works? It's nobody's business but the Turks, people.

After spending a while wandering through the forum, we headed over to the Colosseum. It's really big. You might even say colossal. We had great weather while we were in Italy. We always have great weather when we go on vacation. (I'm pretty sure I've said that before, but I am not worrying about it. See how consistent I am?)

You have to buy a ticket to enter the Colosseum, but the same ticket also gives you admission to the Palantine Hill, which is not far away. You get some of the best views of Rome from up on the hill.

There is also a good deal of interesting vegetation there, including orange trees and olive trees, both with fruit. It would have been easy to pick and take out an orange, and I really, really wanted to. But of course, I didn't. It would also have been easy to pick and take out a handful of olives, and I really, really wanted to.

The day after we saw the ruins, etc., we went to the Vatican Museums. B&c insisted that we get there early, so we waited in a very long line for over an hour before the opening time. Then the line moved pretty quickly because the Vatican Museums are huge and can hold many people. The line to get to the entrance passes right by this.

I will have more to say later about the Disneyfication of Italy, especially Venice, but for now, I'll just point out that it was highly appropriate to pass that poster outside the entrance. The Vatican Museums are not so much like other museums where people mill about in various parts. They're much more like a ride at Disneyland where everyone takes the same route past the same artworks. You can, of course, stop to linger in the Modern art section when you spot Dali's Annunciation, but everyone else will march right on by on their way to the promised land: the Sistine Chapel. Near the entrance to the ride museum, there's a cool ramp that doesn't seem to be used. I think they rent it out to roller derby teams on weeknights, but I'm not sure.

Despite being in the Vatican, all along the way, you'll see a good deal of pagan imagery.

When you get to the Sistine Chapel, it is both pointless and forbidden to take pictures, but many people still do. The guards are quite aggressive with the "No photo!" but they are only intermittently successful. While we were there, one guard kept sneaking through the crowd so that he could creep up on someone with his or her camera pointed at the ceiling and say "No photo!" loudly in his or her ear. People were nonplussed by this behavior, but I found it funny.

Wherever you are in Rome, it's easy to get around with their splendid public transit system. For 11 euros, you can get a three day pass good for the subway and all the buses. This is a terrific deal. The buses go everywhere. And most of them have no pickpockets.

The subways are clean, fast, and frequent. The signage is, for the most part, very easy to understand. Here's what you see on the doors.

The lower right sign pretty clearly means "No executions, even on weekends." I was almost certain that the upper left sign meant "Please do not give birth on the subway," but then I read the caption, and I understood it was a warning against using appoggiaturas while singing on the subway. As it happened, I was humming a bit haphazardly, and an argument erupted on the train. My accuser denounced my apparent appoggiaturas, but a defender stepped forward to claim that they were clearly acciaccaturas. The argument was about to come to blows until I apologetically muttered "Rubato." Both men glared at me, but I had given them a means of saving face. Italians arguing over ornamentation is just so over.

The guidebook said that the Spanish Steps is where people go to be seen and to hook up. I didn't see any hooking up, but there is no shortage of beautiful people trying to be seen anywhere in Rome.




Sometimes the beautiful people are out helping their girlfriends shop for shoes, though. The Romans have really taken metrosexuality to a bit of an extreme, but I suppose that, too, is an internal matter. Even old New York was once New Amsterdam, after all.

If you really want to be seen, you take a job with the Italian lottery.

It's an open question whether those suits are beautiful, but they certainly can't be missed.

Whenever I travel abroad, I try my best to visit the local supermarkets (and at least one laundromat). The supermarkets in Italy were terrific, but so, too, were the open markets. We found this one by chance when we were coming back to the hotel to get warmer clothing on Saturday. The prices were very reasonable there, and it was all locals shopping.

The open market at the Campo di Fiori also gets locals, but it is somewhat more of a tourist attraction.

But the prices were not unreasonable, for the most part. I especially liked the Holstein espresso makers, but we did not acquire one.

I did acquire some porcini flavored bouillon cubes, and a cheap device for cutting vegetables into spirals. Mostly I just salivated, though.

I am a sucker for window gardens.

On our last day in Rome, we walked down to the small island in the middle of the Tibur. There is not much there except for a hospital. But the river itself is pretty.


Somewhere not far from the river we had the best meal we had in all of Rome. It was a late lunch, and I started with the marinated eggplant (melanzane marinate) and then had some green gnocchi in a gorgonzola sauce. We also shared a liter of wine, of course. If you're going to be in Rome, let me know, and I'll give you the address. Un giorno senza gorgonzola e como un giorno senza sole. I probably didn't say that right, but I don't speak Italian.

I went to Rome without a list of things that needed to be seen. B&c had a list, and I went along with his list as far as possible, but mostly I just wanted to enjoy the city, and I very much did. I'm aware how little of the city I saw, but it's always a good thing to know that if you go back, you'll still be exploring. Some day -- when the exchange rate's better -- I would like to go back with a small group of friends and share an apartment for a fortnight or a month. I acknowledge that the list of places where I'd like to do that is quite long, but a boy can dream.

Lest We Forget: Some NSFW Porn

For the record, you wouldn't see the guy above in Italy. The Italians do not wear flip flops on the street. If you're in Italy, and you see a guy in flip flops, he's an American. The same is true of anyone wearing his jeans halfway down his ass so that several inches of his boxers show: it's a look the Italians just don't get. I did see one Italian in shorts and flip flops when I was in Rome, but it was before 7 in the morning, and he was out letting his dog relieve itself. I'm sure that he'd have been mortified if any of his friends had seen him.

Anyway, I'm aware that a disproportionate percentage of my referrals come from sites that list me as NSFW/pornography. I'm further aware that those treasured readers who actually enjoy my spouting also enjoy pictures of naked men and narratives of my sexual activities. So let's do that. I am, after all, extremely pro-porn. Back to Italy another day.

I'm reaching back a few years for this story. I've been thinking about it recently for reasons that I'll explain later.

I was hanging out on gay.com one day, maybe five or six years ago, and I got a message from a married guy who was looking to play with a top. He said he was mostly a terrific cocksucker, but that he had a very tight ass and was willing to do just about anything safe. There was no picture: he said he needed to be discreet. He was house sitting for his boss, and where he wanted to meet was not too far away, so I decided to drive over.

He wasn't there. I waited for ten minutes, got pissed off and left. But then I needed a soda, and the place was a gas station, so I headed back, and he was there, apologizing profusely and asking me if I wanted to head back to where he was staying. He looked great: late thirties, tall, blond, smooth, goateed, and eager. I got in the car and followed him to a big house on a couple of acres of land. I followed him inside, and when he turned around to tell me that we could go upstairs, I pushed him against the wall and started to kiss him and tug on his nipples. One of them was pierced.

He seemed to lose his train of thought then, and maybe all knowledge of who and where he was, so when we'd kissed for a few minutes, I said, "Upstairs?" and he nodded. I followed him up, squeezing his ass through his jeans. I know I say I do that with a lot of guys, but that's just because it's so damned fun. And they always seem to respond as if no one's ever done it before. I don't really get how any top can resist an ass that's been offered to them, but maybe they're too busy checking their own hair or something. Whatever.

When we got to the (very large) bedroom, I shoved him down on the (very large) bed and went to work on him. I got on top of him and resumed making out. Great lips, great technique, immense eagerness. As hard as it was to stop kissing him, I felt the need to suck his nipples through his t-shirt, and I was rewarded with prolonged moaning, especially as I concentrated on the pierced one. He seemed to have pretty good tolerance. Later I learned that there'd been pain as well as pleasure for him but that he really didn't know how to say "no." Or even "easy!"

He did know how to beg, though, and he started asking to suck my cock. I pulled his t-shirt up to allow me unobstructed access to his nips, and worked them a little harder. That made him inarticulate for a while, but before long, he was asking again to suck my cock. I pulled his t-shirt over his head, but left his arms tangled up in it and held his wrists down and kissed him long and deep. Then I figured I should give him what he wanted, so I got rid of my slacks and briefs and straddled his chest.

I teased him for a while, pushing my cock up to his lips and letting him just lick the tip before pulling it away. He strained to bring his head forward, and I rose on my knees and pushed into him. He really was a champ cocksucker. He took it well even from that awkward angle and even when I started to fuck his face.

Fucking face is fun, of course, but this guy had a great body and a great attitude, and I wanted to explore both. I pulled the shirt all the way off him, held his wrists down with my hands, and began to kiss him again. He still had his jeans on, and when I rubbed my cock against them, I could feel that they were wet with precum but that he wasn't hard. I unzipped them and pulled his cock out. I remarked that it looked like it would be pretty big if hard. He told me that it was a full eight inches when hard but that he was nervous. I told him that it really wasn't that big a deal to me if he didn't get an erection and that I was turned on by the heavy precum. Then I zipped him back into the jeans and we made out and I twisted his nips for a while longer.

When his jeans were good and soaked, I pulled them off, wadded them up, and pushed them into his face. Then I moved down, pushed his legs forward and began to eat his very smooth, very clean ass. Lots more moaning, lots more precum. It was an especially nice ass, so I rolled him on to his stomach, spread his cheeks with my hands, and really dove in. Every so often, I'd ease off with my tongue so that I could bite right near his asshole where the backs of his thighs met his cheeks. He was golden all over, without tan lines, and he just really turned me on.

After a while, I lay back and let him give me some prolonged head. I bent my knees and closed my eyes, and he swallowed my whole cock, gluttonously. I'm not sure how long that went on, but I think we were about an hour into the whole session when I tugged him around so that I could eat his ass some more while he went on with my cock. I wouldn't have thought he could get any more greedy with my cock, but when I shoved my tongue in his ass, it was like I'd hit a switch, and he redoubled his efforts.

It was all great, especially when I could keep eating his ass and slide my hands between us so that I could pull down hard on his nipples. After a while, though, I was eager to fuck him. I'm generally more willing than eager to plow a bottom, but he had me more worked up than usual. I told him to put a condom on me, and he did. He asked me to go easy at first because he hadn't been fucked all that much, and he was afraid he might be too tight for me.

I'm sure he was being honest about not having been fucked much, but the fact was that his hole naturally was tight enough to be fun but not even close to being too tight to get into. Once he was lubed up, it just wasn't that hard to get into him, and it didn't seem like he had that much trouble taking it, though, again, it wasn't in his nature to complain.

It was a pretty good fuck, though not nearly so much fun as the rest of it. We started face to face, with his legs pulled up, and we worked our way through the usual positions: him on his side with me straddling his leg, him on his back on the side of the bed with me standing up, him on his stomach with me lying on top of him. I knew I wasn't going to cum that way, though, so after a while, I got rid of the condom and laid him on his back with his head hanging over the edge of the bed. Then I stood up, grabbed his nipples, and started to fuck his face. It was great, and he swallowed.

We'd been at it for two hours, so we both showered and dressed. We chatted for a while. He was married and had three kids. He really liked men, but he didn't know what to do about it. We exchanged email addresses, and I didn't expect to ever hear from him again, but it was an amazing session, and I definitely called my friends to brag about it.

I did email him a couple of months later. He wrote back to say that he'd been caught playing by his wife who had then outed him at work, so that he lost his job. He'd taken something in retail management, at less than half his old salary, and he'd moved in with roommates. His kids were mad at him, and he was so depressed that he sometimes started crying in the middle of a hookup.

I told him that I'd been through most of the same things and expressed some sympathy, and he thanked me. Not long afterwards, I saw him on gay.com, and we chatted for a long while, and he thanked me again. Every six months or a year or so, I'd see him or email him, and he'd write back. He'd moved from Maryland to Virginia, and he was interested in hooking up again, but he was too far away, and we both had complications. He had a boyfriend who he didn't get to see enough as it was, and I'd started seeing b&c. But it was always good to chat with him, and he often expressed regret that things hadn't settled so that the two of us could be friends easily. Or at least fuck occasionally.

A month or so ago, when I'd gotten back from taking EFU to college, I thought of him for the first time in a long time and remembered that he had kids who were about the same age as mine. I emailed him, but the message came back as undeliverable. He'd abandoned the address. I checked his gay.com profile, and he hadn't logged in in over a year.

Obviously, we didn't know each other well, but we had a great time, and it was the sort of encounter that taught me to be thankful for the really great times you have rather than annoyed because you don't get to do it again. I think about it rarely, but when I do, it still sticks out as one of my favorite sessions. I hope that he's okay, wherever he is.