Friday, May 23, 2008

In Which Karma Is Not Quite a Bitch

So, apparently, I don't pay attention. A lot. Just over a week ago, I was at a choir rehearsal, and it was our last rehearsal before Music Sunday. The Music Sunday service is given over to the Music Director, and the choir typically sings a lot. We were doing six pieces, and I was a little bit distracted because we had just spent forty minutes working on "Soon Ah Will Be Done," which is a fantastic but very demanding piece. The notes are very easy, but there are a lot of repeats and half of it is sung at a double forte. I'm really not used to thinking of my voice as a fragile instrument, so for a good chunk of forty minutes, I was singing full out, and I was beginning to notice a problem: my voice would no longer put out full out. It was around this time that the director reminded us that there would be no rehearsal the following Thursday (which would be last night, if you're keeping track). The following Thursday was the night when I'd arranged to come early to rehearse my solo pieces for this coming Sunday. I was so agitated by the combination of not knowing when I'd get to rehearse (as it happened, we rehearsed this past Sunday, Music Sunday, after I'd been through an hour of pre-performance rehearsal plus the six pieces in the service, plus the congregational hymns, so my voice, which was not quite over Thursday's abuse, was really not at its best, but we got all the issues with the accompaniment, etc. worked out) and my suddenly vulnerable voice that it totally didn't occur to me that I was now free on Thursday night. None of which would have been a big deal except that I had already told b&c I wasn't free and because of that, he'd given away my ticket to see Tamerlano.

I may have mentioned previously that my relationship with opera is not one of unabashed adoration, so, generally speaking, missing one is not a big deal. And it wasn't a big deal this time, I guess, but it would have been cool to have gone. I have sung a lot of Handel at church,
By the way, I'm interrupting here because the mention of Handel reminds me that of all the many, many things that I sing when I'm alone in the car, one of the most common is a soprano recitative from Messiah, which includes the words:
There were shepherds abiding in the fields, keeping watch over their flocks by night. And lo! the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them, and they were sore afraid.
And that aria (which, if you're wondering, I transpose down by a thirteenth or so) reminds me that Eric, formerly of started blogging again and did not tell me. In fact, he started blogging again on May 30, and on April 25, in an e-mail exchange where I specifically told him how much I missed and hoped that he would be blogging again soon, he craftily worded his reply to make me think he wasn't blogging. It was not quite an I-did-not-have-sex-with-that-woman denial, but it was very much a the-United-States-does-not-engage-in-torture denial. This sort of behavior makes him a blackguard. A highly literate blackguard, but a blackguard nonetheless. I have already expressed my displeasure to Eric, so I mention it here mostly to put you all on warning: if you stop blogging and then restart without telling me, I will hunt you down and thrash you to within an inch of your life. Or at least make snarky comments: I can be physically intimidating, but most of you could probably take me in a fight since I wouldn't know where to begin.

but I have never seen a Handel opera performed. They are infrequently staged these days. And to add insult to injury, Placido Domingo, whom I have never heard live, was in the cast. But I wasn't there, and the production's sold out. Alas.

Of course, the upside of no choir practice and no opera is a free night. I had not had much sleep earlier this week, and I thought that the best thing to do would be to go home, read the rest of Swish, play some Paper Mario, and hit the sack early, but, well, how many more opportunities to hook up will I have? What if the proverbial bus hits me tomorrow? And even if I remain untrampled and healthy, the number of remaining opportunities is perhaps in the thousands but certainly not in the tens of thousands, so why let any opportunity pass? Reader, I placed a craigslist ad. The first response came very quickly:

Hi I am a bottom boy. I live in Bethesda..and I am looking to have some fun tonight...if you are interested e-mail me back.My stats: I am 5"7' tall and weigh 145 lbs.I am 25 years old.I like to do everything you mentioned and i like older guys....especially with a nice cocklike I see you packing. in your picture.I am awaiting your reply.

I ahve pictures to send you in return.

Ok, so there were some typos and some issues with punctuation, and he's a little young for me, and a guy who's five inches and seven feet tall and weighs only 145 lbs is going to be on the skinny side, but why not ask for the pictures? I mean, I'm not hung up on what a guy looks like, generally, but why not continue the conversation? So I did, and I got back five pictures, which are now the next five pictures in this post. Upon further reflection this morning, I'm not sure these pictures are all of the same guy, so I'm not sure it was necessary to crop the first one to obscure the identity, but I did it anyway.

Anyway, the guy looked great, but he really was too young, so I thought the odds of flaking were high. On the other hand, he did send pictures, and he replied again to say he could make it to my place that evening. There were a couple of other eye-roll-inducing replies from guys in Northern Virginia (as if), and then I got a reply from a 48-year-old, married (he didn't say he was married, but I'm sure) submissive -- with no pictures -- who was here for a conference and staying in a hotel down near L'Enfant Plaza. He was not nearly so fit as the first guy, but I knew that my chances of having a really good time were better with the average-bodied married sub than with the killer-bodied twenty-something bottom. So, because it's craigslist, I kept corresponding with both of them, and after multiple responses, they both wanted to play. I knew twenty-something guy was a risk, but I wouldn't have to travel, and, well, look at him. Apparently, I'm not immune to the allure of an awesome body. And my thought process was something like, "If I say yes to the hot young guy and flake on the older guy and then the young guy flakes on me, I'll have deserved it, and I can just jerk off and play video games and finally get around to reading the rest of Swish, which life has conspired to keep me from opening for four straight nights. And if the younger guy comes through? Well, hooray. It's win-win."

So I wrote to the older guy:
Sorry, man. I hate to be a dick, but I was swapping emails with a couple of guys, and the other guy's going to travel to me, so I'm going to play with him. You sound like fun. I reckon you'll be annoyed, but if you're going to be in the area for a while or back again and you want to play, let me know.

Because, you know, if you're telling a guy no because you got a better offer, you should just own it. It's craigslist, after all.

So I drove home and showered, and there was no call from the young guy, and I thought, "Whatever," but I'd been checking my mail, and I'd opened, but without expecting anything because it was a Thursday night, and Thursdays are always dead, which is yet another good reason to go to choir practice. And a window popped up, and there was Karma, who, as usual, took ten minutes longer than necessary to get to the point, which was that he's really horny and wants me to come over. And sessions with Karma are always odd, but they're always fun, and, heck, I'd just showered and changed, so what else was there to do except get in the car and drive?

On the way over, I didn't really think too much about the upcoming session because I spent the time doing some vocal exercises (the Maryland legislature may outlaw the use of cellphones while driving, but, so far, they haven't demonstrated any inclination to ban pitch pipes) and worrying about my voice. I'm singing in a few days, and I haven't gone into all out vocal protection mode, yet, but it occurred to me that I was sounding a little conflicted, which usually means that a) I'm thirsty, and b) I'm singing in the car. So I got a soda and stopped working on "John Henry" because it's a piece that's going to sound great in the sanctuary and not so great anywhere else. And then I was pulling up to Karma's apartment building.

I'm not one for pre-grope chit chat anyway, and when a guy tells you that he's really horny, you have to assume that he wants you to get down to business, and, indeed, when I start kissing Karma, he pulls my hand right down to his shorts and tells me to squeeze his cock. Which I do, of course. And then I squeeze his ass and his nipples and his sides and his nuts (which he really loves) as I push him into the bedroom, where we're very quickly naked and going at it as much like crazed weasels as I can ever remember weaseling with anyone. He gets on his stomach and wants me to lie on him and thrust against him, then he wants me to pull hard on his nuts while I bite his nipples, and when I shove my tongue as hard into his ear as I possibly can, he whimpers desperately and wants me to stroke his cock hard. With anyone else, I'd be afraid of a premature cumshot, but that is really not an issue with Karma. Everything kind of blends in together, but there are certain recurring themes. Again, he wants everything harder. At some point, he's on his stomach and I'm lying on him, and he wants me to hold him harder, and I remember the extremely firm massage I gave him last time and how it left my thumbs sore for a week, so I take my chin and drive it down around and between his shoulder blades, and he's just in heaven.

And again, I think maybe he's on the verge of bottoming, but he really just wants to feel the cock up against his taint and freaks out if it starts to act like it might actually work its way inside.

And everything is more intense than it had been the last time, the sole exception being that this time I don't shove my tongue up his totally rimmable ass, but, really, that's mostly because it had occurred to me on the way over that two days before I have to do solos would be the worst possible time to acquire an intestinal parasite, and while I've been lucky so far, well, after Sunday, I'll likely have eight months during which I can eat ass without that particular worry, so why risk it now?

Things mellow out as an hour passes, but when Karma gets less worked up he becomes more inwardly focused and less interactive, so what started out as two people working as one thrashing body becomes me jerking both of us off because he wants me to cum first so I can focus on him (he doesn't say that's why, but, come on). So he's on his hands and knees beside the foam (at least this time, he has a thin foam mattress between the sleeping bag and carpet, so I'm not sore the next day from rolling around on the floor) mattress, and my left hand is working his uncut cock as if it were a cow's teat (which, forsooth, it resembles quite a bit), while I'm stroking myself (and feeling very thick by comparison) with my right hand. And I can't help thinking that when he was kneeling over me with his cock in my mouth and wanting me to suck him harder and not even minding how much that made my teeth get involved, and he was jerking me off very skillfully, if not to completion, then I felt a lot more connected. There was an earlier abandonment of self that was spiritually satisfying, and now, well, now I have time to think, but my cock is really, really hard, and it occurs to me that connectedness is a wonderful thing, but simple carnal pleasure is also not so bad.

And this, naturally, reminds of a Shaker song that I used to sing.
I have a soul to be saved or lost
And if I would ever save it
I must be faithful to bear my cross
And be true unto God who gave it

For if my holy birthright I should sell
To feed on carnal pleasure
My soul would surely sink in hell
And in torment without measure

And I don't believe that, at all, but I'm reminded that it's a really slow, deep song, and that at some future point, if I were to sing it while sucking some guy's small, uncut cock, he would probably cum faster, and that would be a good thing.

Karma's not going to cum faster, though, and he really wants me to shoot first, so I stroke my unconnected but very excited cock with redoubled diligence, and it takes quite a lot of work for me to get close, which means I'm going to have an intense orgasm even though I have to take time to roll my eyes and adjust my cock downwards when Karma reminds me not to cum on the bed. So my hard-breathing, more-than-ample load is spilled on my stomach, and Karma goes to fetch paper towels before getting back into his all-fours position. I jerk him for a while longer, but we both know he's going to have to finish himself, and he does that, and he, also, cums very intensely, and I note that when he's not trying to restrain himself, his cum goes about as far as mine does when I'm trying very hard not to cum on the bed. Also, my volume is three or four times his, but whatever, right? We are all different, but we are all god's creatures. Then he gets up and disappears into the bathroom long enough for me to get dressed and is very silent afterwards. I, on the other hand, am entirely calm and relaxed and not even worried about my voice, and I take all this as yet another indication that I am less subject than almost anyone to post-coital depression.

But as I'm leaving, he says that he'll see me again, and I reckon that he's right. Karma is strange, but inevitable.

By the way, after I got home, I checked my e-mail, and the young guy had written me to say that he was sorry but that the original pictures had been not his but a friend of his and that he'd sent them because he wanted to make sure that I liked black guys and that his friend (fictional, I'm guessing) had originally been intrigued but now no longer liked me. He, however, still liked me and would send me some pictures of himself if I wanted. I was like six minutes away from Step It Up and Dance, so nothing else was going to happen that night, but I asked for the pictures. Not surprisingly, he was not nearly as hot as his so-called friend, but he was still totally doable. He says he wants to play, so I may do him the next time an opportunity arises. It would be a great ass to break the fast on.

1 comment:

Faustus, M.D. said...

Placido Domingo in Tamerlano = worth missing. He is great, and it is terrific, but in the manner that a subtle Waldorf salad is great and a chocolat a l'Africaine is terrific.

Also, staging Handel can be a treacherous, treacherous enterprise. If the director doesn't know exactly what he's doing then it can be sheer torture. The first of the only two times I've ever booed anything was a hideous production of Acis and Galatea in which Polyphemus rode in on a motorcycle.

(Speaking of staged Handel, should there ever be a revival of Stephen Wadsworth's 1997 production of Serse you must run to the theater, knocking down as many old ladies as you have to along the way.)