Sunday, September 14, 2008

The Weekend from Hell

Catastrophes that struck this weekend:

1. I left the office at 5:45 on Friday evening and proceeded to spend the next half-hour traveling about half a mile.

2. While stuck in traffic, I looked across the street and happened to see William walking in the other direction. I have seen him walking around Bethesda, where he lives, a few times since the last time I had him tied to my bed, but I'm always in the car and on my way somewhere, so there's not much I can do about it. But this time I decided that since I wasn't moving, I could text him. And the following exchange ensued.

TED: Just saw u [Please forgive me for the horrific abbreviating, but I don't have a full keyboard on my phone.] on Wisconsin Ave. Nice ass.

William: Who is this?

TED: Someone kinky.

William: Well define.

TED: Define what?

William: Define who you are ?

TED: Gee. How many guys' beds have u been tied to?

William: A few

TED: Or more than a few. But I like my subs slutty.

William: O!!! You in [the name of my town, misspelled]?

TED: Bingo. When can I spank you again?

William: Don't know I'm always walking

TED: I'll give you a ride. On my cock.

And then the replies stopped. I suspect he had reached his apartment, but in any case, if William holds true to form, it'll likely be another three months before he's ready to play again. Granted, if he'd offered to cross the street and walk to me (which he could easily have done, given the speed traffic was moving), I could not have taken him up on it, but the fact that he didn't even offer to let me tie him down and shove ice cubes up his ass was a clear indication that the universe had it in for me. Also, the whole exchange made me excessively horny.

3. Even though the traffic had made me late, and even though I still desperately needed a haircut, I stopped by Linens and Things in the hopes of acquiring a food dehydrator to deal with the flood of figs being thrown off by the fig tree in the backyard. Linens and Things didn't carry food dehydrators (even though they carry a giant and expensive appliance called an automatic jar opener), so now I was an excessively horny, desperately in need of a haircut man who was running behind schedule and didn't have a food dehydrator.

4. When I got to the Hair Cuttery (I should interject here, because it's about to be relevant, that I am really and truly not a physically vain person. I don't ever know what's in our out of fashion. I spend about twelve seconds every morning on my hair. And I'm happy if I leave the house and my socks match. Each other. So if I'm troubled by my appearance, it has to be really bad.), my regular guy, Bao, the young, cute, tragically hetero (I'm pretty sure) Korean dude who cuts my hair had someone in his chair and another person waiting for him. It was already 7:30, and I needed to be home before 8, so, with great reluctance, I allowed someone else to cut my hair. I did my best not to watch her, and then I tried to convince myself that it looked awful because I hadn't put my glasses back on, and then I tried to convince myself that I'd put on somebody else's glasses, and -- when that failed -- I tried to convince myself that it would look ok after I went home to shower. But I went home to shower, and then I came face-to-face that I was now an excessively horny man with a tragic hair cut. And no food dehydrator.

5. When Judd arrived shortly thereafter, I was so inconsolable about my hair that it took almost a solid half-hour of making out for me to regain my equanimity. And then, well, okay, the sex with Judd was fabulous and went on over three hours, so I can't really pretend that it was in any way, shape, or form a catastrophe, but let's just -- for the sake of art -- pretend that it wasn't quite as fabulous as it was. And in any case, even if was now a supremely satisfied man with a guy purring in my arms, I was still a supremely satisfied man with a tragic haircut. And no food dehydrator.

6. Judd left just before midnight, and I got online, and a guy who's chatted with me before said hello and told me he was horny, but when I suggested that he come over so I could fuck him, he said that it was too late and that he would rather come over the next morning. I had a guy tentatively scheduled for 1:00, and another guy who'd said he probably wanted to come sometime in the afternoon, and a third guy who said he wanted to come by late in the afternoon, so I told this guy that I could play around 10 and told him to call me when he got up so that I could be sure to be awake. So now I was a very satisfied, tired, poorly coiffed, dehydratorless man who was having trouble sleeping because I wanted more and I was afraid that I might have too much to handle.

7. The next morning, Logan did, in fact, call, and he did, in fact, come over, and he was a cute, older (mid-fifties), tall, very thin, Turk who was just getting out of a twenty-five year marriage and was now discovering the joy of gay sex for the first time. He kissed very well, and he was extremely responsive to my touch, and when I finally let him sit on my cock, the look on his face was not the usual it-hurts-but-I-must-have-it look that normally gives way to the this-is-more-pleasure-than-I-can-handle look. His look was the extremely unusual oh-my-god-it's-Christmas-morning-and-I-got-a-pony look of sheer joy. His cock didn't get fully hard until he sat on mine, and, when he'd ridden me for ten minutes or so, I grabbed him and started stroking, it only took a couple of minutes before he shot a huge load all over me and the bed. And, okay, that part was pretty phenomenal, but then, when he was lying next to me with his head on my chest, and I asked him where he came from, and he said he'd grown up in Istanbul, we had the following conversation:

TED: Istanbul was Constantinople.

Logan: Yes, it was.

TED: Now it's Istanbul, not Constantinople.

Logan: Yes, that's right. I was born there.

TED: Been a long time gone, has Constantinople. Why did Constantinople get the works?

Logan: Actually, "Constantinople" was more a western name. "Istanbul" has been the name used by the Turks for many centuries.

And then, suddenly, I was a man with a tragic haircut and no food dehydrator who had to explain his own joke.

8. And I was also, yet again, an excessively horny man because I hadn't cum while I was playing with Logan. Which, as always, is fine, but when I'd finished showering yet again and taking the sheets to the laundry and putting fresh sheets on the bed, it was getting on towards 11:30, and I realized that I hadn't heard from my 1 pm, and I hadn't heard from my mid-afternoon guy. I'd heard from my late afternoon guy, but he wasn't coming until, well, late afternoon. An I'd figured my 1pm guy wasn't all that definite, and I was really horny, so I lay back and had a good wank. And it was a very good wank, but when it was over, I went downstairs and checked my email, and there was a message from my 1pm guy asking why I hadn't answered my phone when he'd called ninety minutes earlier. So I went back upstairs and looked at my phone -- which, mind you, had been in the same room with me throughout the Logan interlude -- and saw that I had two missed calls and two messages and that I'd missed not only Mr. 1 pm, but also Mr. Mid-afternoon. And I figured Mr. Mid-afternoon would call again, but Mr. 1 pm seemed a little put out, and because I always figure it's better to just 'fess up when you've been a shit (intentionally or not), I had to send him an email:

I apologize. I was playing with another guy earlier this morning, and I didn't hear the phone ring, even though I was in the same room. I didn't cum while I was fucking him, but after he left I didn't check messages, and I was really horned up, so I jerked off. I'm really sorry. I probably won't be fully functional again until after 2, but if that still works with your schedule, we could go then.


But, not surprisingly, he didn't respond either then or later. I felt like a heel for apologizing via email when he'd left a message, so I left a message on his phone, too, but he didn't respond to that, either. And I really didn't care, much, about missing out on the sex with him, but I hate to be that guy who arranges Internet play dates and then flakes out at the last minute. And now, I was suddenly that guy. With a tragic haircut and no food dehydrator.

9. As I was heading out of the house, in search of a food dehydrator, Mr. Mid-afternoon called and said he was almost done with work and wanted to come over and get fucked. And I told him that 2pm would be good for me, but I asked him to call me on his way over to make sure I was back because I wasn't sure how long my errands would take. And he said that was fine. And as it happened, I managed to get a Ronco (no, really) food dehydrator very reasonably, and it was at the nearest store I tried, but that store was a K-Mart. And I was home well before 2, but Mr. Mid-afternoon never called back. So then I was a K-mart shopper with a food dehydrator but a tragic haircut who was missing out on sex that I really didn't need but still wanted.

10. Around 3:30, I heard from Mr. Late Afternoon that he would be available around 4, and, well, here I have to go into some back story. About eight or nine years ago, when I was a newly minted gay, freshly separated from my then-wife, I met a couple of guys who'd been together ten years and were interested in opening their relationship. And I didn't have any gay friends, really, and they also wanted to socialize, so I went to their place for dinner, and when it came time to fool around, the older of the two freaked out a little and wasn't comfortable with it. So I said no big deal because I'd hardly had sex with anyone, let alone a threeway, and they still seemed to want to socialize and possibly try again when the older guy was less freaked out. So I came back to their place a couple more times to hang out, and on the third (I think) time, the older guy announced that he needed to go out and take care of something at the office, leaving me and the younger guy, Len, alone in the den. And we made out for a while, and then I started to go down on Len, and he came almost right away and then explained that he had a problem with premature ejaculation, and I said it was cool, but I was really a little bit put out that he didn't even try. And then, soon thereafter, the two of them decided to break up, and Len and I had some slightly longer sex in my car, late at night on a weekend, behind the Target. And it was ok, but Len moved up to Frederick or some such place, and I maybe chatted with him once or twice over the next few months, but then I didn't hear from him again until Friday when I got a message on from somebody asking me if I remembered him, and I felt awful because I figured it was somebody from one of my recent orgies, but when he said that he'd lived in Columbia, I remembered who it was. And he told me that he had to work Saturday in a medical office in my town, so I told him that he should come by afterward if he felt like being molested. And he said that he did, so long as his partner didn't find out, and since I couldn't see how someone I'd never met and who lives in Hagerstown was going to find out about this, he said he'd come over in the late afternoon. Which is how Len got to be Mr. Late Afternoon.

And, really, the sex is pretty good. He doesn't come nearly as fast as he used to, and he actually sucked my cock this time, and he's a good and eager kisser, and he's fairly cuddly, and he insisted that I cum after I'd made him cum, and that was all pretty hot, but suddenly I was that guy with a food dehydrator but a tragic haircut who was revisiting his sexual history from nearly a decade ago. And, here again, let's all just pretend that this is a real catastrophe, okay?

11. And in the evening, I'd arranged to go with my neighbor and sometime FWP Christopher to get dinner and see a movie in Silver Spring. And we had a very nice dinner at Mandalay, but then we went to the theater, and we saw Vicky Christina Barcelona. And, you know, it seemed like a fine movie at the time, and you really have to acknowledge that Woody Allen is a skilled filmmaker and has a way with Scarlett Johansson and Penelope Cruz, but the more the film has sat with me, the less I've liked it. The voice-over narration was a mistake, I think. I mean, I get that it was somewhat cerebral, but I can generally figure things out for myself without being told what to think. And, as has happened so often in the past, I found myself mildly traumatized by Mr. Allen's world view. The only people who get happy endings in his movies are killers and other criminals (Crimes and Misdemeanors, Small Time Crooks, and Match Point). In Vicky Christina Barcelona, no one even gets resolution. I'm sure he thinks that's more true to life, but I think it makes for a very unsatisfying movie. Especially if you're a man with a tragic haircut who's got figs drying in his food dehydrator.

Christopher came back to my place, and we fooled around a bit, but mostly we just drank wine and talked because I was not only a man with a tragic haircut: I was also a man without a clean fitted sheet on his bed.

12. Fortunately, I had a sheet in the washer, and another in the dryer, so when I got a mildly angry text message from Nike, wondering whether I was ever going to play with him again, I was able to throw a sheet on the bed after I'd texted him back to salve my conscious. Nike's a very nice, but very young, black man who lives about a mile away from me. He's a great kisser, and he loves, loves, loves to give me head, but I don't see him very often, even though he asks a lot. And I had been sort of ignoring him, and he does get cuddly, too, so I told him I'd come pick him up, and I did, and we came back, and he was very into all aspects of it, from kissing, to having his nipples sucked, to feeling me on top of him, and to, of course, sucking me off. I'd told him that we only had until midnight because I had choir Sunday morning, and I'd picked him up at about 10:30, and it was seventy-five very pleasant minutes. I'd come rather cataclysmically twice earlier in the day, so while he was keeping me very hard indeed, I didn't think he'd be able to get me off, so as 11:30 approached I stroked for all I was worth and finally did manage to shoot a load all over both of us. And then he still wanted to cuddle, so we did until almost midnight, when he said, on cue, that he guessed it was time to leave. So I drove him back and then came home, and, well, yes, it was great, but I was truly exhausted. And I had a tragic haircut.

13. After church on Sunday, a very handsome Latin bottom said that he wanted to come over all the way from Bowie. So I told him that he could. He'd answered a craigslist ad, and I'd been very upfront and specific about kissing being required, and he'd kissed a little at the door, but when we got upstairs and I tossed him on the bed and tried to kiss him again, he got an attitude and said, "I'm not a woman. You can't make love to me." And I looked at him and reminded him that I'd said kissing was required, and he sighed, and I turned away and got off the bed, and he apologized and got dressed and left. And I felt bad, not because of what I'd done, but because he'd come all that way, and because he'd been polite rather than angry when he left, even though he was visibly upset. So I sent him an email, saying that I was sorry about how things had gone down and explaining that making out was normally something I needed to produce the very thick erection in the picture I'd posted in the ad and that was his reason for coming over. And he wrote back:
Thanks for the reply...I think you understand that I want to bottom but I don't want to be treated like a woman. My idea is that after some small talk we pop in a hot porn tape and get down to hot man on man sex. I love to suck cock and would like to work yours over but I can't get into being thrown on the bed and being kissed like you are Clark Gable and I am Scarlet O"Hara. Again I love to bottom but I am all man. Hope you understand. If so and you see some compromise let me know.

And I didn't know what to say because, after all, he's married, and he lives all the way in Bowie, but he's very handsome. But I was decidedly amused by his poorly punctuated Scarlet O'Hara reference, even though he probably should have said Rhett Butler instead of Clark Gable, so I wrote back that he was clearly mistaken because I never have and never will be interested in a cross-dresser in either antebellum or Reconstruction era drag. And I'm guessing from his lack of response that he didn't find that very funny. So there I was again: a tragically misunderstood man with a still-tragic haircut.

14. Not long after the Clark Gable debacle, I got another reply from a bi Peruvian who wanted to come over and bottom for me and who volunteered that he also loved to kiss, have his nipples played with, and suck cock. We exchanged a few messages, and he called me, and we arranged for him to come over. Today was an inordinately hot day for mid-September, and when Miguel arrived, his white t-shirt was plastered to his smooth, lean chest. But it was the sort of very fresh sweat that feels nice on a hot body, so when I pulled him into my arms to kiss him, the dampness felt very nice, as it did when I took him upstairs and started to undress him. And he was very sweet throughout the encounter. He truly did like to kiss, and he did like to have his nipples sucked on. And he hadn't mentioned it, but when he was on his third round of sucking my cock and I pulled his lean lower body around and spread his small but very perky buttocks and began to eat his ass, he loved that, too.

He had some trouble accommodating my girth, but he did manage to sit most of the way on my cock and then lean forward to kiss me. And then I put him on his back and wrapped his legs around my neck, and I managed to get deeper still inside him, and he kissed me more hungrily still, when he wasn't wincing from a deeper thrust. And then I put him on his stomach, and really fucked him, until I perceived that I had probably fucked him enough, at which point, I pulled out of him and began to kiss him and stroke him off. He stroked me, too, until he got too turned on, at which point I continued to kiss him and stroke him until he shot a big load. I was very worked up and pretty far along, so, after I gave him a few moments to compose himself, I continued to kiss him, and he cupped my balls and kissed back for the two minutes or so it took until I shot a load all over him. Then I held him for a couple of minutes, and we kissed a few more times, and I offered him the use of the shower, and I watched his tall, lean, brown body disappear into it and reappear from it, and we chatted for a while as we both got dressed, and we exchanged a few more hugs and kisses until he left to go back to his girlfriend, and I left to go pick up YFU. At which point, I was suddenly a guy who didn't no longer much minded his tragic haircut. I mean, it's still pretty bad, but in a couple of weeks, I can go back to Bao, and he'll fix it.


A Lewis said...

All of this horniness plus a haircut? What a ride! Wish I'd been walking along Wisconsin Ave.

Will said...

Ted, you are unfuckingbelievavble. No, I will not under any circumstances, nor even for art, agree to pretend that it was any less fabulous than it was. I lost count of all the men, all the loads, all the bodies flung onto the bed.

OK, the guy who walked out because you gave him the kisses he'd solicited himself was indeed an asshole. But nobody looked at you and said, "Ewwww, tragic hair! I'm SO outta here," so I'm frankly skeptical about how the cut really scores on the tragometer. Sounds to me like a perfect weekend with both the sacred (choir) and the profane (everything else) in satisfyingly correct proportion.

The Neighbors Will Hear said...

Lewis, I'm sure that there have been at least a few occasions where someone's seen you walking down the street and persuaded you to get in his car.

Will, I'm hurt. You're willing to sit in a chair for six hours and listen to Wagner for the sake of art, but you can't pretend there was attenuated fabulousness? Oh, the humanity.

As for the haircut, it really is pretty bad, but it's possible that no one walked out because I just don't realize that my other haircuts, which appear in my pictures, are nearly as bad. It's more likely, though, that when I grab them and kiss them, they just don't have time to think about my hair.

And as for that guy, I wouldn't go so far as to call him an asshole, if only because he was very polite and apologetic about the whole thing. I would call him clueless, but I reckon that he learned a valuable lesson. Anyway, it's not like he was my only company for the weekend, and he did compare me to Clark Gable. Sure, he didn't mean it as a compliment, necessarily, but here again: clueless. Besides, if he hadn't flaked on me, I likely wouldn't have hooked up with Mick, which means I would have missed the extreme pleasure (in the midst of total catastrophe, of course) of watching him come out of the shower and get dressed. And of having him say, as he was kissing me goodbye, "Thanks to you, I will be walking like a cowboy." In a Peruvian accent, yet.

franck said...

Wow, I'll take your bad weekend over one of mine any day