Miscellany: Le Petit Prince Edition

B&c is back from Jordan, where he took the opportunity to hook up every night, and on some nights twice. But he hooked up with some of the guys more than once, so it probably averages out to only one new guy per night. I haven't seen the official statistics yet, so it's hard to be more precise. I was thinking of giving him a HazMat suit for his birthday, but then I realized that doing so would be tacky because it would be more a gift for me than for him. Maybe I'll just give him socks.


When he set this trip up, he arranged the dates specifically so that he could be home for the last series of concerts that Leonard Slatkin is conducting as principal conductor of the National Symphony Orchestra. We drove down last night for the concert. The drive was uneventful until a friend called him on his cell phone, and b&c took the call. B&c is not the world's most gifted driver (go ahead and make the obvious joke: I would if I were you) and the thought of him driving and talking on the cell at the same time terrifies me. I was very agitated until he got off the phone. He thought I was overreacting, but I said what I always say when he thinks I'm overreacting: "Cornwall." A few years ago, we went to England, and he insisted on renting a car and driving from London to Cornwall. I thought I would die. Several times. He just harrumphed, and then two minutes later he slammed on the brakes when a light turned yellow as he was about to enter an intersection. When he said, "I guess I could have made that, after all," I was too busy trying to reattach my head to my neck to comment. People often fail to realize how much easier it is not to be injured by a sharp stop when you know that it's coming because you're the one stamping on the brake petal.


The concert was good. The NSO played Beethoven's Leonore Overture, Shostakovich's Cello Concerto No. 2, and Copland's Symphony No. 3. It was mostly a very pleasant concert, but b&c found the Shostakovich boring. I was intrigued by the percussion, but I will allow that it was long. The Copland was really very nice, and it was a good way to end the evening. To be honest, it is not a big deal to me that Slatkin is leaving. I rarely pay much attention to the conductors because their backs are to me, and their tails make it so I can't really tell whether they have nice asses. Besides, there's always the bass section to stare at. By the way, in case anyone ever asks you, Sol Gabetta is a woman.


This morning we had a brunch in honor of the birthday of Antoine de Saint Exupery, the noted French author. For reasons that I cannot quite understand, Saint Exupery's birthday has not caught on as a major holiday in the United States. Americans are historically and recently annoyed at the French, so if your friends blanch at attending your Saint Exupery brunch next year, you might try telling them that it is also in honor of Fred Grandy, the former Republican Congressman from Iowa, who was, earlier still, Gopher on the long-running television series The Love Boat.


I very much wanted to make a variant of eggs Benedict, but with the Canadian bacon swapped out in favor of a faux crabcake made from canned tuna. (I would generally prefer not to make a faux anything, but I cannot easily get good crabmeat these days. The recipe I used is one from Paula Deen, but I made some adjustments because I am nearly incapable of making a recipe without fucking around with it. In any case, the tuna cakes were very good.) But, despite the fact that I can make puff pastry with ease, I have never learned to poach an egg. So earlier in the week, I got in front of a pot of simmering water with several eggs, and it was a total disaster. I regard this as a personal failure of Biblical proportions, but even Noah had to move on, so I came up with an alternative method that involved the use of heavily buttered nonstick muffin tins. I started with a toasted whole wheat English muffin half, added a dab of cilantro-lime Hollandaise, topped that with a tuna cake, then a shirred egg, and I finished up with more Hollandaise. The eggs were a little overcooked, but it was a hit all the same.


I also made some cold minted pea soup with fennel, some blueberry muffins, a cucumber and tomato salad, and a large batch of Bloody Marys. I had some very nice strawberries around, so for dessert, I quartered enough berries to make two cups, then I macerated them for an hour or so with two teaspoons of granulated sugar. I took clear plastic cups, put a scoop of lemon sorbet in the bottom of each, followed up with some strawberries, and then poured Prosecco over the sorbet and fruit. One bottle was just enough for eight servings. It was delicious, and if you serve it in something other than a plastic cup, it's very elegant, too.


B&c and I were trying to figure out when we could squeeze in a vacation this year. He had just told me that he'd accepted another job, this time in Algeria. I have so much trouble keeping track of his comings and goings that I finally went and grabbed the wall calendar and asked him to write down when he was going where. He's going to be in Colombia, Nicaragua, Haiti, Algeria, and Jordan in the upcoming months, and the times when he's going to be home for more than a week are times when my work schedule is very busy. It looks like we might be able to find ten days in early January, but I'm not sure. Now that I've been successful in my push to get four weeks of vacation, I might have to take some of it alone.

Rub

Despite the fact that I've been having hardly any sex lately (The girls were over this past weekend, and since last Thursday's three encounters, I've had only a fun-but-unremarkable session with young Torless on Sunday evening and a fun-but-even-less-remarkable threeway with a couple of bear bottoms on Tuesday.), I found myself anticipating Thursday with a decided lack of interest in hooking up. There was an eager but inexperienced sub bottom who wanted to come over for the full nine yards, but for whatever reason (lack of cheeseburgers, perhaps), the idea of spanking a guy, giving him a full-body shave, tying him down, dripping hot wax all over him, and fucking him -- taking pictures all the while -- seemed like more trouble than it was worth. Now there's a sentence I never thought I'd type, and a sentiment I never thought I'd have.

Anyway, I still had the massage table set up, and since b&c is due back later today, I might not get a chance to use it again for a while. So I emailed my buddy (friend without privileges, in this case) Brad to ask if he'd like to come to brunch on Sunday and come for a massage on Thursday. He replied that he was leaving for Provincetown on Saturday and so would be unable to attend brunch but that he would love a massage.


Brad is my favorite guy to have on my table. He doesn't want to maintain a conversation while he's being massaged, but at the same time, he makes a lot of (apparently involuntary) noise that lets me know I'm doing a good job. Plus, he's both big and fit: he's 6'4 or 6'5 and has broad shoulders and a wide frame. There's plenty of room to work in. He's easy on the eyes: shaved head, nice prominent nipples, well-shaped ass. And he doesn't shy away from intense sensations. I wish that I had an audio track of last night's massage so that you could hear the variety of noises he produced, especially leading up to and directly after his ejaculation.

As I've said before, massage is not primarily a sexual experience for me. It's about following and channeling energy, and in some ways, there's a very spiritual component. In the past, I might have hesitated to find spirituality in standing beside a naked man, pinching his nipple with one hand, and stroking his cock with the other hand until he cums, but Will assures me that there's a legitimate spirituality to gay sexuality. Besides, I honestly find giving a massage (including the stroking to orgasm) a meditative experience.


All the same, shortly before Brad stopped by last night, I was feeling a bit uneasy. I'd worked later than I'd anticipated, and then I'd gone to Costco and there'd been an unfortunate produce incident in the driveway when I got home, so I was a bit frazzled. And I hadn't given anyone this sort of massage in quite some time. There's always a bit of trepidation: what if I don't feel the energy flow this time? I did my best to make the environment conducive. I warmed the oil, I darkened the room, and I put my CD of the Byrd masses for five, four, and three voices (three different masses on one CD) on to play. When Brad arrived, he was tired and in a very massage-receptive mood: he was oozing both need and gratitude, and that can only help. He slipped out of his clothes and lay face down on the massage table, and I put some oil on my hands and began to work on the back of his neck.

I needn't have worried about losing my feel. I was working on the first shoulder when I stopped thinking about anything else but what I was doing. I've said before that giving a massage is something like playing an instrument, but I don't play an instrument, and it occurred to me after I was done with Brad that massaging is also a lot like singing. All of my energy was focused on his body, my hands, and the interplay between my hands and his body. But it's not really like sex. Sex involves the complete narrowing of focus coupled, one hopes, with the extinction of conscious thought. Massage (and singing) involves the intense focus without the sometimes overwhelming sexual physical sensation, so it's much more mental. I might, for example, notice that my hands have moved too quickly on a particular stroke, so I make an immediate correction, but I don't think much beyond my hands, at least most of the time: during an hour or more rubbing a guy, the mind's likely to wander occasionally, particularly if you're doing something very repetitive. But for the most part there's just a concentrated focus that begets a great calm.


From a logistical standpoint, this massage was a lot like most others. I started with the neck, then spent a lot of time on the shoulders before moving on to the upper back, lower back, glutes, legs, and feet. But I gave more time to different areas this time. The insides of his thighs. His calves. His feet.

There's a moment in every massage when I've finished the back and have squeezed the ass and have dribbled some oil on the back of the thigh and, in the process of working the oil into the thigh, my hands brush against the other guy's testicles. They're always warmer than the legs, and the touch usually causes the other guy to shiver a little. And that's a big part of what draws me inevitably back to the center, though more to the ass than to the testicles. I'm drawn to the heat, to the energy. I likely would have gotten back there sooner with Brad, but as I was working his legs and feet, he was almost whimpering with pleasure, so I lingered. Eventually, though, I gave a few long strokes (starting at the feet, all the way up the legs, my hands crossing at the ass, then up along the back to the shoulders, then everything reversed), and then I grabbed the oil and turned my attention to Brad's ass.


There are hollows all over a man's body, and when possible, I prefer to leave a pool of oil there and work from it. So I'll leave a pool of oil beneath a guy's adam's apple or on his sternum or in his bellybutton or in the hollow above his cock. Similarly, I'll pool oil in the small of the back and, especially, in the dimple at the top of his ass crack. From discussions I've had with Brad at other times, I've gotten the distinct impression that anal sex (from either top or bottom) is not so much his thing, and he has a tight ass, so I always approach it slowly and carefully. I coat my fingers well with oil and lightly rub up and down his crack until it's very slick and he's had plenty of time to relax. Then I slide a finger in and begin working on his prostate. It seems that each time I massage him, I spend longer on his prostate, and he enjoys it more. And last night was no exception. I began with my middle finger, which is something of a blunt tool, and very lightly traced the outline of the prostate. His response was a near-constant sighing coupled with occasional tight squeezes of his ass around my finger. At the same time, my index finger was pointing north, lying in his crack,and my pinkie was pointing south, rubbing his balls. Throughout, my left hand continued working his back, shoulders, and neck.

After a Kyrie's worth with my middle finger, I pulled it slowly out and eased my index finger in. I could feel his prostate with much more exactness then, and I began to ratchet up the intensity of my probing while staying more and more focused right on the spot. His sighing had given way to some sort of combination of growl and moan (it seems only fair that a growl and a moan should combine into a groan, but somehow, they don't), and I could see that his cock, which he'd repositioned so it was no longer wedged between his abdomen and the table, was leaking a significant amount of precum. Second (perhaps) only to the time when a guy's approaching ejaculation, when I have my finger in his ass and he's reacting with every push against the prostate is the time when I most feel the energy flow: when I most feel like I'm completing a circuit. I think I kept that up for an entire Credo.

Eventually, though, I needed to move on, so I withdrew the index finger, gave three or four more full body strokes, and told Brad to flip over while I went to reheat the oil. I also washed my hands: his ass had been scrupulously clean, but it's better to begin the facial massage with hands that aren't too oily.


When I got back, Brad was on his back, with his eyes closed, and he seemed already to be very relaxed after the intensity of the prostate massage. I spent a minute on the tops of his shoulders and then worked my way up his jaw and to his temples. He sighed and got an almost beatific smile on his face as I worked his forehead and the top of his head and then spent more time just below his ears and along the side of his neck. Then I spent a couple of minutes using three fingers on each hand to simultaneously massage his forehead, temples, and under his eyes. (This is a good technique if someone has unhappy sinuses, but it's also great for general relaxation.) He was the very picture of contentment.

I worked on his arms next with the fronts of his shoulders, then squeezing and rubbing his biceps and his forearms before giving him a thorough hand massage. After squeezing between his thumb and forefinger, I took his hand between both of mine and gently rolled it around. He seemed to like that particularly, on both sides.

I have no idea what he's like when he's actually having sex, of course, but when I start on the more sensitive areas, most notably his nipples, there's not much of a change from when I'm working on his face or arms. His smile is perhaps a bit more animated, and there's a bit more sound coming from him, but it just seems like slightly more of the same. I did work on the torso for a while, on his pecs and nips and then down and along his anterior pelvis. His cock stayed soft, but his body seemed simultaneously relaxed and aroused. I was working from a pool of oil in his navel, and when I'd put a little more pressure on the pelvis, he'd react audibly, but his body wouldn't tense.


I worked the fronts of his legs relatively quickly, and then I moved so that I was on his right about two thirds of the way from his nipples down to his cock. I took hold of his cock very gently with my right hand and began to brush his nipples with my left, and he immediately began to get more animated. His cock began to lengthen, but I was working it very slowly, and it took a bit longer before he started to get hard, but there was a very intense moment when I felt him suddenly become much more solid. My left hand had been moving around his chest, but I began to concentrate on his right nipple. I continued stroking his cock with a very measured pace, but my left hand increased the intensity -- though never very high -- on his nipple. And there followed about five minutes of a slow but steady increase in the speed and depth of his breathing, the volume of his moaning, the rigidity of his muscles.

I never had to change pace or change tactics. He just built and built until he was moaning loudly and shaking all over and his large balls were tight up to his body, and then with a short shout, he began to cum. I continued stroking throughout and beyond the obviously very intense orgasm, until I could tell that he was fighting back the urge to push my hands away. At that point, I just gave a few more strokes and then stopped to wipe him up.

He did manage to get out a "that was unbelievable" before I told him to flip back over. I especially enjoy the post-ejaculation posterior massage. The guy is coming down from an intense orgasm, and his skin is still very soft from all the oil, but it's no longer greasy because he's been lying on a towel. He was very nearly asleep at this point, and I worked just a few more minutes on the top and back of his head, his lower back, and his shoulders. At the very end, my strokes got lighter but slower, my hands finally coming to rest and then almost imperceptibly leaving his body, like a note disappearing on the wind.


Brad was profuse in his thanks afterwards. We chatted for a couple of minutes, but he was very sleepy and needed to get home, and I find conversation difficult immediately after a massage. I'm still in that very calm place, and while I enjoy being thanked and don't want to be rude, I'd like to stay in that very calm place for as long as possible, so let's just catch up another time, ok?

Anyway, the whole experience was awesome, and I really can't go so far in between massages again.

Crazy Lance's Workout Video

My buddy Lance, who is crazy, sent me this video he made.



I hadn't chatted with Lance in a while, and I was somewhat worried about him, but when I spoke to him earlier this week, he told me that he'd taken a job as a gardener and that he loves it. It does seem like a job that should suit him very well, and of course I applaud anyone who loves his work. He did mention (ok, I asked) that one of his coworkers is a hot young man, and you'd have to guess from the nature of the work that he sees that hot young man shirtless, or at least with his shirt plastered to his chest. I'm sure that would go far in improving anyone's job satisfaction.

As you can see, Lance is quite fit himself. He always was, but now he's even more so. I did suggest that, for his next video, he should wear less. I suspect he might have found that suggestion self-serving, but, as you all know, I serve only Art, and I think he'd have a better line in a speedo, a jock strap, or nothing at all.

Three, Part II

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Sun

It occurred to me this weekend that another solstice had come and gone without my taking appropriate notice. I'm not sure whether to put that down to laziness, lack of imagination, or the continuing alienation from the natural world caused by the stresses of a post-industrial society, but I'm going to go with that last one, just because it puts most of the blame on someone other than me.


Midsummer, apparently, is still a big deal in parts of Europe, though certainly not so big a deal as it must have been in pagan times. I understand that the Scandinavians are particularly fond of it, which only makes sense. After all, here in the DC area, the longest day only lasts fourteen hours, fifty-three minutes, and forty-nine seconds. Conversely, about six months from now, the longest night will be just as long, and while that's significantly longer than the daylight will last in late December, it's not as big a difference as you'd see in Northern Europe. In Stockholm, for example, the longest day lasts about 18:38:27, which would mean that around the time of the winter solstice, daylight lasts for less than six hours. No wonder they worship the sun.


But we should not let our relative lack of extended darkness lull us into complacency. Especially if that complacency keeps us from celebrating a perfectly good holiday. Because, as humans but especially as gay men, what are we if we're not people who will use any excuse to throw a party?


Any celebration of the solstice should obviously involve revelry that lasts from sundown to sunup: you watch the sun go away and then you have a really good time so that the sun will be jealous and will want to come back and join the fun. I realize that it's probably more traditional to try to tempt the sun back with a sacrifice, but sun gods are traditionally male figures, and if I've learned anything, it's that you don't attract men by offering them gifts. That reeks of insecurity, and nothing is less attractive than insecurity. No, if you want a man back, you make him jealous and think that you don't need him. Besides, let's face it: revelry is way more fun than sacrifice.


Ideally, you'll have your celebration in an isolated location. Maybe in a big field or, better still, on a remote beach. You'll get everyone together shortly before sundown, you'll drink a toast to the departing sun, you'll light a big bonfire (more traditional at Beltane, but so what?), and you'll spend the next however many hours drinking and cavorting, spreading as much joy as you can to make sure it's a party that the sun would hate to have missed. Then when the sun comes back up, you extricate yourself from a big sweaty pile of sticky naked men (you know, just as an example) and toast the sun's return. You're then required to engage in additional post-sunrise cavorting, just so the sun doesn't feel left out, but don't worry: you can retire to sleep it off before the sun gets high enough to require sunblock.


There are alternatives, of course. If you want to approach the holiday from a more spiritual point of view, I recommend sitting unclothed on the beach, facing east as the sun sets and meditating. Another equally pious individual can then come and sit on your cock (after fluffing, if necessary) and wrapping his legs around your waist so that he faces west as the last of the sun's rays disappear beneath the horizon. With your arms wrapped around each other, you must then fuck (reverently, of course) for as long as the darkness lasts. True devotees will achieve simultaneous ejaculation at the moment of sunrise. No one said religion was easy.


Skeptics will say that this sort of heliocentric worship would make more sense at the winter equinox, when people really are most worried about the sun coming back. I understand this objection, but do you really want to be naked on the beach for fifteen hours in the dead of winter? Of course not. If you celebrate in winter, you're going to have to wear layers and layers of clothing. We already have enough holidays that involve dressing up. Dressing up reeks of pretension and consumerism. What we need is a holiday that emphasizes simplicity and red hot mansex.


FYI, next year, the shortest night will be the night that starts on the twentieth of June and ends on the twenty-first. That's a Saturday night. Start planning now.

Three, Part I

I confess that there are times when writing about my sexual encounters isn't nearly as fun and easy as having them is. I've been struggling a bit with trying to get last Thursday's shenanigans down on the screen, in part because I feel like I just write the same things over and over again. I mean, I'm not prepared to adapt Tolstoy and say "Good sex is all alike; all bad sex is bad in its own way," and not just because it would be a horribly awkward sentence. Clearly not all good sex is alike; nonetheless, there's a universal quality to a good sexual experience, so writing about one more sometimes tests my patience. And writing about three more is that much harder, particularly when the three encounters had much in common.


I'm tempted to come up with some sort of matrix with activities, etc. down the side and playmate aliases across the top. Then I could show, for example, who was a good kisser (check, check, check), who was a good cocksucker (check, check, check), who responded eagerly to nipple play (check, check), who I rimmed (check, check, check), who managed to keep sucking cock when I started rimming him (check), and, well, you get the idea.


It would be a pretty lengthy chart, though. And you might well imagine that such a clinical approach would fly in the face of my natural tendency to prolixity. More to the point, though, it wouldn't be much fun for anyone to read. From comments and email, I'm aware that readers derive different levels of fun from my accounts. Some people read with detached amusement, some only look at the pictures, some give up entirely, and some wank while reading. It's all good, especially the wanking: I am both pleased and amused by the thought that I can have an encounter that leads to loads being spilled by total strangers. I mean in addition to the total stranger that I'm fucking, of course.


Guy 1 (G1) was someone that I ran across on one of the sex sites but had not previously hooked up with. I truly am not sure which site it was because I apparently ran across him some time back. I got an email from him earlier in the week asking if I was free at all, and I told him when I was free, and he chose Thursday.

I've thought about it a lot and I've realized that my former habit of grabbing and kissing guys as soon as they're halfway in the door might be overly aggressive, so I waited until I'd shut the door and G1 had said hello before I grabbed and kissed him. I didn't say hello back until after we'd snogged for a bit, but Rome wasn't built in a day. Anyway, he didn't seem to mind.


The session with G1 was fairly standard good sex. If he hadn't been followed by two guys who were even better, I'd be writing in detail about a two-star encounter. He was a skilled and eager kisser and cocksucker, and he had a nice ass that easily accommodated my tongue, several fingers, and my cock, though admittedly not all at the same time. He was an enthusiastic bottom, and after I had fucked him in four positions (him astride me, missionary, him on his stomach, and him bent over the bed with me standing behind him), I pulled on his nuts and he stroked himself off, shooting all the way past his head. I think he was kind of worked up.

G1 was over for about an hour, and, really, that would have been plenty of entertainment for the evening. But when I'd gotten home, before he'd arrived, I'd logged onto a couple of sites to check messages, and then I'd forgotten to log off. I try to avoid doing that because I think it's rude to stay logged into a site when you're not there to reply to a message, but sometimes I forget. Anyway, when I sat back down at the computer, there was an e-mail on one of the sites from G2. I was feeling a little tired, but his picture and his profile made him hard to resist. His message said that he'd love to have me come over and take charge, so I replied that I'd been away from the computer and asked whether he was still looking. He was, and he wasn't too far away, so -- after a couple more emails and a short phone conversation -- I drove over to his apartment and knocked on the door.


G2 was not quite what I was expecting from his picture and profile. The pic had been the backside of a smooth, tan, lean guy, and the guy who answered the door was fit but decidedly bearish: goatee, furry chest, etc. He offered me a drink, but he was standing there in his boxers, and I really couldn't help pulling him to me, grabbing one of his nipples, and kissing him. He was clearly very into it, and I was decidedly into him. I asked him where the bedroom was, then followed him there, pushed him down on the bed, climbed atop him, and resumed kissing him.

G2's user name had included "manpig" or some variant thereof, but I think that was wishful thinking. Or perhaps he and I have dramatically different ideas of what constitutes a pig. I had an inkling from the e-mail exchange that this would be the case, which was part of why I'd agreed to come over: I generally shy away from guys who self-identify as pigs. They tend to want me to be ruder to them than I'm comfortable with, and there's something about the whole pig moniker that bespeaks a somewhat unhealthy attitude towards sex. Or whatever. Anyway, G2 was just a nice, attractive, thirty-nine-year-old versatile whose partner was out of town and who wanted to take the opportunity to get fucked, which, I'm guessing is not something his partner does to him very often.


None of which is meant to take away from the fact that he was an awesome kisser and a live wire. He moaned when I licked and sucked and chewed on his nipples, and he moaned when I shoved my tongue in his ear, and he moaned when he started to go down on me, and he moaned a lot more when I pulled his body around and started to eat his hairy ass.

He really started moaning when I put him back on his back and then, after some more kissing, I pinned his hands over his head and began to work my tongue into his armpits. As I said in the last entry, this is something I don't get to do nearly enough of, so when he responded positively, I got more and more enthusiastic on his pits until I was licking them hard and fast all over and he was writhing under me. It was great.


I rolled him over onto his stomach, lay on top of him, and began rubbing my cock between his legs while I chewed lightly on his shoulder. It was so much fun and he was responding so enthusiastically that I really didn't want to stop, but it was getting later, and I knew he wanted to be fucked, so I asked him to get a condom and some lube, and he did.

My mind is perversely unable to focus on one thing at a time. Part of what I like about good sex is that my mind just goes out of focus and gives over to sensation. And my mind spent a good deal of that evening out of focus, especially when I was making out or working nipples or receiving head while eating a guy's ass. But when there's a break in the action, my mind's back racing all over the place. It happened with all three guys while they were putting the condoms on me. On the one hand, I spend that time thinking about what a good time I'm having and what I'm going to do next, but I can almost never lie there while a guy works the condom without hearing the music for Final Jeopardy, so I always have to stifle a laugh.


Anyway, G2 got the condom on me and the lube on both of us, and I pushed him back on his stomach and worked my way into him. He was pretty tight, so I went slowly, but before long he was urging me on to fuck him harder and faster, and I was only too happy to comply. It was great. My cock and his ass fit together in just the right way so that the fuck made my dick feel great but didn't make me feel like I was going to cum anytime soon. So I just pumped away for fifteen minutes or so, and then I was tired, so I pulled out.

G2 had a nice cock. At almost eight inches, it was really too big for me, but I figured I'd try to suck it a little bit, so I did. It wasn't too thick, fortunately, and he seemed more than happy with my taking only half of it into my mouth. Then I lay next to him, and we went back to kissing, and I played with one of his nipples while he stroked himself. It was not long before his breathing quickened and deepened and his body began to jerk. I reached down and played with his nuts for the last few seconds before he shot, and then when he was done, I stroked his sensitive cockhead, just enough to keep his body jerking a little.

He fetched a towel and then lay down beside me again. I put an arm around him, and we just lay and chatted for a while about our jobs and our partners and my kids and his upstairs neighbors. It was very pleasant, and then I got up and got dressed and headed home. At this point, I was feeling very mentally satisfied with the evening, but my cock was asking for release, so I figured I'd get home, have a quick wank, and go to sleep. Not so much, but I'll save that for Part II.

If Life Is Just a Bowl of Cherries...

Was I saying something a couple of days ago about decreased appetites? If you will allow me a bit of artistic and/or logical license, I believe that I must personify the universe as a kind being with an impish sense of humor.


For while I haven't noticed any change in my appetites since earlier this week, the universe has seen fit to shower me with sexual companionship. And not just a maintenance fuck, like Kip was on Tuesday.


This evening, I somehow managed to hook up with and fuck three different guys, without ever straying from deepest suburbia. And, blessedly, each was better than the one before, which, frankly, was a surprise: the second guy was so much fun that, after we'd finished up and had chatted for ten minutes or so and I was leaving, I had to tell him, "Your body is like an amusement park: there's fun everywhere you go."


Maybe this is the universe's idea of a practical joke or its way of trying to show me how little I know. TED rambles on about having less sex, so suddenly more sex is sent his way, demonstrating to TED his massive ignorance about the workings of fate.


But there are a couple of problems with that theory. First, I think I'm already painfully aware of my massive ignorance, and, truly, I can think -- without trying very hard -- of bazillions of people more in need of that lesson than I. Second, sexual appetite is not so much like the appetite for food. You eat too much and keep on eating, sooner or later you're going to get sick. But even if you weren't overly horny when you started out, you can do three guys in the course of an evening and not really feel any ill effects, particularly if you save the ejaculation for the last guy. And, as you all should know by now, ejaculation is really not necessary for me to have a great time.


Anyway, a universe that teaches you a lesson about ignorance by showering you with hot men is not terribly consistent with a universe that comes up with, say, Dick Cheney. Although I suppose you could posit some notion of balance whereby after this evening, I would have no right to complain if the universe saw fit to bless me with crabs. Or Dengue fever.


All in all, though, the screwing of three wonderful asses in one evening when I wasn't particularly looking seems more like the work of random chance than a sentient universe, so I think I'm going to have to conclude, yet again, the lack of a sentient higher power. Sorry, universe. Maybe next time!


I will likely subject you to full accounts, with mind-numbing levels of detail, of at least two of this evening's encounters, if only because it's been a while since I've written a detailed description of one of my sessions. For now, though, it's too late, and I'm too tired, to do the evening justice, so I'm leaving you with this abbreviated account and these pictures.


To be honest, armpit pictures do nothing for me, but armpits themselves are another matter altogether. The problem is that for a pit to be something that I want to push my tongue into, it has to be clean and it can't have anti-perspirant on it. So it's pretty rare to run into a pair of suitable pits on a guy who likes to have them worked over. It seems counterintuitive to me, but it's a lot easier to find an ass that's clean enough to eat than it is to find an edible set of pits. In fact, it's been quite a while since I've enjoyed a good pair. This evening, however, I had two pairs, and both recipients were extremely appreciative of my attentions.


All the same, I have had no and continue to have no immediate interest in cheeseburgers. What a world.