So I spent this past long weekend in New York. I went there to sing in a large chorus for a concert of Karl Jenkins' The Armed Man at Lincoln Center, which meant, among other things, that I had to buy a tuxedo, that I spent about fifteen hours in rehearsals and performance, that I caught a show (Hair. Out of this world, in every possible meaning of the phrase. Loved it.), that I got to enjoy a number of good meals, and that I had a few opportunities to hook up.
Hooking up in New York is a lot like hooking up in the Maryland suburbs, except that the merchandise is of somewhat higher quality, and it exists in much greater abundance. I reckon those two phenomena are linked: with so many options, everyone has to work harder to compete. In any case, the practical effect is that the same issues that exist with, say, a Craigslist ad in Maryland are multiplied in Manhattan: there are a lot more responses, and the opportunities expire a lot more quickly. I'm sure there's a branch of economics and/or a branch of mathematics that deals with the difficulties of coupling in such a situation, and I have no idea what it is, but I did at least gain a bit of appreciation for how difficult it must be to form relationships in Manhattan. With so much out there, how does the typically picky gay male know that he has the best that's on offer? And how does he grab it when so many are grabbing at so many?
I, obviously, am not the typically picky gay male, and I clearly wasn't looking for a relationship, so things were somewhat easier for me. I would have liked to hook up a whole lot while I was there, and since I was getting in Friday afternoon and not leaving until Tuesday morning, I probably could have gone for double digits, but I also had the long rehearsals, and I didn't want to turn my back on some of the many non-sexual delights that New York has to offer. So for those reasons, and just because of a feeling I had, I decided to go for nine.
Reader, I came up short. Sort of. I did hook up nine times, but two of the times were with the same particularly engaging Brazilian (Actually, half-Brazilian, half-Lebanese, he said, but he grew up in Brazil.), so let's just call it eight and a half.
I regret not taking notes, mostly because it took me a few minutes to recreate the list, but also because I'm sure there are details I'll forget and that were of great interest at the time and might possibly have interested you even now, if only I had written them down. What can I say? I was busy.
Anyway, here's the line-up:
1. Itty bitty Filipino (Friday afternoon) 2. Brazilian nipple guy (Friday late night) 3. Hot French nipple sub (Saturday afternoon) 4. Mildly odd Brooklyn redhead (Saturday late afternoon) 5. Muscly Latin virgin (Saturday late night) 6. Former army ranger (Sunday morning) 7. Brazilian nipple guy redux (Sunday evening) 8. Cute Colombian cub quicky (Monday morning) 9. Brooklyn Italian extra quicky (Tuesday morning)
And some random notes.
Every New Yorker who doesn't live in Manhattan thinks -- or at least will tell you -- that he can get to you a lot more quickly than he can actually get to you. Every New Yorker who lives in Manhattan also underestimates the amount of time that it will take to get to you, whether he's coming by subway or by cab, but he won't be off by as much, except perhaps proportionately. On Tuesday morning, I was trying to get out of the hotel by 9:30, and #9 called me around 8:15 and said that he could be in Columbus Circle by 8:45. I almost told him no, but there was the quota to consider. He showed up at 9:20. I was out of the hotel at 9:45, and I was still early for my bus, which -- unlike the bus on Friday -- was not at all crowded. It turns out you can do a lot in twenty minutes, or even eighteen. We made out, I worked his nipples some, I went down on him, he went down on me, I ate his ass, he sat on my cock, I put him on his back and fucked him, he said it hurt too much, I put him on his stomach, I fucked him some more, and we both shot our loads. I hadn't cum in a while, so I was pretty worked up, I guess.
I had to tell a couple of the guys who had particularly awesome bodies to stop lying about their ages. Yeah, the built-like-a-god-and/or-a-brick-shithouse Latin virgin probably could have passed for the twenty-seven he originally told me, but not so much after he said that he'd spent twelve years in the military before starting his current career. That guy had an ass that wouldn't quit. Except that it did, sort of. I was fucking him, and he came pretty quickly, and then I had to stop because he told me it "hurts like a motherfucker." He said that he'd never been with a man before but that he was "very sexually open" so he wanted to try it, but that he thought maybe next time he should try topping. I told him that with a body like his, he could pretty much have his pick. He seemed genuinely touched. It was a very interesting conversation, but I think he was straight and just a little gunshy from past girlfriends and hoping things would be easier with guys. And not overly encumbered by moral or societal considerations. His ass still hurt when he left, but he was very pleasant about it.
Similarly, the Frenchman who'd said he was fifty and who had the body of a (very fit) thirty-five year old looked even better when I found out he was actually fifty-nine. Playing with that guy was literally like playing an instrument: when I bit on his nipples, he moaned in an almost musical manner, and when I increased the intensity, the pitch went up. And boy did he love having them worked. He also loved being fucked. And kissing. Mais attendez! Il y en a plus! When I'd finished fucking him and then stroking the cum out of him while I bit down on his nipples and he went for a high C, we chatted for a few minutes in French! I love that, and I rarely have the opportunity. He also claimed to be impressed by my mastery of the language and my accent (or lack thereof), but I think he was just being kind, out of gratitude for the awesome rogering I'd just given him. I am a lot more modest about my French than about my topping skills, apparently.
Speaking of well-built men, the former army ranger was 6'2 and, well, he looked like an army ranger. Actually, to be thorough, he looked like an army ranger who has retired and become a manager of an IT firm while staying in great shape. Which, in fact, he turned out to be. Let x = x. When we were done, and he had told me what he did, I said to him, "You know, you look exactly like a former army ranger who manages an IT firm." He was very quiet in bed, and the only time I even got slightly louder breathing out of him was when I slapped his ass. I prefer my subs to be somewhat louder and/or more verbal, but I'm pretty willing to forgive a body like that a little bit of silence, especially when the guy sucks well and has a tight, beautiful ass. Besides, he appears to have had a good time. After we were done, he went off to meet former army buddies, hang out in a bar, flirt with women, and watch the playoffs.
The second time the engaging and very talkative Brazilian guy came, he left behind his container of lube. Apparently, the very pedestrian brand of lube I use is not up to New York standards because most of the guys brought their own lube. And many of them brought their own poppers, which is just as well since I never use them. Sadly, none of them brought their own condoms, which, when you think about it, are the ideal gift to bring to this sort of occasion. I almost exhausted my supply, even though I didn't fuck a couple of the guys. I guess I could have bought more, but I can only imagine -- given the cost of a drink -- what a condom costs in Manhattan. I was on Canal Street, and I suppose that when one of those guys said, "Rolex?" to me, I could have said, "Forex," but one can only imagine that the counterfeit condoms are not of the highest quality. Surely that's why the city government has been closing down all those shops. Anyway, I assume the Brazilian left the lube behind by accident. It could have been a gift, but then why would the price tag still be on it. And: that much? He clearly didn't get that lube on Canal Street. What a sucker. Literally: great with the oral, that one. Also fun to cuddle and talk with afterwards. Mmmmmm, Brazilians.
Finally, the Holiday Inn on W.57th Street was a great place to stay for hooking up. Sure, it's not the most convenient location since guys will have to walk a full five minutes from the Columbus Circle station, but the rooms are huge by NYC standards, the bed was very comfortable, and if you invite someone over, he can come up to the room without being hassled by security, except between midnight and 6am. I'm pretty sure the muscly Latin virgin arrived at 11:58. The Brazilian was the only guy who actually had to have someone call up to my room, and I think he enjoyed having the guy at the desk know he was there for a hook-up.
They really need to fix their ice machines, though.
After several failed attempts, last night I finally managed to get a third hoo-up with Shane, the uber-hot, early thirties former gymnast with maybe ten tattoos and maybe six percent body fat. The last time we hooked up was way back around the end of summer. His partner had pretty much kicked him out, and we fucked on the carpet in their nearly empty townhouse. I was sore for a couple of days afterwards, but it was clearly worth it.
Since then, he and his sometime partner had reconciled and then come apart permanently, and he'd been staying with friends in DC and working several jobs, trying to get back on his feet, even though he's clearly most comfortable on his back. I'd contacted him occasionally, but he'd always had to work, and one time he'd fallen asleep until after the last Metro train, but we talked on the phone, and he said, "Come on. You know how much I like being fucked by you." So I texted him on Sunday, saying, "Monday or Tuesday?" and he said that could work, but Monday didn't work, and last night almost didn't work, either. He's starting another job and had to wait around for a form to fill out, or something, and I thought maybe he was going to stand me up, so I sent an email to this twenty-three year old guy who'd been corresponding with me regularly since he'd responded to one of my craigslist ads. He'd never done anything with a man, but he was awfully curious, and earlier in the day he'd said that he'd be available in the evening. I'd told him that I had plans but that I'd let him know if they fell through.
Anyway, I emailed him my phone number, he called, and he came over and came. Twice. Mostly we made out and he went down on me, and I fingered him some and ate his ass some, and then we made out some more while I stroked him to two very quiet orgasms. He'd mentioned when he walked in the door that he was nervous, so I asked him periodically whether he was ok, and he always said, "Yeah" and nothing more. I mentioned later that he's very quiet, and he said, "Yeah, I am." But he was a great kisser (nice lips, good technique) and a natural at sucking cock, assuming that it really was his first time, and it probably was. I think he would have loved being fucked, but he only had about an hour, and I would have wanted more time to get him accustomed to the idea as well as to plow him, so I settled for stroking a couple of small loads out of him. His girlfriend is currently home from college, and he had to go to a party with her after we were done. I asked him whether they had lots of sex, and he said, "Yeah, we do." A bona fide bisexual, I reckon, and very sweet. He apologized for cumming on the sheets. It happens. I wonder whether I'll see him again. It would be interesting seeing his reaction to getting fucked the first time.
He left around 9, and I puttered around for nearly an hour before deciding to try Shane's phone again. He answered, saying he'd been just about to call me and that he was getting a ride to the Red Line. I told him to call me when he got to Wheaton, and I would pick him up at Glenmont. An hour passed, and he called to say he was at the Rhode Island Ave station. This was beginning to look inauspicious, at least in terms of getting started at a reasonable hour. Apparently the train stopped at a number of stations to wait for trains from other lines. Anyway, it was 11:30 or so when he called from Wheaton. I went to fetch him from the station, and before long, there he was, with the body of a jockey wrapped in many layers.
I was not particularly surprised when he wanted a cigarette as soon as we got back to my place. I let him smoke on the porch, then I grabbed him, and he said something about needing to shower and brush his teeth. I grabbed him more fervently and shepherded him upstairs where I found that both nipples and his cockhead are now pierced. Awesome. Well, actually, who cares about a cock piercing, but two pierced nipples? AWESOME. I did my best to get him undressed and in bed, but he was insistent about the shower, etc. (I had showered both before and after the twenty-three year old.) so I let him out of my grasp and dozed on the bed.
He took his time, but when he came back, he was more than ready. I know that what Shane loves above all else is to be fucked long and hard, but he was downright affectionate last night, so there was a little bit of what would have been considered cuddling if I hadn't been kissing him and tugging hard on his nipples at the same time. But we only made out for about fifteen minutes. He seemed hungry for my cock, and I, naturally, was hungry for his very fine ass. As I ate it, he told me that I needed to shove my cock up it, but I continued to eat it for a while, and he didn't complain. Still, it wasn't long before the usual paraphenalia made its way onto the bed and onto my cock and his ass, and he was sitting on top of me, riding.
Which reminds me how, the night before, I'd gotten an email in response to a craigslist ad from this guy who was in his early twenties and extremely cute, and he said he was going to hop on the Metro and come see me, even though he was in Bethesda, and I was pretty sure the last train had already run. Also, he didn't ask for my phone number or my address, and while I suppose he could have emailed me for them from his cell phone after arriving in Glenmont, I was pretty sure that he was either playing me or just deluding himself. So I accepted the proposition of someone else who wanted to come over and have me dominate and pound him, and that was a very good choice, indeed, since he was able to handle nipple work at about a six. And when we were done, and it was well after midnight, I checked my email again, and there was an email saying -- lo! and behold! -- that the Metro had been closed. I felt like sending that guy an email saying, "Dude. If you want to pretend that you're going to hook up with someone, at least make your story plausible. Ask for a phone number to call so that you don't have to pretend to be someone who's going to spend nearly an hour on the subway with no idea of your specific final destination. Also, choose an email address that's a little more subtle than email@example.com.
But back to Tuesday, Shawn was riding me for a while, but I knew what he wanted was to be on his back with his ankles around his ear and my cock pounding his prostate so that he almost couldn't take it but would be damned if he'd ever give it up, so we did that. For a long time. For whatever reason, Shawn turns me into a fucking machine (admittedly not that much of a transformation) that just won't stop. We switched positions a few times and then took a break during which he queried me about whether I'd been having much sex lately. "I'm doing ok," I said, and he pretended to be hurt that I wasn't the first guy he'd plowed in my new home. "If you loved me, you'd wait for me." "Dude, even if I did love you, I wouldn't wait for you." He laughed. Then he asked whether he was at least the first guy in 2010 to be entertained in my bed, and I was thinking to myself, "Just please don't ask whether you're the first one tonight," and fortunately, he didn't.
I get this sort of reaction a lot, though, from bottoms. They apparently think that because I'm extremely passionate when I'm kissing and fucking them (also, apparently grabbing someone and kissing him when he comes in the door and before shaking his hand or whatever is seen as extremely dominant and sweeps some men right off their feet when all I'm going for is efficiency) that I haven't had sex in a while or don't have much sex. No, I just really get into what I do.
Shane said that he hadn't been fucked properly in a long time, but then he proceded to tell me about a straight friend of his who'd never done anything with a guy before and who was about to move back to Wisconsin, and the two of them had been hanging out and Shane got up to get something, and his friend pulled him back down roughly onto his lap where Shane felt a "raging hard-on. Then he pulled my jeans down and buried his face in my ass for like four minutes and then he fucked me. It was like a transcendental experience because he'd never done anything with a guy before. He was a little drunk."
That was something of a turn-on, not that I needed more, so I put him back on his back and rogered him for another few minutes before turning him onto his stomach, lying on top of him, and plowing him until I came, which only took about another fifteen. That boy is one hot fuck. Then he pulled out his camera and showed me a video of a guy who visits regularly from Atlanta fucking him. That didn't get me so worked up, but it may just have been the exhaustion of cumming hard at a late hour after more than a half-hour of hard pounding.
We cuddled up for a while, then he went down on me and got me hard again, and I fucked him a little bit more from a spooning position, but it was after 2 and we were both tired, so we fell asleep, entertwined.
I messed with him a little bit more during the night, but he was hard to wake up, even when I rubbed my cock against his ass, so I went back to sleep until about 8, when I got up, showered, and called the office to say I'd be in late. Shane was still dead to the world, so I lubed up, rolled him onto his stomach, and entered him from behind. He groaned, but I knew he liked it, and I was really, really hard, so I just started to plow him, nothing fancy. We'd been at it for nearly fifteen minutes when he called a break. I rolled off him, kissed him a bit, got him all the way on his back, pushed his knees up, and started in again on his prostate, and he took it pretty well for another five minutes, but then he said he couldn't take it any more. So I rolled off him, figuring I'd had more than my share, but he insisted that I cum. It took me a while, and after the night before, I didn't have all that much cum left, but the couple of shots I did have flew all the way to my shoulder.
I jumped in the shower again. We chatted for a while as we got dressed, and I drove him to the subway. He said that he's moving back to Maryland and that he promises it won't be another six months before we fuck again. We'll see, but I'm going to have to make sure the next time is on a weekend because I'm pretty wasted today.
I've been having lots of sex lately, at least on days when neither of the kids is home, and it's become impossible to chronicle it all, or at least, if I took the time necessary to write entries for every time I fuck, it would cut into the actual fucking time, and we simply cannot have that, can we? (Hint: the answer is NO.)
Besides, I've begun to get a little bored with reporting the same old sexual activities over and over. I don't ever get bored with the sex, of course, but sex is part of my practice, my meditation, my approach to the ineffable, so at some point writing about the details -- as fun as they were, and they were -- becomes like talking about chanting sessions, or something similar. "I walked the labyrinth again; it seemed unusually twisty today."
But I don't want to give up the pornographic non-fiction altogether, and I do need to be keeping notes. This past weekend, I narrowly averted hooking up a second time with a guy who I really don't want to hook up with again, and I only avoided it by memory. I should have been able to avoid it by referring to some sort of record, other than gmail. I have to come up with something, but is a puzzlement.
Among my hook-ups this weekend was a guy with the largest nutsack I have ever encountered. It was the size of a grapefruit, and it was beneath a rather small cock, which made it all the more impressive. It was shaped a lot like a grapefruit, too, as if there were only one supermassive nut inside. I asked the guy whether the nuts (I'm assuming there were, indeed, two) had always been like that, and he said they had.
This guy was otherwise rather uninteresting, and though he wanted to be fucked, he said, it seemed like the best option was just to get him off as quickly as possible and send him on his way. So we made out some, and I worked his nipples gently but intently, which got him leaking all sorts of precum, and I stroked him off until he came, almost violently. He thanked me and said that he would sleep well. It was all very civilized.
I encountered no fewer than three pairs of button-fly jeans this weekend. I can't remember the last time I hooked up with a button-fly-jean-wearing guy, so that seemed odd to me. It may have been that I was feeling extra assertive this weekend and got so many of the guys on the bed before they had a chance to remove anything: other times, they sometimes take off their pants before they hit the bed. But I don't think that explains the situation entirely. Two of these guys were in their early forties and one was in his mid-fifties, and they were otherwise very different from each other in looks and manner, so I have no common factor to explain the sudden spike in 501s and/or 501 wannabes. (I didn't actually check brands; in most cases, I was working on the buttons with my hands while I was making out with the guys, so I didn't actually look at the flies.) Perhaps they're more common than I realized, or perhaps there's a resurgence.
It's not a big deal, but despite how much I like taking my time when undressing a man, I prefer zippers.
My favorite hook-up from the weekend was a shy, smooth Asian who had driven all the way from downtown DC in a VW Beetle. (I didn't notice the car until he was leaving.) He had all the hallmarks of repressed sexuality, most notably timidity, vocal enjoyment, and being easily overwhelmed by passion. He was so tight that I wasn't sure I'd be able to fuck him, but I slowly opened him up, and I took my time getting into him, and the transition from "too thick!" to "fuck me!" was gratifyingly smooth. When I had fucked him in several positions for as long as I wanted, he still needed me to cum so that he could cum, and I finished myself off by hand as we kissed. I shot all the way to his shoulder, and he came very shortly thereafter.
I'm pretty sure, from how much he closed up after he came, that I'll never see him again, and that's a damned shame. He had the most amazing pair of full, soft lips, and he knew how to use them. Oh well: next!
Some time ago, I wrote a post wherein I was forced to relate the end of a long-term, high-density, low-frequency dalliance with the only man ever to maintain a sustained 9 on the TED nipple play scale (0 = don't even look at them! it tickles!; 10 = bit them off: I'll grow more). I don't feel like linking to it, so I'll summarize: I apparently went to 9.5; he freaked out and never called me again. Sic transit gloria mundi, which is Latin for "damn!"
Anyway, there's this guy Gil who, apparently, lives a couple of miles down Georgia Avenue from me and who had been telling me for the longest time (weeks!) that he wanted to be my bitch (his words, not mine) and that he wanted me to give his nipples a workout that would leave them swollen and sore for days on end. A major challenge for you, perhaps, but for me just another day at the office, albeit a very good day at the office.
There had been a number of failed attempts to hook up, and I was beginning to wonder whether Gil was either terminally unlucky or yanking my chain. When he said that he wanted to hook up a couple of Saturdays ago, I reminded him that we were expecting a couple of feet of snow, but he said that wouldn't stop him. Fortune smiles on the intrepid, I guess. Anyway, I said sure because no one else was going to go out in that weather, so if he didn't show up, I'd be no worse off.
Gil called when he was on the way to the house, saying he'd be there soon and expressing wonder at the people who were simply abandoning their cars on the road. Well, two feet of snow, you know. But he's in construction management, and he has a pick-up truck, and pretty soon after he called, he was marching up to the front door and then standing in the entryway removing his boots and then being grabbed by me as I started to kiss him. It had been his saying that he liked to make out that had sold me on him.
A lot of guys who like to kiss don't bother mentioning that they like to kiss because they just don't see why anyone wouldn't like it. Similarly, a lot of guys who simply won't kiss other men don't bother to mention it because it never occurs to them that the same guy who wants to fuck them until they scream for their mamas might want to make out with them. Anyway, Gil hadn't lied about liking to kiss, and he was pretty good at it, for a thin-lipped white guy. Actually, everything about him was thin. He was the lean, wiry, hairy sort of construction guy, rather than the barrel-chested, beer-bellied sort of construction guy, not that there's anything wrong with that.
Anyway, I had fun pushing him up the stairs while pulling his sweatpants halfway down his ass and then tossing him on the bed and going almost immediately for his nipples. We were both in heaven, right from the outset, and he seemed to be transported to higher and higher levels of paradise (Full disclosure: I have never read the purgatory or paradise sections of the Divine Comedy, so I don't even know whether paradise has levels. But you take my meaning.) as I worked his nipples harder and harder. And, believe me, I threw everything at them that my fingers, tongue, lips, and teeth could provide. I didn't bother getting out the nipple clamps, since neither of my pairs of nipple clamps is all that intense, and my teeth do a pretty good job. Maybe I should invest in a pair of jumper cables, but I always have trouble remembering which clamp gets grounded instead of going on the battery terminal. And, of course, there are the analogous problems if you use them on a guy: if one set of clamps goes on his nipples, where does the other set go? Some guys say their nipples are hardwired to their cock, but the implications seem painful.
Time pretty much stands still for me when I'm working nipples (even gently), and I've waited a while to write this up, so the details are a bit vague now, but Gil stayed around for about 3.5 hours, during which time he went down on me and rimmed me, and during which time I fucked him twice. I ate his ass, too, but that hardly needs to be said, n'est-ce pas? There was also maybe a half hour of entangled napping under the comforter, and that's always nice. When we were about an hour in, he told me that I'd have to kick him out to get him to leave, but I knew that was just talk: he has a partner (or something like a partner; he's very vague on the subject, and who cares, really?) at home, and, hell, what am I going to find better to do in the middle of a weekend snowstorm than eat some guys nipples for as long as he can take it. In the end, he did leave, citing the need to take care of some cats he was sitting. Whatever. Nobody really needs to feel like he left too quickly after a 3.5 hour midday hookup.
It remains to be seen, as it always does, whether this will turn into a regular fuckbuddy situation. There's something about him that he's not letting on, and I suspect that it may be a guilt thing where he has trouble accepting that he wants to be submissive until the urge overwhelms him, and then I have to be the one who's available when that happens, or wait for another urge. Or maybe he just has to wait for his nipples to recover. I'm sure they were sore for at least a week.