XMiscellany

I wanted to take a short break from all those tidings of comfort and joy (Not so easy to do at the moment because they're broadcasting a Chanticleer Christmas concert on the radio. Those boys can sing.) to bring you some of my more usual fare. Not this past weekend, but the weekend before, I finally managed to connect with Sebastian, a guy who likes me (or at least my cock, but probably both) a lot but who's almost impossible to pin down. To a particular date, I mean. Pinning him to the bed is relatively easy, once he's here. He has permission from his girlfriend to play with guys, provided he follows the established safety guidelines, but he often finds it difficult to find free time, a problem with which I can easily sympathize. Anyway, he'd been out of town for a while (months, at least), but a few weeks ago I got an email from him saying that he was back and that he'd been seeing my cock in craigslist ads and wondered whether I'd use it on him.


Sebastian is hella fun, both to talk to and to fuck, so I was all over the idea. There were some scheduling miscues, though, and I was starting to lose just a tiny bit of my normally inexhaustible patience (inexhaustible in most situations, that is, but when a cute twenty-four-year-old hits me up on Squirt, where my profile clearly states that I don't like men who don't kiss, and tells me that he's "up for anything" and then shows up at my place and dives for my cock but then tells me, when I pull him up and start to kiss him that he doesn't "really do the kissing thing," then I have no trouble whatsoever showing him the door, because, truly, any young'un who doesn't kiss isn't going to do as much for my cock as my right hand will), and he decided to make amends by offering to come over and bring along some 420. Woot.


Sebastian showed up with his usual sunny disposition, and I started kissing him and fondling his nipples. He smiled, ran up the stairs, and started to undress immediately. I stopped him and tossed him on the bed, and we got into it for a while. He hadn't mentioned the weed, and I was too occupied with his lips and nips to ask. Then one thing led to another, and, in less time than it would take you to recite the Constitution backwards in Lithuanian, I was pounding his ass like there was no tomorrow, and he was begging for more.

It wasn't until I said that I needed a short break that he got out his pipe and his lighter. I should probably feel hopelessly naive for having to be shown how to smoke marijuana, but I don't, and I didn't: I was just happy to be able to smoke it in the middle of a hot session.


Having a conversation with someone when one or the other of you is always holding his breath is very interesting. Sebastian is an expansive thinker and talker under any circumstances, and cannabis seems to enhance that quality. We talked about the relative inaccessibility of pot in the suburbs (he has to buy his from his younger brother, and I pretty much rely on the kindness of strangers), and we talked about alternative delivery methods. Apparently, it's not uncommon in Thailand to cook marijuana into a curry. I was relieved to learn that it's added to, rather than substituted for, the Thai basil.

Then we went back to making out and to my playing with his nipples and to his sucking my cock. It was as if each of our minds was expanding into the other's: was truly a transformative experience. For me, anyway. For him, I think it was just really good sex and a lot of fun. I remember thinking that I wouldn't remember most of the thoughts I had during that time, and I don't, but I have a fairly good sense of just how great the whole evening was. Sebastian spent the better part of an hour just trying to make me cum. I told him that it wouldn't work, and I didn't mean it as a challenge, but he took it that way. I didn't resist his efforts -- and he tried everything he could think of -- but ejaculation is rarely a priority for me when I'm with another guy, and it was even less of a priority than usual with him. He finally gave up, saying, "You're a tough nut to crack," and then we made out for another half hour, before he had to leave for home.


I was reminded this past weekend of some of the many reasons why I never studied architecture. I finally settled on this year's gingerbread building: a Greek-inspired gingerbread temple. In the first attempt to erect the structure, the columns were two inches taller than they are in the final (second) iteration, and while the temple stood for a while, when I went to adjust one of the columns, the whole thing collapsed, leaving EFU to say, "I told you so," which did not sit so well with me. But the second attempt has now been stable for about forty-eight hours.


For gingerbread temples, a day is about the equivalent of a century for a temple built of stone. For the first twelve hours, I expected the thing to fall at any moment, but it seems like it might last through Christmas Eve, if I can find a less heavily trafficked spot for it than the dining room table. I made, rolled, cut, and baked the gingerbread, and I assembled the pieces, but the girls did most of the decorating.


The temple is taller than most gingerbread structures, but it has less surface area, and that's a good thing because the kids soon tire of gluing on candy with icing and want to concentrate on eating the candy. EFU is somewhat more dedicated and persistent than YFU, but really, they're only good for a couple of hours. Anyway, everyone had fun, and I'm very happy with the way it turned out, though I can't help thinking that my engineering friends in college would have laughed at the structure.


Late Sunday afternoon, I'd dropped EFU off at church and then had gone to Costco to do some shopping. I had about half an hour before I had to pick her up again when my phone stalker called me. I'd been ignoring his calls fairly persistently, and he sounded very down when I answered. He perked up rapidly, though, and we had almost ten minutes of dirty talk before he brought up, yet again, his tedious leather jacket fascination. I knew exactly where he was headed, so I hung up.


I spent a few minutes in a Borders that's being shut down, but I didn't find the particular edition of the particular book I wanted, so I returned to the car, and I answered his next call. When I asked him why he sounded so down, he said, "Because you hung up on me before I got off." When I told him that he liked being treated that way, he agreed and got all excited when I listed a few of the ways I might abuse him. Then he asked whether I was annoyed about all the leather talk, and when I said I found it tiresome sometimes, he told me about how when he was twelve, he was staying over a friend's house, and he got naked and put on his friend's father's leather trench coat. He got caught.


Then when he was eighteen, he had his first real man-to-man sexual contact when a hot cowboy in a leather jacket went down on him in a men's room. And now he says that at this time of year, it's torture to go to the mall because there are so many hot men walking around in leather jackets. I asked him to tell me about the last time he'd gotten fucked, and then when he was halfway through, I hung up on him and didn't answer the phone again. That boy has just got to learn to cum quickly if he wants to get off. My patience for phone sex isn't what it used to be, especially when I'm driving. Even with a younger guy who continually tells me what a sexy voice I have.


Speaking of voices, I wanted to put an mp3 here of the choir singing a madrigal yesterday, but I'm too lazy to figure out how just now. It sounds decent, though. Often when I have a solo, someone from the church (whoever's in charge of the audio system that day) tells me that he'll send me an mp3 of my performance, but no one ever follows through. I would bug someone about it, but then I'd have to listen to myself sing, and I don't like doing that, except while I'm actually singing. I'm always very excited to sing, but listening to recordings of myself is torturous, no matter how good a job I did.


This past Sunday, after the service, I had a brief rehearsal with the accompanist and the music director for my solo pieces. I'm singing one of them ("On This Day, Everywhere") a cappella, and I'll probably walk around the sanctuary while I'm singing. The accompanist told me that she wasn't thrilled with the arrangement of "Rise Up Shepherd and Follow" that I'd found, and when she played it for me, I could see why. So the music director volunteered to try something and improvised a minimal accompaniment that worked really well, and she'll play for me on Christmas Eve.

I love to sing, and I especially love to sing at Christmas. What with all the music and the food and the family, I am positively suffused with Christmas cheer, and I haven't even made eggnog yet. We all have two basic options when faced with the long nights and stark days of the solstice. You either wallow in the bleak midwinter or you look ahead to spring that always erupts out of it. For me, it really is the most wonderful time of the year.


I still haven't done all my shopping, though. Since I won't be seeing my extended family until the 27th, I can shop on the 26th while b&c is driving his mother back to New Jersey. He's going up tomorrow afternoon to pick her up and driving her back here tomorrow night. Then Wednesday, I have the 4pm Christmas Eve service (solos) and the 8pm service (with the choir). In between, b&c's son, daughter-in-law, ex-wife, and in-laws will arrive for Christmas Eve dinner. I'll serve the soup and the main course, run off to church, sing, retrieve the girls, come back home for dessert and more company, and then stay up late wrapping presents while everyone else sleeps. It'll be a full house, which is just the way I like it.