8 1/2

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.