Friday, June 19, 2009

Plus Ca Change

I should probably take last weekend in chronological order, but that last post was kind of a bummer (lots of pictures, though, right?), so maybe I should discuss the best hook-up next. The problem there is that it's kind of tough to choose. I had a somewhat lackluster threeway Saturday evening, but the three one-on-one hook-ups that I had Saturday and Sunday afternoons were each solid three-star encounters. They were the sort of sex that, if any one of them had been the best sex that you'd had in three months, you'd have to say you'd had a damned good quarter.

And they were all with guys I'd fucked before but hadn't seen in a while. There was Logan, the fifty-something beanpole from Istanbul (not Constantinople), whom I hadn't seen since January or so, when he went back to Istanbul (not Constantinople). There was little Sander, the cute, short, thirty-year-old married furball who lives nearby but who is only ever free when I'm not, whom I hadn't seen since March. And then there was Patrick.

I think I've written about Patrick here before, but probably only in a round about way (I don't think I knew his name before Saturday). And I can't locate the post that talked about him. It gets hard, after a while, to locate specific posts of mine via Google. Unless there's some telling and unusual detail, well, let's just say that a good many of my posts about really good sex include the words "nipples," "submissive," and "cheeseburger."

As near as he and I could figure, I met Patrick back in 2001 or 2002. It was probably on We chatted briefly, and then he invited me to come out to the hinterlands to fuck him in the very large house that he was housesitting for his boss. I showed up at the appointed rendez-vous coordinates, a local country store, and he wasn't there. I waited for a while, then I left, but then I came back to get a soda, and he had arrived, full of apologies and lust. I followed him back to his boss' house, stood him against the door of the laundry room, kissed him, twisted a nipple, and three hours later, I was calling my friends to brag about it. That, in case you're a new reader, is the definition of a three-star hook-up. It's so good that you have to excuse yourself so you can call your friends and gloat.

At that time, Patrick was thirty-two or thirty-three, and he was married (of course) and very attractive: tall, lean, blond, smooth, goateed, pierced (nipple), submissive, and ravenous for cock. I was fairly new to mansex in those days, and I'd had my share of good and great sex before, but the session with him was better than any I'd had before. I walk away from sex like that thinking that it just doesn't get any better. And I still think that. I've had plenty of sex to rival that fuck, but we clicked so well for those 2.5 hours that it felt like the Platonic ideal of sex. Even if something since then was better, it could only be as good.

But, as is the way with things, not long after I met Patrick, he started down the road I'd recently traveled. His wife found out about his passion for men, she outed him at work, he got laid off, he had issues with his kids, he took a less lucrative job and a cheap apartment, both far away, and while we kept in touch intermittently via email, there was never a chance to get back together. His last email had said something about a boyfriend in Aspen Hill whom he didn't get to see often enough. And that was probably two or three years after we'd hooked up and a year since our most recent prior email exchange. I thought of him occasionally and another year or two later, I tried emailing him, and the address was dead.

But he was always the guy I thought of first when I told people, "It's really better to be grateful for all the great sex you did have with that guy rather than to regret all the sex you never got to have with him," so I only ever looked back on that encounter with a great deal of fondness and lust.

Anyway, I had just finished fucking and saying goodbye to Logan -- who was unexpectedly called back to Istanbul (not Constantinople) and only barely managed to find an hour to spend getting pounded -- when I went downstairs to the computer to check the responses to my craigslist ad, and there was one saying:
Hey Bud,

Saw your ad and think we played a couple of times a few years back in a big house in Laytonsville. If your the same guy. I'd definately love to hook up again...


And I thought, "Laytonsville. Heh." But I really didn't know who it was. Laytonsville is in the hinterlands, to be sure, but its exact location is, I aver, subject to interpretation. I thought of big houses in that area, and I thought very briefly of Patrick (whose name I had not known, or at least not remembered), but that was more than a few years back, and we only played once, and, well, "Surely not," I thought.

So I sent back a noncommittal response saying that I wasn't sure who he was, and he replied:
Think you drove a taurus at the time and maybe lived in ss

Ok, that's me! But I still had no clue about him, so I asked for more details. And he said:It looks, don't you think it looks a lot like rain?
42, 6'1 190-195# smooth, 8.5 cut, very oral, eager pleasing type submissive. consider myself masculine not fem but love alot of body contact, taking instructions/verbal, cbt, tt, spankings etc. You fucked me a few times at a place in Laytonsville during the week days...

and then:
did I say clean cut, clean shaven, dark blonde/blue sorta buzzcut hair use to be married have kids etc....

And I thought, a) OMG, it's him! b) I just totally exhausted myself covering Logan with cum, and yet I'm hard again just reading this email, and c) if I believed in Karma, right now I'd convinced that I gave some deity really amazing head in a previous life.

As you might guess, I emailed him again asking him to come over. It was 4:30 or so, and he said he only had until 6:30, but I was expecting a couple of guys at 7, so that was good for me. He called me, I talked a little rough to him, I gave him directions, I ran upstairs, I jumped in the shower, he called again when he got lost, I gave him more directions, I got out the restraints, I went back downstairs, he rang the doorbell, I opened the door, he walked in, and I started to kiss him, with one hand immediately going for a nipple and the other hand cupping and then squeezing his fine ass.

So I'm going to get this out of the way right here, and I'm going to try to make sure I'm not misunderstood. The years have not been especially kind to Patrick. And by that I don't mean that he's unattractive: he's still hot. What I mean is that an early-thirties metro-soon-to-be-homo-sexual guy with an easy life and a heavy bicycling habit is really, in my eyes, not much more than a youth. He had, back in the day, an unwrinkled brow, a light bronze glow, and an untroubled optimism about him that bespoke an utter unfamiliarity with major life trauma. I think that divorce, more than time, is responsible for the wrinkles on my own brow, and I know that he'd had problems with acceptance from his son and a great deal of other shit to put up with. I'm also guessing, from the available evidence, that he has spent his share of weekends in Rehoboth with his partner and without adequate sun protection or moisturizer. In any case, he now looks older than me, and, well, he really isn't.

But I didn't notice that until later, and when I noticed it, it didn't make any difference. The sex was awesome. What I noticed when I first grabbed him was that he no longer had the nipple piercing. I mentioned it, and he said, "You do remember me!" Oh, yes.

We only had ninety minutes (with most guys ninety minutes is way more than enough, but doing Patrick in ninety minutes is kind of like doing the Louvre in the same amount of time: get the man's clothes off so we don't miss La Joconde!) so I pushed him right upstairs and began to undress him. He began to sweat. In fact, he didn't stop sweating the whole time he was there, but it was that sort of clean sweat that lubricates, literally and figuratively, rather than inhibits the action.

As hot as everything he does is, none of it's hotter than his kissing. Fifteen minutes in, he told me, "I'd forgotten what a great kisser you are," and I replied, "Really? That was the main thing I remembered about you. Well, that and the nipples." I was squeezing his nipple pretty hard when I said that, and then I bit it for good measure before kissing him again. He kvelled. And sweat some more. And there was some moaning.

And damn if the time didn't just fly by. We were rolling around, soaking the sheets, and I was working his nipples very hard, then biting his neck and shoving my tongue in his ears, and he stopped moaning long enough to say, "You're finding all my weak spots." I bit down on his ear lobe, pushed my tongue into his ear again, and then pushed him down towards my cock.

Patrick loves to be dominated, so I did something I very rarely do and slapped his face in between kisses and again when he was going down on me. I didn't slap it very hard, of course, just because one doesn't, but I did slap his ass about as hard as I could with my bare palms, and he loved that. Perhaps not as much as he loved it when I pulled him around to eat his ass, or when I barked, "Did I say you could stop sucking my cock, boy?" when my tongue in his ass made him lose concentration, but it's hard to tell. He loved everything.

And he loved getting fucked most loudly of all. I had worked a few fingers into his ass, and then I laid him on his stomach and took him from behind. I started slowly, but even though his ass was tight, it opened pretty easily (apparently, what he and his partner do is mostly just anal, so he gets fucked a reasonable amount), and I was ramming him hard pretty soon.

I flipped him over and had him ride me for a bit and then lowered him into the X position, as per my usual practice, but it was all really foreplay for getting him on his back, grabbing his ankles, and bending him in half to plow him hard face to face. I let his calves rest against my shoulders and leaned down so that I could twist both nipples while I plowed him. He screamed and begged me to keep it up. I complied.

One thing I remembered from fucking him years ago was that he didn't get hard. But he got hard this past weekend. Really hard. And, really, even though big cocks aren't my thing, I can tell that he's impressively hung. After we'd been playing for nearly ninety minutes, and I'd been fucking him for maybe half an hour, I was ready for a breather, and I was aware of his time constraints, so lay next to him and kissed him some more and chewed on his nipple and stuck two fingers up his ass and worked on his prostate while he stroked himself off. He came pretty quickly and pretty hard. Then we made out some more and talked for a while, and got caught up, which, since we don't really know each other, didn't take long.

He was running a little late, so I helped him into the shower and asked him whether he had an open or a don't-ask-don't-tell relationship, and he said it was the latter. He said that he'd offered his partner an open relationship, but that his partner had refused and that he'd then walked in on his partner fucking someone he found repulsive and had felt very disrespected. I told him that I'm sure it wasn't a reflection on the amount of affection between them so much as it was male horniness, but I was thinking that I already knew more than I really wanted to know. It was pretty clear that in the time since I'd first met him, he'd done a much better job than I have of assimilating to what are perceived as standard American gay attitudes and mannerisms. That isn't a bad thing. But it's not necessarily a good thing, either. Years ago, I figured that if circumstances had been different, we might have been friends, but now I figure that he's just another nice and sexy guy with whom I have not much in common.

He also told me that his relationship with his partner wasn't particularly passionate but that they had little drama and "travel well together." To be honest, it sounded slightly depressingly familiar, but only depressing on that remote intellectual level of my mind that continues to operate no matter how happy my body is. I was, though, still very much humming from the ninety minutes of nirvana (during which that part of my mind was refreshingly silent). And so was he. He told me that everything I do to him makes him want to just throw his ass up into the air. Well. How can you not smile when you hear that?

Still and all, despite his relative proximity, I'd be surprised if I heard from him again anytime soon. After showering and getting dressed, he seemed a little bit distracted, as if anticipating the sort of guilt that so many men apparently feel. I had pretty much fucked his brains out, but he seemed not to be holding on to the pleasure. But who knows? Maybe he was just worried about getting home before his partner got home from the pool.

And, you know, it doesn't really matter. Because, analysis aside, the sex was perfect. And while I would really enjoy seeing him twice a year instead of twice a decade, as grateful as I was for the first time I met him, I'm doubly grateful that I got to hit that twice because I certainly never expected it.

And I'm even more grateful that the sessions with Logan and Sander, both of whom I likely will fuck again, were the same. Not exactly the same in all the details, of course (more on those in another post), but equal in that they were all unreservedly great. I am an extremely fortunate man, and I strive never to forget it.


Anonymous said...

It goes. That's the way it goes. It goes that way.

At least for you!

This is my first comment on your blog, but I've been reading it for over a year now. It's sexy and funny and smart and sometimes sad and sometimes profound. I'm a fan!

TED said...

Isn't it? Isn't it just? Isn't it just like anonymous?