Suddenly Last/Next Summer

Yesterday, over at Franck's, I was reading about his weekend trip (the boy travels a lot) to the beach (Papamoa Beach. "Papamoa" is Maori for "copious sex under the influence of alcohol," in case you're wondering.), and he happened to mention a lifeguard competition over at some place called Mount Maunganui. He didn't give us any pictures, though. I assume that's because he was naked in all the pictures and his massive, massive cock crowded out all the hot men in Speedos, but that could just be an Internet rumor. I mean, sure, it sounds impressive, but you have to figure that an eighteen-inch penis* would cause some logistical difficulties. It would, though, explain why his last eight boyfriends have died, but died happy.


Anyway, I did find pictures that looked like they were of the lifeguard competition, but these aren't they. They're just general Mount Maunganui beach photos. I thought you might enjoy them, even though they're SFW (sorry!), because for most of us it's winter now. It is, of course, summer in New Zealand. You knew that, right? Of course you did. I'm very aware of those surveys where 85% of American high school graduates can't find Canada on a globe. I'm figuring a similar percentage don't quite get how the seasons work, but surely my readers are not among the ignorant masses.


I suppose one shouldn't generalize from a limited data set, but there were a lot of pictures of a lot of different men at Mount Maunganui, enabling me to determine the following:


Everyone in New Zealand has the body of a lifeguard.


New Zealand is currently experiencing a severe fabric shortage, meaning that only the very wealthy can afford anything larger than a Speedo. I also conclude that spandex prices are kept artificially low by the government. ("Maunganui," by the way is Maori for "banana hammock.")


The guy who took these pictures is clearly a bottom. I looked hard for good ass shots (well, don't I always?), but there were none to be had.


Other things that are in short supply in New Zealand include body hair, body fat, and people of color.


New Zealanders love having their pictures taken.


No one who lives in New Zealand ever emigrates. Would you?



*Please don't go bother Franck with offers to service his monstrous meat: I made the whole eighteen-inch penis thing up. I was going to make a joke about having confused inches and centimeters, but then it might sound like I have actual knowledge of his endowment, and I don't. (I'm sure it's more than adequate, however.) Similarly, I have no authoritative evidence as to how many, if any, former boyfriends he has fucked to death. Also, my Maori translations are, shall we say, loose.

I'll Take Potpourri for One Thousand, Alex

Jasper, the guy I tie to the bed and edge for between one and two hours once a year, e-mailed me on Monday to say that he'd just found out he had to do a presentation for work on Tuesday night, so we'd have to reschedule. I could moan about the inconstancy of corporate lawyers, but I wasn't particularly surprised or disappointed. I'll have him tied to the bed sooner or later, probably some time in February, and I still had some leftover mellowness from the two-and-a-half-hour romp with the older virgin from Monday. Anyway, there's no tale of bondage to report, so you're getting miscellany today.


I did, of course, try to get something else going last night, but a twenty-two-year-old bisexual submissive flaked on me, and my other modest efforts came to naught. Sometimes I feel a pang of something -- not guilt, but perhaps regret -- that I'm so driven to look for sex. The inner critic tells me that there's something more productive I could be doing with that time, that if I just had a nice half-hour wank, I'd still have plenty of the evening left to do whatever. The problem is the whatever. I suppose I could write a novel or spend more time on my voice or take up quilting (all serious options), or I could just get a Netflix subscription and queue. But then I remember that over the course of a year, I have about fifteen evenings that are really my own, and I still have at least one unviewed Almodovar film from the bunch of them that b&c got me for my last birthday, which was about 359days ago. When you have to stuff a year's worth of compulsion into fifteen evenings, well, the inner critic can suck it.


Anyway, I spent less time than usual in a fruitless search, so I still had time for some phone sex, a few chapters of the trashy-but-engaging novel I'm currently reading and about half of the DVD of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, all accompanied by Buffalo Bleu Kettle Chips.


I've decided that heaven is a comfortable bedroom, two very different but attractive men to play with, and a limitless supply of Kettle Chips in both the Salt and Freshly Ground Pepper and the Buffalo Bleu flavors.


Hell, of course, is having to choose.


I know I'm not the first person to notice this, but lately, I've run into a disturbing number of men who want to have sex with me but lose interest when I say that I won't fuck them bareback. These guys tend to fall into two broad categories: young guys and married submissives. I reckon the young guys are simply poorly informed and/or stupid. The married subs are harder to explain. One of them told me the other day that taking my cum was an essential element of submission for him. I told him that I didn't understand why taking it down his throat was any less submissive, but clearly he and I see the world very differently. You would think that married men would be the most careful about avoiding all manner of sexually transmitted unpleasantness (nothing outs a man to his wife faster than when she wakes up with a case of crabs), but I suspect that most of these guys fantasize about submission often but have actual sex (either inside or outside the marriage) very rarely. The married sub that I had planned to play with in Hartford -- before YFU decided to come along on the trip -- sent me an IM the other night. It turns out that he and his wife never have sex. He also said that they don't have any children. When I asked him why they stay married, he only said, "Good question." I'm pretty sure that he stays married so that he can avoid acknowledging that he's gay, but whatever, you know?


I've been diligent about posting daily lately because I soon won't have much or any time to post. I think it's silly when blogs go on hiatus, and my eyes roll clear out of my head and down Route 70 all the way to Kansas City whenever someone talks about "blogicide," but if posting becomes irregular between mid-February and mid-April, you'll understand that it's simply a matter of my job eating my brain. That's exactly how I picture my job, by the way: as a big, gruesome zombie that walks around saying, "Brains! Braaaaaains! How quickly can I write off these brains?"

The Fifty-Five-Year-Old Virgin

I put an ad on craigslist yesterday. I still had a slightly bruised ego from Sunday, and I wanted to play with someone I hadn't fucked before. I got the usual range of promising and unpromising replies, including this one:

Virgin bottom here would like to find out what penetration is all about; you look like a fine specimen: could suck you long before you plug me.

There was a picture attached, and, frankly, the picture was a bit scary, but scary in an I'm-trying-to-get-a-sexy-picture-for-craigslist-hookups-and-I-have-no-idea-that-an-overly-excited-smile-and-bad-flash-is-really-not-the-way-to-go sort of way. The guy was clearly fit, and I figured his total lack of lips was an artifact of the flash. Plus, there was something about his reply that hinted of articulacy, or at least intelligence. On the other hand, there was much about his reply that hinted of naivete. A two-edged sword: on the one hand, I absolutely believed that he was a virgin; on the other, a guy who doesn't understand that the thick cock he wants to suck on might have some trouble penetrating a virgin ass has potential for difficulty. So while I was intrigued, I figured that I should also educate him, so I wrote back:

I'm not opposed, as a matter of principle, to fucking a virgin ass, but I do have a very thick cock, so I want you to know what you're getting yourself into. I take plenty of time preparing an ass for penetration, whether it's virgin or not, and I do like it when a guy goes down on me while I'm getting him ready.

I also asked for a few particulars, which he had failed to supply. His rejoinder:

Thanks for your cordial reply and the warning of thikness. To be honest, this is my greatest fear: being torn a new one.
[The exurb where I live] is convenient and as I am "in-between contracts" can be available any time. I'm a young 55 and that is a recent picture. Kissing and touching is a real turn on.

Do you think less of me, readers, because I am willing to entertain men who have severe problems with both spelling and subject-verb agreement? I know I do, but I try to keep my priorities in line. In any case, I explained, in my next reply, that "torn a new one" is almost always used metaphorically and that injury only occurs when someone's doing something very wrong. Then I talked about lube. In his next email, he quoted Zappa: "keep it greasy so it goes down easy," and I was determined to have him. Any man who loves Zappa is going to be great in the sack. We exchanged a few more emails and arranged for him to show up at my place at 8.


As often happens, I stayed at the office a bit longer than I'd intended, and I had to rush to make it home in time to shower and dress again. It is one of the unfortunate facts of my life that I'm very much a grower rather than a shower, so I am never naked when I greet my intimate guests. In fact, I always make them wait a while before removing my pants and then a while longer before removing my shorts. I'm usually stiff soon after we start kissing, but making them wait makes sure that they don't see my cock until it's at its most impressive. Call me vain, but it also helps to assert that I'm the one who's leading the session. Anyway, I had only barely gotten dressed when the doorbell rang, and I went downstairs to let Stan in.

As I'd expected, his picture didn't do him justice. He was entirely nice looking and had real lips. They were almost plump, even. Naturally, I kissed him immediately, which took him back a bit. "Wow, soft lips," he said as he pulled away. I think he needed a moment to regroup, so he bent down to untie and remove his shoes. I went along, and we had about seven seconds of small talk while he was bent over. I may have groped his behind, but that was just me being friendly. I pointed him up the stairs, and as he commented on the neighborhood, I squeezed his buttocks. One at a time, alternately: I didn't want to scare him.


He mentioned, as he got to the landing, that because my ad had said that I was 420-friendly but didn't have any, he'd brought some along. [Remember back in December when I said what that bringing wine as a gift for the host displays a regrettable lack of imagination? I've decided that bringing weed is perfectly appropriate.] I started to remove his jacket, and he said that the weed was in there, but I told him that we'd get to it in time, and then I kissed him again and eased him toward and then onto the bed. I wanted to shove him the way I do with most guys, but I figured I should just go easy, at least at the start.

So let me just get this out of the way instead of referring to it again and again and again. Virgins come in two varieties: those who are so scared that they can't properly enjoy it, and those who are like newly plowed fields [you know, the comparison that I want to use here is to C.S. Lewis' The Magician's Nephew, where Narnia is a brand new world, and if you drop something on the ground, it'll take root and grow, but if someone is ever searching for the Chronicles of Narnia and sex and is hoping to find hott nude Tilda-Swinton-as-Jadis pictures and finds this post instead, I will feel really, really bad. Or not.] and are extremely open to and appreciative of everything you do. Stan was the latter, and his openness and appreciation were expressed very loudly. So you just have to keep in mind that most of the following two-and-a-half hours were played at a very healthy volume. It was one of those times when I was really glad to live in a single-family home: in an apartment or townhouse, I'm afraid that the name of the blog would have been rather too literal.


Anyway, I got him on his back and got on top of him and resumed kissing him. He was a pretty good kisser, especially if you allow for the difficulty of kissing someone who's constantly uttering something between a moan and a scream. I slid my hand up under his sweater and shirt and started in on his nipples, which, the evidence suggests, no one had ever done before. After a while I started working on them with my tongue and then just a very little bit with my teeth. After maybe fifteen minutes of working him at a three or maybe a four on the nipple scale, he said something about either "near torture" or "dear torture," but it was kind of hard to tell: his articulacy goes right out the window when you work on his nipples, apparently. In any case, he didn't ask me to stop, and I really didn't think I was being rough with them, so I kept it up until he'd been writhing and screaming for a good while. As soon as I stopped, he started telling me how great it had been, and I suggested that we try some of his weed.

Since this was only the second time I've smoked pot, you'll have to forgive my total ignorance, but he produced a pipe that looked like an ordinary tobacco pipe in miniature, and he said something about being near the bottom of the bowl and how I probably deserved a fresh bowl, but it all went over my head. In any case, I got about 1.5 good inhalations before he said that it was exhausted. Thank God (and some vocal training, probably) that I didn't embarrass myself by coughing. He didn't offer to refill the bowl, but I think that was because he was rather eager to get back to the sex. In any case, I probably got something from the weed -- it's hard to tell, I guess, when you're having such a great time anyway -- but I never got that giddy, baked feeling that I'd gotten the last time.


Stan got naked before he came back to the bed. He has a nice body: fair and mostly smooth, with just a small patch of barely visible hair in the middle of his chest. I went back to the lips and nips, of course, and he started to grope my crotch. I got him back to the point of shaking all over, and after a while more of that, he said he really wanted to play with my cock, so I pulled off my pants and boxers and let him have to. His technique is not quite there, but he was very eager, so it was all good. After a while longer, I pulled him back for some more making out. When he begged to back to my cock again, I told him that would only work if I could play with his ass. So he straddled my chest, facing south, and bent down to suck on me some more, and I spread his ass cheeks and dove in. Usually this is where a guy starts to shake and moan, but since Stan was shaking and moaning just from going down on me, the difference wasn't as noticeable. Still, he was obviously having a good time.

We were probably about an hour in when I started rimming him. After a bit more of that, I wet a finger and stuck it in and started to massage his prostate. He was, fortunately, extremely clean. I would have taken more time with that, but his cocksucking was more energetic than controlled, and my cockhead was starting to feel just a tiny bit sore. After exploring with different, but still single, fingers, I went for a second finger, and it seemed okay. But after a few minutes of that, he pulled off me and said that he was worried about taking my cock because the fingers made him "feel a little raw." I explained that I hadn't used any lube yet because I was still eating his ass, but that the lube would help. So I got it out, and, using a healthy amount of it, I got one, then two, then three, then four fingers into him. I managed to twist my fingers around while they were inside, and he was really getting into it. When I told him that if he could take four fingers, he could take my cock, he was eager to try, so I handed him the condom, and he unwrapped it and put it on me.

The thing I hate about lube is that when you go from fingers to cock, it's not so easy to get your hands de-lubed so that you can go back to working on the guy's nipples or any other place that you're eventually going to want to put your mouth again. But I wiped myself pretty clean on a pillowcase and my thigh, so that when he started to lower himself onto my cock, I could lightly twist both nipples and enjoy it. Stan sat down on me like a champ, and before long he was bobbing up and down and really getting an idea for what penetration is all about. After a few minutes of that, I tried lowering him to the X position, but I popped out of him when he moved too far away, so I got on my knees and pushed his knees up to his chest to take him face to face. He was obviously into it, and we were both well lubed, so I fucked him pretty hard. And it just went on like that for maybe another fifteen minutes. I had to keep asking him whether he was okay because, even just lying there, he was working so hard with all the writhing and screaming and what not.


Anyway, I figured a breather was in order, so I pulled out and we lay next to each other with me nuzzling his nipple. I told him that I was very impressed with any man who had the ability to carry on a conversation while I was working on his nipple, and he laughed, and we started to talk. I asked him what his deal was: it was obvious to me that he was a virgin, but he was such a natural and enjoyed it so much that I wondered why he'd never done it before. "Either you were married or you were in the priesthood. Or you were in prison, but then you'd know all about buttsex." He said that none of the above applied, and that he'd always been straight and was probably still bisexual, but he'd seen some gay porn and really wanted to try it and that if he could find a woman to treat him the way I'd treated him, he'd be a happy man. "Buy here a strap-on, Stan." Then there was some discussion of favorite authors and transcendentalism and ineffability, and then he was on his feet saying, "TED, I think we should call this our first time." And I was thinking, well, hell, we could hardly call it our second time, but he continued with "You've exhausted me."

As if. I pulled him back onto the bed and asked him whether he had a plane to catch. He said he was free, so I told him to just lie back. He said that he'd very nearly ejaculated while I was fucking and wondered whether it was possible to have an orgasm without ejaculating, and I told him that it was, but that I thought there was more to come. It was obvious that he was slightly upset because both of us were flaccid, but, geez, I'd been hard for an hour and a half. What am I, sixteen? And then there was this exchange.

STAN: This was the best sex I've ever had.
TED: Dude, you're a virgin. You've never been fucked. You've probably given like three blowjobs before you met me, right?
STAN: Yeah. How did you know?
TED: Educated guess. I appreciate the praise, but the bar hasn't been set very high, has it?
STAN: No, I mean it was amazing. It was even better than any sex I've had with a woman.
TED: Oh, please. Like women are any good at sex. But thanks. My first experience with a guy was truly memorable, so I do what I can with inexperienced guys. And you were great, too.
STAN: You're not bored?
TED: Oh hell no.
STAN: But you're all soft, and you didn't shoot.
TED: I know you won't believe this, but I have pretty much managed to make sex and ejaculation independent phenomena. You, however, are not so evolved.

And then I took his frenulum between my thumb and forefinger and rubbed them together until he was hard and inarticulate again. That took about fifteen seconds, and then I spent the next twenty minutes alternating between kissing him and sucking on his nipples while I stroked him and going down on him. He had a nice thin cock, so it was pretty easy for me to take (especially for forty-five seconds at a go), and he was very appreciative. Eventually, he told me that if I didn't stop what I was doing (at the time, I had one of his nipples between my teeth and was giving his cock full-length strokes), he would cum soon.


I didn't stop what I was doing, and he came. I held him for a bit and we talked some more. That was mostly more of him telling me how good I was. I generally find that sort of praise tedious, but I was feeling extremely content and mellow, so I kissed him a few more times then got up to get a towel to wipe up his semen. He sat up and leaned against me, and I ran my hands across his chest and back. He got up and put on his underwear and then sat back down. I explained to him that when I'm in a mood like I was then, I won't stop touching a guy and that he was welcome to stay and be touched for as long as he liked, that it was equally cool if he was ready to leave, but that he shouldn't expect me to stop playing with him while he was within arm's reach. He got up again and put on his shirt and then sat back down and leaned against me again, so I pulled him down for another kiss.

We went through the same steps with his sweater and then his pants, and then he thanked me again (and again) and I walked him to the front door. He said that he wanted to play again. I told him that he was more than welcome to play again but that if, upon further reflection, he didn't, I would not feel bad. I'd certainly do him again at any opportunity, but he's at a point in his sexual development where things are changing very rapidly, and guys like that often decide not to go for a repeat, for varied and often unclear reasons. I don't know whether I'll hear from him again (But it was the best sex I've had this year, and if it hadn't been for the truly stellar romp I had just before the new year, it would probably be the best sex I've had in months.), but it is really better to be grateful for the fantastic sex you did have than to regret the additional fantastic sex you thought you might have, but didn't. If you replace "fantastic sex" with "joy," then you have some very good words to live by. The world would be a much happier place if everyone did that.

Sunday

Most of my gay friends who are about my age have settled into a life with plenty of time for leisure. They have jobs that require, more or less, forty hours a week and pay enough to fund their 401(k) plans, and they don't have kids to worry about. Some of these wonderful, wonderful people will go so far as to call me up on a Saturday at the end of February and say, "Hey, I'm on my way to the airport for a trip to Mexico! What are you doing? Oh, right! You're at the office doing taxes. Have fun!" I exaggerate, of course: they only say the first part of that. I hang up on them midway through the second sentence.


Anyway, even though my workload won't become truly crushing for another month, I'm now at the point where I at least need to make an appearance at the office on Saturday. Saturdays at the office will become longer and longer, but I've already hit the point where the weekend is pretty much down to Sunday. This year, for the first time in a while, I've decided not to give up choir during tax season, so Sunday morning's also spoken for. This weekend, I had YFU until late Sunday afternoon, by which time b&c was on a plane to Miami. That left me Sunday evening for myself.


Sunday evenings are already the red-headed stepchild of weekends: you know you're getting closer and closer to Monday morning, and you can't stay up real late. So maybe it's best not to clog them with troublesome young submissive wannabes. Fortunately, that situation worked itself out. I got an IM from the boy saying that his girlfriend said she would be "totally pissed" at him if he shaved his body and that he hoped I would understand and only tie him down and spank him savagely instead. He'd already tried earlier to bargain me down to just shaving his ass. I wouldn't have any of that, and I wasn't having any of this. I told him that if his girlfriend could tell him what he could do with his own body hair then he didn't need me to dominate him. I further suggested that he buy her a strap-on. But I was relieved that the whole thing had fallen through.


Not long after I wrote the boy off, I got a text from Kip saying that he was horny. I told him I could play at 5:30. In his initial text accepting, he called me "sir," and I figured that he knew b&c was out of town, but then when he texted to say he was on his way over, he said "C u guys soon." I didn't feel the need to disabuse him of the notion until he arrived.

Kip, for those of you who haven't read or don't remember, has always been a problem because he makes himself out to be a big old bottom, but at the last minute, he's always backed out of getting fucked, claiming that a) I'm too thick and b) he never really gets fucked. a) stuff and b) nonsense. B&c always makes the problem worse by going down on Kip, which makes him lose any interest in what anyone else wants. Anyway, I was determined to get what I wanted out of (or rather, into) him this time or make it clear that I wasn't interested in playing any more. When he arrived, I kissed him, told him that b&c was in Miami, and squeezed his ass as he walked up the stairs. He didn't wait to be invited, of course.


He kept trying to take his clothes off, and I kept stopping him and throwing him on the bed. Kip's about 5'4 and 120, so "throwing" is meant literally here. There was a lot of necking and nipple play. Eventually, I did take his shirt and jeans off. He was wearing this ridiculous, large pair of red boxer shorts. Very disappointing in that he often wears a jockstrap, and I had really wanted to fuck him with his cock still covered. Anyway, things took their course for a while, and eventually I had my tongue up his ass (waaaaay up his ass), and he was playing with my cock, but not sucking it, which annoys me. And then he started turning around and sticking his cute little cock in my face, asking me to fuck him. I told him no. He asked again and said, "Just suck it: I won't cum," and I told him no and shoved his crotch away from my face. I put him on his stomach, got some lube, and pushed a couple of fingers into him, and then I put on a condom.


I maybe should have spent more time preparing him, but I had about had it up to here with him, so I spread some more lube on the condom and started to push into him. I was going very slowly, and he was opening up, but then he told me he couldn't take it. I put him in a different position and tried again, but still no go. I tried two more times with two more positions, but he started to whine and say he couldn't take it and I should just tie him up instead. I'm convinced his problem is mental (i.e., he's a douchebag) instead of physiological, so I told him to leave. The boy's a good kisser, and he's cute, but a bottom who doesn't suck cock and doesn't take it up the ass and only wants to be sucked off is, well, a top. Kip seemed very upset as he was leaving, but I reckon that was mostly because he hadn't gotten a blowjob. He already uses b&c for sex on demand, but I am nobody's bitch. Well, except for the girls, of course, but that's just being a father, and they're very nice about it.

Not long after Kip left, b&c called to say that he'd arrived safely and was at his hotel, and I told him the whole story, which he found highly amusing. I think I'm mostly relieved that I won't have to deal with Kip again, but at the time, I was also horny. I probably should have called Christopher, but I would have felt guilty. Maybe I should see if he wants to help me out with my sub on Tuesday. Anyway, I did get back on gay.com for a while, and there was a married guy who was hot to have me fuck him, but he was having trouble deciding that he really wanted to go through with it. After stringing me along for half an ahour and asking me for the third time whether I was sure that I'm HIV negative, he finally blew me off because I insisted on using a condom while I fucked him. Apparently, he figures that guys who use condoms are more likely to be positive than guys who don't. Having sex, even protected, with a guy that stupid has just got to be dangerous.


So I went for the Vesuvial wank instead. Sometimes I get caught up in the hunt and forget just how much fun it can be to have the house to myself and spend forty-five minutes jerking off. Then I read trashy fiction for a while before settling down with some Kettle chips (the salt and freshly ground pepper flavor: so good) to watch Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon on DVD.

I'd forgotten just how much I love that movie. When it first came out, I had not seen anything like it from a special effects point of view. I didn't watch many martial arts movies, and I hadn't seen The Matrix in the theater. So in addition to the really terrific story and performances, I was blown away by all the dancing over rooftops and battling through bamboo forests. And the drums.


I had liked CT,HD so much that I'd gone to see it again in the theater, but I'd made the mistake of going there on a sort of date, and I couldn't keep myself from molesting the guy I was with. We were in the back row, and I had my hand inside his fly and was playing with his cock for a while when he suggested that we leave. We were only halfway through the movie, but I took him back to my apartment and fucked him. He was an okay lay, but only okay. I haven't fondled a guy in a movie theater in a long time, but the next time I want to do it, I'm going to make sure that it's a terrible movie. Who wants to walk out on Chow-Yun Fat to have sex that would more aptly be described as decent than indecent?

A Little Liszt

I have no idea who the hot redhead in the above picture is, but given the dog he has in his lap, it's a safe bet that he's an eager and skilled bottom. I mostly posted his picture because it seemed à propos, given the nature of today's entry.

Last night, b&c and I traveled into DC to see the National Symphony Orchestra. The journey itself was not without eye rolling. The Kennedy Center had sent out an email during the week saying that, given the large number of events occurring simultaneously on Saturday nights, patrons would be well advised to arrive earlier than usual. This meant, naturally, that b&c wanted to leave at 6:30 for an 8:00 curtain. I just stared at him and said, "It's 6:30" and he got that exasperated look he gets when people don't immediately see the superior logic of his position and told me that he had just finished telling me that the KC had suggested arriving early in order to park. I bit back all of my replies: that the email had likely been intended for people who normally don't arrive early, rather than for people like us (i.e., him) who typically arrive before the velvet barriers come down; that since we don't use the KC's parking, we could probably afford not to worry quite so much about it; that he never seemed to show anything like the same concern for time when we were headed to a movie I wanted to see, even though we had reserved seats for the symphony and not for the movies. Instead, I sighed, and said, "Fine" and told YFU that we were leaving and would be back around 11. Then I promptly fell asleep in the car and woke up only when we arrived at the parking lot. At 7:15. At least I had plenty of time to read the program.

The concert last night started with Rouse's 2nd Symphony (very dramatic, very fun) and ended with the Ravel orchestration of Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition, which was beautifully played. In between, the headliner was Jean-Yves Thibaudet, as the soloist in a Liszt piano concerto. It didn't do all that much for me, alas, but I don't know whether to blame Liszt or Jean-Yves for that. B&c had told me before hand that a friend of his had once run into (not literally, one presumes, but who am I to judge?) M. Thibaudet at a Berlin bathhouse, so if you happened to be at the Crew Club earlier this week and got a blow job by a guy with strong hands and a great sense of rhythm, then it might have been him, particularly if the guy on his knees had blond highlights that he was really too old to pull off.

It's not easy to find a current picture of M. Thibaudet, but here's the one from the most recent MetroWeekly (he's been out forever, apparently). Note the very soft focus:


It's perhaps not surprising that he chooses not to be photographed in closeup. I kept thinking that Jean-Yves looked very familiar, and I was sure that I'd never seen him in person before. It finally occurred to me that his features were a perfect blending of


and


and



And, really, if you were setting out to make the Platonic ideal of a concert pianist, wouldn't you immediately think to mix equal parts of Barry Manilow, John Inman, and Frank Perdue? I know I would. Of course, two of the three are dead, but it's nice to know that they live on and play two hundred concerts a year. Here's the best picture I could find. I assume the red eye is an artifact of flash photography rather than evidence of demonic possession, but one never knows, do one?


Oddly enough, it's devilishly difficult to find pictures of nude men at or on a piano. Finding a nude woman on the piano (or at least a picture of same) is easy, but who wants to see that. But I hate to leave you without it, so here is a picture of a piano, followed by some pictures of nude men. Toss them together in your imagination, and you're there.

Bastard

There is nothing, readers, that we here at TNWH hate more than a moral dilemma. I am, of course, a deeply moral person, though it certainly can be said that I choose my morals somewhat more carefully than others do.


Anyway, there's this boy. He's 24, but I still think of that as a boy, and he likes to be called a boy, so there's this boy. And this boy wants to be dominated. He wants to be humiliated, and he wants to be force fed my cock and then he wants me to fuck him. And he says that he hasn't sucked a cock in a couple of years and hasn't been fucked in five years, and he wants it rough.

Naturally, he has a girlfriend. Or at least he says he does: I'm not entirely sure the girlfriend exists since every time he's chatted me up in the last couple of weeks, I've asked him whether he's been boning the girlfriend, and he always says that she's out of town. Anyway, that's not the moral dilemma. I have no problems sleeping with guys who have wives and girlfriends. What's the argument on that one usually? Something like, well, how would you like it if they did the same thing with your boyfriend? Go for it, dude.


The moral dilemma arises because of this boy's inability to shut up. He chats me up all the time, and he always wants to talk about what I'm going to do with and to him. In part, this sounds like typical wannabe behavior: he has a powerful fantasy that he may or may not like so much when it gets acted out. I do get the impression that this is a guy who'll actually show up and follow through (and if he doesn't, no great loss), but he still wants me to spend a lot of time telling him exactly what I'm going to do. I find such talk tedious. Besides: it's not like I plan the scenes out in advance and follow a script. But I'll usually chat some about what I'm going to do before I tell him that talk is cheap, just to keep him suitably horny and give him something to think about while he's jerking off.


But when you chat a lot before the initial meeting, there's an almost irresistible tendency to, well, escalate. So what started out as a simple push-him-to-his-knees-and-fuck-his-face-then-lube-him-up-and-fuck-his-ass sort of encounter has gotten embellished over time. Bondage, heavy nipple play, blindfolding, and spanking have all been added to the mix. A few days ago, I mentioned shaving him.


The boy is a furry lad, for sure. I reckon you'd call him a cub. And shaving guys is a definite turn on for me. I would, no doubt, have a terrific time turning some or all of him smooth. He initially seemed willing to go along with being shaved, perhaps because he was excited by everything else we were talking about and just hadn't thought it through. But then we were talking later, and he said that he couldn't be shaved because it would bother his girlfriend.


I was already a bit weary of this boy. All of that chat was something of a turn off, and there's a chance that he's the sort who's more trouble than he's worth. I don't really need another so-called submissive who's incredibly demanding. I've already got one of those showing up Tuesday night. He wants me to edge him for two hours, and while it's hot, and while I control his body and what happens to it during that time, it's really a scene of his making, and it has a lot of unnecessary limits imposed on it. I wouldn't do it except that the guy's a marathoner and has a fabulous body. Anyway, when the boy started to renege on the shaving issue, I saw the possibility of another demanding sub. I want my subs to tell me what their limits are right up front and then leave everything else to me. Otherwise, it's not so much submission, you know? So I told him that if he couldn't handle the shaving, I should probably find someone else, and he should find someone who wanted to do to him what he wanted to have done to him. It was a bit harsh, but a boy who's said that he wants to be my bitch probably wants some harsh treatment, no? I figured that either he'd capitulate on the shaving deal or he'd walk away, and either way I'd be happy.

Naturally, he capitulated, but he tried to bargain. He said that I might need to fuck him before I shaved him to make him sufficiently compliant. Like I was born yesterday or something. I held firm and told him that in order to ensure that he would do what he said, I would have to shave him before fucking him. I did allow that if he was tied to the bed, I might allow him to suck my cock while I was shaving him.


So I got what I wanted, but I wonder whether I'm doing the right thing. On the one hand, he's agreed to it, but on the other, it seems a bit like sexual blackmail. I seem to be taking advantage of his desperation. And, assuming that the girlfriend is real, shaving him and sending him back to her seems a bit rough. Of course, he can always tell her that he had to shave himself because he lost a bet, or he can just say he thought he'd try it. Maybe she'll think he's turning metrosexual. Or, you know, maybe she'll dump him because she thinks he's gay. Which might be the best thing for both of them, but it's not really my place to make that decision.

I suppose I could tie him down and threaten to shave him and not follow through, but I have, at the best of times, a tenuous hold on my dom cred, and that would pretty much throw it out the window. Besides, I like shaving hairy guys. The best compromise might be to shave limited parts of him. It maintains my image without too much trauma for the boy. In any case, a full shave would probably take longer than I want to spend.

This is the recurring problem with dom-sub scenes. Doms are supposed to be mean, selfish bastards. I reckon I'm no less selfish than anyone else, but I have to play at being mean, and when playing at being mean shifts towards actually being mean, I get uncomfortable. But it's sometimes really tough to tell what's truly mean in that sort of situation. The gray areas are huge.


Anyway, I'll figure out just how much of a bastard I want to be before he comes over. Or maybe when push comes to shove, he'll chicken out, and I won't have to be a bastard at all.