Monday, September 21, 2009

Bezos


B&c's Colombian boyfriend was visiting this weekend, and that was a lot of fun because he's cute and friendly and, well, cute. He speaks very little English, and I speak almost no Spanish, so communication was somewhat complicated. I can sort of decode written Spanish since the etymology is so similar to French, and when I tried to explain that to him, he said that he spoke a little French, and then we had a perfectly decent conversation in French, after which he either decided that he would rather not be understood or he lost confidence in his French skills. Most likely the latter, which was unfortunate since his French was better than his English, and my French is miles ahead of my Spanish. But whatever, he was still cute.

Throughout the weekend, he kept staring at me, with some intensity, and at first I figured that he was wondering whether I resented his presence in the house. I would have liked to reassure him, but how do you pantomime "I have no problem whatever with your fucking my partner; in fact, I would greatly appreciate your fucking him since I'm not fucking him any more, and it would certainly help his mood; furthermore, feel free to sleep with him, just give me a heads up so I can move my reading glasses to the other room"? And don't tell me there's a video of someone pantomiming that very thing on YouTube: do you think I didn't check? By the way, if you've lost your voice but still need to tell your butcher that you'd like him to trim another quarter-inch of fat off the pork loin, I can hook you up.


But then, occasionally, he'd be next to me to show me something or for me to show him something on the computer, and he'd push against me forcefully enough that it couldn't possibly have been an accident, and I started to think that maybe he was flirting with me. Which seemed slightly odd, but not really all that odd, and, besides, it felt really, really good. B&c and I are pretty much physically estranged these days, and he was never all that good at cuddling or anything like cuddling, and the sort of body contact I get when I hook up (which, in any case, has been happening rarely) is very different from, say, the sort of enchanting-but-not-necessarily-erotic body contact that you might get from a friend who is more physically expressive than I am. I should probably work on being more physically expressive in non-overtly sexual ways, but the list of things that I should work on is already very long, and "be more physically expressive in non-overtly sexual ways" is simply too cumbersome to be on a list with items like "exercise more" and "stop losing socks." As if.

Anyway, Saturday was a very frustrating day. On Friday afternoon, I'd been driving home with YFU, and I'd heard the noise I'd been hearing in the front of my car, but it was much louder than it had been. So on Saturday morning, after b&c, M. and I had stayed up until nearly 1 watching Milk (with the Spanish subtitles on), I got up at 6 to take my car to the shop where I spent five hours and $801. getting new brakes. I'd hoped to spend at least part of Saturday at the office, but between the shop and then shopping with YFU, the day got away from me.

B&c and M. got back from tromping about DC around 6:30, and we all had dinner, YFU disappearing to her room to watch old episodes of Bones on the Internet. We sat at the table draining bottles of wine (most of them were more than half-empty to start with: we were just cleaning up, really) and chatting for a while, then M. and I did the dishes. B&c claimed exhaustion and went to bed, and M. and I retired to the den. He picked up a Spanish novel that EFU had left behind and began reading, and then we chatted a bit. We had to keep looking up words in the dictionary, and when he'd find a word, he'd sit on the arm of the armchair and lean into me and show me the dictionary, and then I'd say "Si" and we'd smile. I thought, "Okay, he's interested," and he was still sitting on the arm of the chair, so I slid my arm around him and squeezed a little bit, and he leaned in against me again, and then he stood up, smiled, and said, "Buenos noches" and went up to his room, stopping to look back at me and smile as he turned the corner. And then I thought that he was simply being friendly and that was probably just the way Colombians are. It was a little confusing, but so much fun. I'd enjoyed the flirting a great deal, and I wondered briefly whether that's why people date. I've always assumed that people date out of some sort of defect of character, but I suppose there is an upside.


The next morning I was singing with the choir at church, so I only caught a glimpse of M. wrapped in a towel coming from the shower before YFU and I had to leave. I figured that M. and b&c would use that time to get horizontal, even though b&c may have said that their relationship had become mainly non-sexual. It's kind of hard to keep track: he works in several different countries, and he has something like a part-time boyfriend in most of them, and I'm not interested and/or diligent enough to remember which ones are dinner companions and travel guides and which ones are dinner companions and travel guides who also pound him senseless. I would like to think that most of them fall into the latter category, but b&c seems to be relatively happy not to have sex with any of his guys, except probably me.

Anyway, we got back from church, YFU returned to her computer, and I went off to the office for a couple of hours, then I took her back to her mother's, and came back home. I took a walk and then read some more, and M. and b&c returned -- after another day of tromping about -- around 6. B&c made dinner in the kitchen. M. and I were in the den, and every once in a while, he'd get up to go to the kitchen or come back, and he'd walk behind my chair and squeeze the back of my neck. Then we had dinner, and more wine, and b&c went upstairs to pack for his trip to Colombia. M. was already packed for his trip to NYC, so we sat in the den and attempted to chat for a bit. He asked me what my favorite song was. It seemed easiest to take him into the office and show him. I opened YouTube and showed him Patsy Cline singing "Crazy" and he showed me what he said was some typically Colombian music, and I showed him the opening scene from Diva with Wilhelminia Wiggins Fernandez singing an Aria from La Wally. He showed me Nat King Cole sining "Quizas, Quizas, Quizas," and I showed him a clip from Strictly Ballroom with the Doris Day version, and all through that, he was massaging my neck and then my shoulders and it really seemed as though he were being more than friendly, and when I stood up, he reached up and grabbed the back of my neck again, and I reached over and did the same to him, and then we heard b&c coming down the stairs, and we separated and I sat back down and pulled up "Girl from Ipanema."

B&c went back upstairs, and I stood up and leaned down and had one of those first kisses that would in any event have been awesomely delicious but which was made much more so by all that teasing. It surely didn't hurt that he has full soft lips, or that he's short and thin and dark and lovely. We stood there and made out, and there was a beautiful ebb and flow to it. He'd moan softly and then there'd be an increased urgency, and I'd suck on his immense lower lip, and he'd bite down on mine, and I'd pull him into my arms, and then we'd hear a noise from upstairs and separate. The whole teenagers-not-wanting-to-get-caught-by-Dad vibe made it all the more enticing. When we'd separate, he'd often sit in the chair at the computer, and I'd massage his neck and shoulders, and he'd melt a little and then lift his head to look back at me, and I'd bend down, and we'd meet in an upside down kiss, each sucking on the other's lower lip. I ran my hands down over his chest and squeezed his nipples through his polo shirt and then gently stroke the side of his face. I could see him tenting his jeans, but I thought it wise not to reach that far down just then.


We did that off and on for half an hour or so, and every moment of it -- the kissing, the roaming hands, the sudden separations -- was heaven. Eventually, b&c finished packing and asked M. whether there was anything he could take back to Colombia for him (M. will be getting back there while b&c is still there.), so M. went off to get a few things, and I went back to the Den and picked up my book. I figured that b&c would be tired and would turn in pretty soon, and then I'd have a chance to get M. into a more compromising position, but I also figured that a) that might be a little bit awkward, and b) I'd already had a great time, and it isn't often that I get really great clothed making out, so I was already ahead of the game.

B&c and M. settled in the living room to talk for a bit, and it got to be about 10, and M. appeared in the den and said, "Buenos noches" again. He blew me a kiss and went upstairs. B&c stayed up for a few more minutes, but then said he was exhausted and went to our room. I smiled, thinking what a fun evening it had been, and flipped on a rerun of whichever one of the Law & Orders Christopher Meloni is on. Christopher Meloni, mmmmm. It would have been nice, I figured, to get M. naked and find out whether he had the small, dark, uncut cock that must surely have accompanied his small, dark, smooth body, but the kissing really was all that.


Of course, half an hour later, he snuck downstairs in his underwear, and we had really tremendous sex -- and I'm not complaining about that, mind you -- but it was almost beside the point.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

You Get a Little Drunk and You Land in Jail


So the other day, I'm running through my various gmail accounts. I have six of them, and it takes about a minute to check all of them, unless there's an actual email demanding my attention, like maybe I need to send a recipe to EFU or remind one of my married sub cocksuckers that it will still be a couple of weeks before I can host again or explain to Bank of America any unusual charges out of my bank account last month, which makes me wonder whether using my debit card to spend $12 for condoms at CVS is going to cause my lender to abandon me in my hour of home ownership. But this time around, the only email I had was a notification that I had a new message on one of my facebook accounts, and the name of the person who'd sent that message was suspiciously identical to the name of that guy that I spent the night with once, maybe six months ago, and who subsequently spent three months as a guest of the DC prison system.


And my immediate thought is, "Oh, shit, this guy's pissed off that when his fiancee -- whom I did not know to exist -- texted me to tell me that he was in jail, I thought he was texting me and joking around, and now he's going to hunt me down and disembowel me for telling his girlfriend that he's gay. It's a good thing I'm moving soon. I hope b&c doesn't give up my new location under torture." But then I log on to facebook and it's just a "Hey, how's it going?" or maybe a "Hey, what's up? message," and part of me says, "Just walk away, TED. WALK. AWAY." But another part of me just can't help trying to figure what the hell is up with this guy, so I write on his wall or whatever and then I search a couple of email accounts until I figure out which one we used to correspond under, and it's not the email account linked to that facebook account, which makes me think that he must have found me by searching by (phony Internet) name. And I don't think my (phony Internet) name is all that uncommon, so there are probably TEDs all over the place wondering who the hell Rafael (Is that what I called him? Who can remember?) is and why he's writing on their walls.


There's no way in hell that I'm communicating with anybody via Facebook, though, so I send him a generic what's-up e-mail, and he writes back, that he's good and how am I, and I check his Facebook profile, and it says that his status has changed, over the past few days, from married to single to it's complicated. Complicated: understatement much? And after a couple of emails, he writes that he's almost got his license back and that he's in a relationship and doing some side jobs, so I write back to ask whether that's with his fiancee, and he replies, "Wife, actually," and I'm about as WTF as I've ever been at that point, but after "Wife, actually," he writes that sometimes he just gets the urge for that little something, which prompts me to ask whether he doesn't mean an urge for a big something, and he says something about liking to be stretched, but that he hasn't had any for so long that he's just sooooo tight right now, and I can't help asking, "But didn't you get plenty of thick black cock in the D.C. jail?" Which in many contexts could be considered a rude question, but, seriously, didn't he?


But Rafael doesn't seem at all nonplussed, he just writes back that the 90 days of hell was meant to be 30 days, and he says that he doesn't remember telling me that he was going to jail, but he doesn't seem angry, either. I reply that someone else told me, and I ask whether the incarceration was related to his meth addiction, and then he loses his cool a bit: the non comes off the nonplussed, but he doesn't actually use either "nonplussed" or "plussed," so I am robbed of the chance to say, "LISTEN YOU MANWHORE COCKSUCKER, I DON'T ESPECIALLY MIND THAT YOU WERE ENGAGED AND TOLD ME YOU WERE SINGLE OR THAT YOU STOOD ME UP REPEATEDLY WITH BOGUS EXCUSES OR THAT I NEARLY SHIT MYSELF WHEN I REALIZED THAT I'D JUST TOLD YOUR FIANCEE THAT YOU'RE GAY OR EVEN THAT KNOWING THAT SHE WENT AHEAD AND NOT ONLY DIDN'T DUMP YOUR SORRY JAILHOUSE ASS BUT ACTUALLY MARRIED YOU OR THAT YOU WENT ALONG WITH IT AND MARRIED HER EVEN THOUGH WE BOTH KNOW THE ONLY THING YOU WANT IS TO BE PLOWED FROM BOTH ENDS UNTIL YOU PASS OUT AND THAT YOUR METH ADDICTION MEANS YOU CAN'T GET IT UP IN THE FIRST PLACE BUT I WILL NOT SIT IDLY BY WHILE YOU CREATE INCORRECT BACKFORMATIONS, DOUCHEBAG." Besides, that wouldn't, strictly speaking, be true: I am still sort of upset about the back and forth with his fiancee. The rest of it, well, shit happens, you know? Especially the standing up with lame excuses part. And, really, in my experience, when someone stands you up, you just switch to Man B, and Man B is more often than not more fun than Man A. Men that bail on you at the last minute tend not to be all that great in the sack.


Anyway, he sends me a couple more messages about how he was in jail because he assaulted a cab driver who called him a faggot and about how he only smokes pot, and not even that since January, but he's never done meth, and I need to "get [my] shit/story straight," but I'm back to being some combination of a) slightly scared of him and b) grateful that he apparently doesn't know what I said to his fiancee. I'm hopeful that I won't hear from him again, but it's more likely that he'll send a few more emails. I reckon I'll just have to tell him that I already have enough married guys in my line up. I'll probably avoid adding that none of them do meth.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Cub


Wow. Talk about your long dry spells, readers. Nowadays, when I hear about sex, I think, "Wow, that sounds vaguely familiar. Isn't that something that maybe I used to do ALL THE TIME?" But opportunity there has been little of. B&c was meant to go on a four-week business trip to scenic Guyana, but when he was on his way out to visit his daughter and son-in-law in Denver, he ripped his rotator cuff while lifting his carry-on luggage off the conveyor belt at the x-ray machine at the airport. Or so he says. I was all, "Dude. I don't care if you got injured while you were tied to some guy's bed, table, or garage door, even if you never asked me to tie you up. It's your shoulder," except I didn't say that out loud because he probably did tear the rotator cuff lifting his carry-on bag, and how sad is that? Checked luggage is your friend, people.

Anyway, he's been around all the time, but I haven't wanted to fuck him for various reasons, including not wanting to injure him, but mostly just because I think it'll make the whole moving out process easier in the long run. Even though there are times when I walk by him in the morning while he's standing naked at the sink and feel a twinge of something like desire. Ok, something exactly like desire, but it's made a good deal less painful by the knowledge that what I really most want to do -- sink to my knees, spread his cheeks, and eat his ass -- is something that he's not at all into. I feel like I've said all this before, but I find that when I haven't had sex in a while, my thoughts get stuck in unhelpful patterns.


So this past Saturday, I'd come to the office to get caught up a little bit on my mountain of work, and I may have happened to look at the craigslist ads, and I may have read an ad from a guy who called himself a cub and who said that he had a papa bear coming over later in the day and that he (the cub) wanted either other tops to join in or other tops to play with him separately. And he may have mentioned a particular interest in dominant tops. And apparently all this actually happened because we exchanged a few emails and then a phone call and then I was on my way to his hotel.

Well, it wasn't quite that easy because he'd said that he really wanted to engage in some roleplay, and OH MY GOD, fine, yes, ok, I will do your silly little roleplay, boy. I mean, what the hell, right? Because good sex isn't good enough, without pretending that it's something that it isn't. I really don't want it to sound like I was annoyed by the request, it's more just that I was rolling my eyes. I mean, it's easy enough to do roleplay when you're engaged in cyber or phone sex, but if you want me to pretend to be a policeman, well, I don't have the uniform, and I can't really fake it enough to be a credible cop. But there are plenty of other authority figures, so I told him to be clean and naked when he opened the door, and that I'd take it from there.

I had a description of this guy, and I'd spoken to him on the phone, and I'd seen an anonymous, from-behind photo, but I didn't know exactly what to expect. People mean very different things when they say "cub." Often it just means anybody who wants to play with a bear, but in this case, it meant a cute, fit, thirty-two year old with abundant reddish-brown hair all over his face and body. Yum. I could see all the hair, of course, because he was naked when he opened the door. I introduced myself as the hotel manager and said that I'd had numerous complaints about noise and about all manner of men coming into his hotel room at all hours and that I very much resented being pulled from a comfortable bed where I'd been having a good time and being forced to come to the hotel to evict a guest and can you think of any reason why I shouldn't toss your ass on the street?


And he started to answer, but that was when I shoved him down on the bed, climbed on top of him and started to kiss him. I mean, role play is fine, but there are limits. After a few minutes of that, I did remember myself enough to tell him that he needed to be punished and to spank his very cute and perky ass until it was nice and red before kissing him again and starting to work on his nipples. I also managed to insist that he give me the typical, "Thank you, sir. May I have another?" after each whack with the belt, but it was mostly pro forma.

But, you know, pro forma is really enough. He seemed overwhelmed in a very good way by the whole experience. And he was a really good kisser. He had a great, soft mouth and good technique, and when I bit his nipples or pinned his arms down or licked his pits or shoved my jeans-covered crotch in his face, he always seemed to be right on the edge of too much, and that was clearly an edge he liked.

Eventually I got my clothes off and pushed him down to my cock, and, wow, great head. The soft mouth appeared to be connected to a throat without a gag reflex. He seemed very, very happy, but he didn't complain when I pulled him off my cock so that I could kiss him some more and then pin him down again. The next time I let him go down on me, I put his ass right in front of my face so that I could play with it and eat it, and he pulled off the very neat trick of clearly going into his extra happy place without stopping the suction. Awesome. We stayed in that position for a while, my alternating fingers with tongue, and then we made out some more until he begged me to fuck him. In his emails, he'd mentioned concern about being able to take my thickness, but I could tell from the fingering that a) he could take it, and b) he'd be eager to take it.

I teased him a little, but then I let him sit on it, and he was over the moon. I worked on his nipples while he bounced up and down on me a bit, then I put him into X position for a bit, but there wasn't a whole lot of time, so I moved him onto his stomach and lay on top of him, fucking him that way, and then I finally put him on his back, shoved his knees up to his face, and pushed into his hole and right up against his prostate.


I knew it'd be sensitive from the way I'd played with it when I had two fingers inside him. And I knew from earlier warnings that I couldn't play with his cock too much or he'd cum right away. What I didn't expect was that after just five or six minutes of fucking him that way and listening to him talk about how much he loved it, I'd be close to shooting myself. I almost never cum in that position, even though it's my favorite way to fuck. I warned him what was coming, continued to pump for a bit more, gave a shout, and filled the condom. After I was finish jerking from the intensity of the orgasm, I grabbed his cock, which was still hard, and gave it a few pumps. He'd already been pretty close when I started, so it wasn't a shock when the first watery blast came out of him and flew halfway up his chest before a thicker wad of semen shot out and hit his beard. So much fun.

I continued to stroke him until he was shuddering from the sensitivity of his cockhead, then I pulled out and lay beside him for a couple of minutes. Then we chatted a bit, and I jumped in the shower and then got dressed. He was dressed, standing up, and thanking me for coming over, and I pulled him too me and kissed him softly for a while, told him that the pleasure had really been mine, and left, heading back to the office.

Between work and the move, it may be a while before normal sexual activity resumes, but I'm sure that after I move, I'll make up for lost time.