Opposites Attract

Ridiculously Compatible and I have been having our scheduling difficulties. Normally I'm very sympathetic about that sort of thing, but when a guy who works for the federal government tells me that he can't play because he's just too exhausted by a day of meetings when I'm working 65+ hours/week, well, I have to wonder whether that guy has the stamina it takes to be more than an occasional fuck buddy of mine. I mean, I get how annoying meetings are, but the best cure for that sort of annoyance is to take it out on a well-lubed ass. Maybe bottoms are different, but the whole too-tired-for-sex thing just completely contradicts my world view. I'm just not a too-tired-for-sex kind of guy. I'm more a dude-I-only-got-three-hours-of-sleep-last-night-so-I'm-only-up-for-forty-five-minutes-of-foreplay-and-half-an-hour-of-fucking-sorry-but-I'll-make-it-up-to-you-when-I'm-rested kind of guy.

Anyway, I'm not prepared to say "Next!" just yet because RC's a pretty cool guy when he's available and awake, and given my determination to remain single, it's just as well that a guy isn't too available, so when RC told me he wouldn't be available this past Friday night (dinner with his sponsor, sigh) I took the opportunity to see M. for a late date. M. claims that he's been after me for some time on multiple web sites, and that I had ignored him because he hadn't posted a picture. This really doesn't sound like my M.O.: I try to respond to all reasonable inquiries (i.e., all people who are attractive and/or live within fifty miles: I have given myself permission to delete without response messages from uninteresting men from different time zones), but he may have contacted me on one of those sites where I have a profile but never visit (there are so many), or maybe I just forgot. I dunno. Regardless, he contacted me on a site recently, and I replied, even though I figured it was a waste of time because his ad said he was a top. He gave me his number, and we talked on the phone a few times, and he sounded very attractive, but also very much like a top, and it occurred to me that he had looked at my pictures but perhaps not read all the particulars, especially the particular particular wherein I say that I'm a top, so naturally, I took the bull by the horns and ... texted him.


So after some preliminary exchange of data revealing that we are both, indeed, don't-even-think-about-sticking-that-in-there tops (I am not going to rehash how that makes me a less virtuous/interesting person: I'm over it) he said that he had contacted me because he found me handsome and that I must be something of a slut if I assumed that he was only interested in sex with me and I said so? and he said we should get together for a glass of wine and I said that I would be disappointed if that glass of wine didn't at least lead to some making out and he said that even if there was no making out I would surely not be disappointed and I said that he obviously didn't know how much I liked to kiss. And he laughed (via text, that is), so I suggested getting together a couple of Fridays back, and he didn't reply, and I figured he'd come to his senses. But then I got an email early last week, and when I replied, he asked when we were hanging out, and I replied Friday? and that worked for him.

Of course, I wasn't free until 10 pm, so I really, really hoped I wasn't going all the way to Northeast for a glass of wine and some conversation. And for a while I wasn't sure I was getting even that: when I went to get off 295, the exit on my instructions was closed for construction, and the next/detour exit was a ways down the road, and I really wasn't sure I'd find my way back, but at not much later than 10:15 -- having sent an illegal text message while stuck in a back-up due to entirely different construction -- I got to his place. And it's what you might call a marginal neighborhood. His street looks fine, but you have to drive through some dicey areas to get there, but on the whole it's probably not as bad as where, say, a certain well-known DC blogger lives, so I wasn't concerned.

M. let me into his place, and, well, M. M., as they say, is a puzzlement. First of all, he's gorgeous. He's about 35, Black, tall and skinny (but, as it happens, very defined: he looks like one of those posters of male muscular anatomy; his obliques are especially impressive), and he talks like he's straight from the hood, but he's obviously very intelligent, and his apartment, well, it looks like what you'd get as the winning entry if you took all of the Design Star contestants and set them loose in Ikea with a thousand dollars. It's a seriously gorgeous apartment, and, seriously, almost everything is from Ikea. Except probably the television and the corner unit from a sectional that a friend gave him. And I suppose the giant collage that he made himself out of CD art. (When he was telling me about it, I didn't hear him correctly at first, and when I asked him to repeat himself, he said, "CDs. That's how people used to get their music before there were iPods." And I was all, "Dude. I'm old enough to have had lots of vinyl.") Anyway, it was a very cool place, but obviously the place of someone I have not much in common with: In one room, there was a whole bookshelf of accessories, including perhaps thirty pairs of sunglasses and a lot of bling. In one of his closets, he had perhaps eighty pairs of neatly folded jeans. In another, he had a similar number of shirts hanging up. I stuck my hand into his shirts about eight deep and said, "I have this many shirts, and eighty percent of them are blue."


I was very much out of my element, not least because he wasn't touching me, and he seemed to be avoiding letting me touch him. I think he was making a point, but in any case, we returned to the living room, where we listened to loud music of a sort that I never listen to (I should really know who this Alicia Keys person is, though, right?) and I bummed a hit off his joint and listened to him. It was really very pleasant, and I thought to myself that this was one of those rare (for me) situations where you really have to bide your time wait for the sexual tension to build and build before you get that first kiss and whatever follows it, so I might as well relish it.

M. rolled another joint (In what appeared to be some sort of natural leaf wrapper: I should also know what that is, right? I am really very naive for my age. At least about some things.) and we passed it back and forth, and talked some more about music. He mentioned Gladys Knight, and I said that "Midnight Train to Georgia" is one of the few songs that can cure any sort of bad mood, and he dialed it up on his iPhone, and I reclined on the very roomy sectional and sang along and he laughed at me when I sighed and said, "I should have been a Pip." He got up to refill his drink (Chardonnay mixed with ruby red grapefruit juice. Dude.) and I slid over to the edge of the very room sectional, and when he came back, he sat next to me, and that was certainly one of the best first kisses ever. Great lips, great technique, total desire.


After a while I was lying back and he was lying on top of me, undressing me, and then he was pulling me into the bedroom with my jeans around my ankles and then we were naked in bed, and forty-five minutes of tussling later, he laughed and said, "Battle of the tops!" And it sort of was, but it was very friendly warfare. I'd let him take charge for a while, and then he'd let me take charge for a while. And that was a little bit hard for me to do when he decided he needed me to lie on my stomach so he could play with his ass, but I was very glad I did because after a few minutes of that, I had a number of thoughts which were mainly inchoate but which upon later reflection boiled down to a) this is fun, b) this guy may love ass even more than I do, and c) this guy may be more skilled at ass play than I am. And I really hate that (meaning c), but I also loved that.

We were at it for several hours, and I sort of lost track of the sequence events, but I think he might have come the first time before he played with my ass, and I know that when I went to play with his ass, he jumped up, and I said, "Hey, fair is fair! My turn!" And he said, "Yeah, fair is fair, but clean is clean," and he went to the bathroom and came back and was soaping his ass and bending over the bed and we were kissing and then he returned to the bathroom to rinse and dry and then he came back and let me push him down on his stomach and kiss and lick and eat his ass. Later discussion reveals that he doesn't think much of his ass because, in his words, he's a skinny black man, but really it is a very nice and very well-formed ass. There is, in fact, not one inch of that guy that is not beautiful. And I really checked.


After he came a second time, he told me that he was going to make me take the sheets home with me and wash them, and I laughed, and he went down on me, and he was really good at that too, but it was after 2am, and we were both running out of steam, so he lay next to me, turned on his side, pulled my arm over him, and we spooned for a while. And we nodded off and then it was 3am and we woke up, and we got out of bed and he handed me some mouthwash, and I gargled, and he jumped in the shower and then brushed his teeth and then started stripping the bed. He got a bed-in-a-bag from the closet, and we remade the bed together, which was kind of cool, but I was getting from his demeanor that this was, after all, just a one-off hook-up, and I did my best not to feel disappointed about that. He got a call from a friend and told her he'd call her back in a couple of minutes, and we kissed a couple of times, and he walked me to the door, and then he handed me a pillowcase stuffed with the linens we'd used, and I took them, and I figured that meant that he'd offered me a second date, and I'd accepted.


We flirted a lot via email and text message this week, and we're getting together tonight. It should be great. And tomorrow night I'm having dinner with RC, and I'm sure that'll be great, too. Maybe I'm on my way to having two guys to date. At least until RC decides that he's too tired and/or OA comes to his senses and finds a guy who's willing (or even eager: it just can't be that hard; in addition to everything else, he's hung) to take it up the ass. But it'll be fun until then.

Reverse Cowboy

Oh, readers, I cannot properly express how awful this time of year is for a hedonist wannabe such as myself. How am I supposed to pursue ass when I'm at the office six days a week, usually until 9pm or later?

Anyway, I'd had a couple of calls from Victor, the twenty-four-year-old ubercute Black guy from DC, and I'd had to say no to all of them, and I was beginning to feel like a tease, so when it turned out, last Tuesday night, that EFU was going to stay at her mother's and so didn't need to be picked up, I sent Victor a text asking if he wanted to play, and, unsurprisingly, he did. I am not a big fan of going directly from a thirteen-hour day at the office to a hook-up without detouring through a shower, but some time ago Victor made it clear that his hunger for cock was not in any way abated if the cock in question was not quite as fresh as a flower, so I told myself not to be so fastidious and headed for his place. And, hey, it turns out that at 9pm, it's a much faster trip.


I was a little bit tired when I got there, and then after all the making out and the extensive eating of his very fine ass, and the extra-hard pounding with his ankles up over his ears, I was considerably more tired, so when Victor decided that he was going to get into a Reverse Cowboy position, sitting on my cock, facing away from me, and bouncing up and down, I was really in no position to argue. Besides, just lying there and feeling his ass squeeze the head of my cock was entirely too pleasant for words to do it justice. I might have ejaculated that way if he'd kept it up for another half hour or so, but he was playing with himself, and after ten minutes or so, I heard him say, "Oh shit," and then he came.

This, of course, was not an issue for me, but Victor hates to shoot first. In fact, he'd prefer, in general, not to shoot at all, since it reinforces his bottomness -- or whatever -- if I cum and he doesn't. I, on the other hand, am entirely stoked when someone gets so excited by my cock that he can't keep the semen in, and I was perfectly content to lie there and chat for a bit and then call it a day, but Victor will have his (i.e., my) load, so we lay there and kissed while I stroked one out, which, for whatever reason, was a lot of work. Like a full aerobic workout's worth of work, so that after I finally came (spectacularly, I have to admit), Victor marveled at how my heart was pounding. He kept his hand over it and felt it as we lay there and the beating returned to normal, and that was really, really cool.

In the afterglow, Victor told me that his boyfriend -- who, incongruously, likes to be verbally humiliated while he's topping Victor; Victor can't decide whether that's annoying or just funny -- and he are getting along very well and have begun talking about moving in together. So I reckon there's an expiration date on Victor's and my dalliance, but a) the expiration date is likely a few months away, and b) that's always the way, anyway. It's better if things end for practical reasons before the sex loses its awesomeness. On the other hand, given the relative infrequency with which he and I hook up, the awesomeness wasn't going to go away any time soon. Oh well.





It looks like Ridiculously Compatible is going to make me take him on an actual date before he finally lets me fuck him. YFU called me at work Saturday morning to say that she had a church-sponsored overnight that evening, so that left me free (EFU being twenty-one now and not minding if I leave her home alone while I go out for a while) to play. He hadn't been free on Friday and had mentioned Saturday as a possibility, so I sent him an email apologizing for the last-minute nature of the communication and suggesting that the latter part of the evening might well be spent making out on his very comfortable couch. He was amenable to the suggestion, so later that evening, I showered and put on the uniform (RC is inexplicably but significantly turned on by men in tight white t-shirts, and who am I to deny him?) plus a sweater and a jacket and headed over to his place. We stood inside the doorway and kissed for a few minutes, then I took off the jacket and the sweater, and we moved to the couch.

We'd only been making out for a couple more minutes, when RC said, "Is it okay if I take a minute to do something?" I thought maybe he'd left something undone in the kitchen, but what he had to do was move the coffee table away from the sofa so that he could get on his knees and play with my cock, all the while explaining that he knew the plan was to make out on the couch, but that he really couldn't resist, and that he promised to put my cock away after a couple of minutes and resume the making out on the couch. Dude.

My assurances that he was welcome to as much cock time as he wanted notwithstanding, we were back horizontal on the couch again pretty soon, and I began the extended nipple exploration that takes both of us to the happy place for lengthy periods. At some point he said something about sore muscles and needing a massage and we ended up on his bed, naked (I still had the white t-shirt on, though: why not?), and he got his massage, and I got to eat his ass, and there was more of the usual, and it was all very, very good, and then somehow we got into a serious discussion on the nature of dreams, whereupon it turned out that only one of us (guess who) is able to carry on a serious discussion and nipple exploration at the same time.

Nobody's perfect, I guess.

And then his batting me away from his nipples in favor of a serious discussion led to his saying that we really needed to go out to dinner sometime to get to know each other, which he said as if I were going to argue with him, even though I'd already assured him, on at least two previous occasions, that I had designs on his mind as well as his body. Actually scheduling said date is another matter, of course. We'd already planned -- because we weren't mutually available on the weekend -- to hook up Monday evening, and he thought that would be a good night for dinner out, but I had to remind him that there was no way I could be at his place earlier than 8:30, which is not a very auspicious time for dinner in the suburbs, so it'll be more making out, instead. I pitched the following Friday, but he was already busy. I reckon we'll figure it out: my availability increases substantially in a month. Maybe I can talk him into a regular Tuesday evening thing where we watch Glee together and make out during the commercials. The new episodes don't start up until April 13th. OMG, I am such a geek.





I developed a short-lived but moderately intense addiction to chatroulette.com over the weekend. I am pretty clearly not its target demographic (straight exhibitionists under twenty-five), but if you can get past all the uninteresting str8 boys jerking off and the frat boys who dismiss you instantly if you're unwilling or unable to "show us your tits!" you run into a number of charming foreigners who are happy to chat with an American who knows what continent Argentina is in (it's sad how low the bar is to be considered educated in the context of one's fellow Americans) or who can converse relatively competently (débrouiller) in French.

My infatuation was short-lived largely because I'm considerably too old to find chatting with nineteen-year-old straight guys (however charming and/or Brazilian) compelling on an ongoing basis, but I did discover that when in disguise (I am skittish about having my face on the Internet, so I went high tech and put on the 3D glasses that I got when I went to see Avatar) I can pass for thirty on a blurry webcam, though probably only when talking to people who have a lot of sun damage.




This past Thursday or Friday night (I'm too lazy to figure out which), I arranged to hook up with a guy at 9, so I left the office at the ungodly early hour of 8pm, hurried home, showered, and got into my jammies. But there was a delay on the Metro, and YFU had left her birthday present out and on, so I spent an hour cementing my position as the worst Guitar Hero player ever. Go me. Anyway, he didn't arrive until after 10:15, and the last train on weeknights leaves the station near my house sometime not all that long after 11, apparently, so this guy was in a hurry. Which was maybe ok since he wasn't all that great a kisser. He seemed to like kissing well enough, and he was sort of passable, but it wasn't the sort of kissing you get lost in. Also, he was a tall, wiry Black guy with a really nice ass, so it wasn't such a terrible thing for me to have to rush past the making-out-and-nipple-play stage (nip play was something else that he was willing to do but that didn't seem to especially turn him on, so, whatever) and onto the getting-head-while-eating-ass stage.

I thought I had the guy loosened up pretty well, but when I had him put the condom on me and then went to fuck him, he had a lot of trouble taking my cock, so much that he wanted to go back to sucking it, and he did that for a while, but I wanted to fuck him, so I told him to get on his back and we tried again, but that was still hard for him, so he went back to giving head, and then he finally sat on my cock and managed to take most of it, but he still couldn't handle it for very long. I was getting a little bit impatient with him because he kept trying to tell me what to do. At one point, when I had switched over to jerking myself off because he was insistent that I come first, he started slapping my ass, and I had to say, "Dude! Stop slapping my ass" (obvious, I know, but you were expecting me maybe to launch into a recitation of Cicero?) and he did, but when I tried to get him back on his back for some more fucking, he was fighting me, so I just pulled him down next to me and we kissed (it was somewhat better then) while I jerked off.

He told me to let him know when I was going to cum, and I did, and I was pretty worked up by then, so I shot a lot and a long way, and that really set him off, and he straddled my thigh and began stroking himself, and I stuck a couple of fingers in his ass and wedged the fingertips up against his prostate, and eventually he came that way, and then he was up like a shot and saying that he couldn't miss his train, and, you know what, I'd had a pretty intense time and then he was running out the door saying he'd call me, and that actually made for a good hook-up with a truly happy ending. After he'd left, I realized that I should have offered him a ride home: he lives on the other end of the red line, which is more than an hour by subway but no more than ten minutes by car. Oops, but I can't help imagine that it would have been an awkward ten minutes. Then again, maybe he has excellent conversational skills that were crowded out by his need for speed. We'll never know, I reckon.

Going and Coming Around

EFU decided that since all her courses this semester were tutorials and since she mostly has to finish her thesis to graduate, that she could do all that just as easily at home as at school in Vermont, so in addition to having to work all the time, she's around all the time, which makes it nearly impossible to have men over. There was also a church function this weekend, so I only managed to hook up twice.

In what is becoming something of a habit, I got together Friday night with RC, and yet again we had a splendid time, and yet again I did not get to eat or fuck his ass. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was playing hard to get, but he doesn't seem like the sort to be very good at subterfuge. Anyway, he's an awesome kisser, and his nipples are a thing of beauty and like a lot of attention, so I'm pretty much in heaven whenever we're playing together, which is whenever I'm with him since, as much as I'd like to spend some time getting to know him better (and we do try to carry on a conversation in the interstices), it's really hard to keep my hands and mouth off him.


Time, of course, will take care of that, it being the nature of male-male sexual interactions to lessen in intensity over time. I was having this discussion with Nils, a guy who is so much fun that I'm willing to go to Northern Virginia to play with him. We hadn't gotten together in some months because he only fools around when his partner is traveling, and his partner hasn't been traveling much. We were hanging around in a bit of post-coital canoodling (it is very comfortable to lie with him) and I asked him how he'd spent the recent snow storms, and he told me how he and his partner had first met around ten years ago and there was a big storm then, and they'd spent it walking in the snow, holding hands, and then fucking like rabbits. This time around, however, it was all, "Are you going to go make coffee?" and that sort of thing. Oh well.

Nils mentioned that he was thinking about asking his partner whether he could hook up with other guys even when his partner wasn't traveling, and he said that he thought his partner might already be playing around and just not telling him. I told him that if he thought his partner was hooking up with other guys, he almost certainly was, but that he shouldn't let it bother him. He said that it mostly bothered him because he wanted to be doing the same thing. I thought that he probably should just go ahead and do that, but I didn't want to offer an opinion since I'm not entirely unbiased, and the cardinal rule of hooking up with married and/or partnered guys is that you don't mess with their relationships.


So I just asked him why he thought his partner was playing around on the side, and he told me that there are times late in the day when he's not able to reach his partner and his partner later gives him improbable excuses. And then he said that they'd been at dinner with friends and there'd been a discussion where his partner had said something to the effect of "every man cheats." I told him that I never cheated on b&c, but only because I had permission. If I hadn't had permission, I likely would have cheated, though I probably never would have entered that relationship in the first place without permission to play around, so I guess the issue was a bit moot. I held Nils a bit closer and he said, "But maybe I'm just paranoid. Maybe he isn't cheating at all." Dude.

I don't know why it's so hard, especially given that your partner is already stepping out on you, to say, "Hey, I think we should open the relationship a little bit farther," but, well, I guess I do know why that's so hard, but I don't think that it isn't worth the effort.


It'll be interesting to see what Nils decides to do, though I suspect that if he gets permission from his partner to play around more, it'll likely mean that he and I hook up even less. Right now, I'm pretty sure that I'm number one on his list, but if he can mess around when his partner's home, it'll mean that he'll probably have limited time, so it won't be feasible to travel all the way to my place, play, and then make it home, especially since we never spend less than two hours together, and if he meets more guys over there, he'll probably call them before me when he's home alone and wants to host. Even though the sex he and I have is always spectacular.

In any case, the roster of guys that I have reliably great sex with is not so short that I can't lose one, especially one in Northern Virginia. I was out shopping with EFU today, and I got no fewer than three texts from guys who have become more or less regulars (less during tax season), and they're all good sex. Probably only one of them is as good as Nils, but the others aren't enough less good to make me worry about it. And, in any case, I'm pretty sure that Nils and I will hook up again sometime. In my experience, the combination of great sex and post-coital ease that he and I have creates a connection that isn't easily severed. It can pass out of mind for weeks, months, or years at a time, but at some point the opportunity arises again, and it's as good as before. I can think of four or five guys I've had that with, where hiatuses of anywhere from a month to six years have ended with picking up where we left off.

Double Date

Saturday evening, I went on something akin to a date with a man with whom I turned out to be comically incompatible with. You could interpret "comically incompatible" to mean either that our sense of humor didn't match or that we were so sexually incompatible that it was funny, and in either case you'd be right. Oh well.

I say it was something akin to a date because I was in his apartment for at least fifteen minutes before I kissed him and because he had asked me before I arrived whether I'd prefer coffee or tea, which question I had understood to be a question about choice of beverage rather than a pair of euphemisms for mutually exclusive sexual practices. As it happened, this person was rather limited in his sexual experience. He did not, for example, know what rimming was; neither had he ever experienced it. Until Saturday evening, anyway. (He's in favor of it now, in case you're wondering.)

I had gone on this something akin to a date because I had recently met someone else with whom I am whatever the opposite of comically incompatible (ridiculously compatible, I suppose) is, and the urge to start dating this person is becoming strong, and I really can't have that, at least not now or for a while, but I'm not willing to give up on seeing him, so I have to find someone else to date because if you're dating two people, then you're not really dating either of them. Or at least that's my position.


Anyway, this other guy, not the ridiculously compatible one, had contacted me on one of the many, many sites that now exist to facilitate male-male social and/or sexual interaction, and he was German, and I thought that it would be fun to be dating someone whom I could refer to as the Taciturn Teuton, and his pictures looked sexy in that closely cropped hair and beard sort of way, and he said that he was a massage therapist, so I set aside my concerns about his somewhat intermediate command of written English and his unfortunate practice of corresponding in all caps, and, after a brief phone conversation (wherein he did seem taciturn and did sound suitably Teutonic), we made arrangements to meet at his place.

And, well, the details are really not worth even the amount of time I've already spent on them. I should just say that a person who never (apparently) gets fucked and doesn't really suck cock should probably not advertise himself as versatile. Still, he was a reasonably nice guy when he wasn't trying (not very forcefully, I'll admit) to do things that I'm just never interested in and am pretty up front about never being interested in, and he had the cool German accent. Really, the way Germans say "museum" is just incredibly entertaining, and you pretty much never run into a German who doesn't say "museum" at least three times within fifteen minutes of the beginning of any conversation, so it's all good.


After I'd kissed him a bit (he told me that he loved kissing, but apparently his love for it stopped short of actually engaging in it in more than a cursory manner or actually showing any enthusiasm about it), he told me he wanted to give me a massage, and, hey, why not? Unsurprisingly, he had very good hands, and I had about two minutes of good relaxation before it became obvious, through his increasing requests for me to move to a slightly different position, that he was trying to maneuver me into a position where my mouth and his cock would brush up against each other. Subtle. As it happened, he had a small, uncut cock, and those are the kind I like, so after a bit of massage, I opened up and sucked on him a little. Then I pulled him down on the bed, put him on his stomach, and showed him what rimming is. He liked it a lot, so much that when I stopped and lay back on my back, he knelt beside me and started to jerk himself off. He told me that he shot big loads, but, here again, not so much.

You have to wonder about anyone who has such an incredibly erroneous self-image of his own sexuality, but whatever. He came, and he wanted me to cum, so I jerked myself off and showed him what a big load really looks like. Then we cleaned up, and I got dressed, and we chatted a couple of minutes more, and I came home. Let's just call it a learning experience. (He would like to see me again, perhaps for a visit to a moo-ZAY-oom, but I think I'll have to pass. Next.)


Besides, the night before, I'd been over at ridiculously compatible's place, and we'd spent 2.5 hours making out and playing around, so I'd already had a great time that weekend. I'm not sure I've ever met someone who likes his nipples worked more than RC, and he claims never to have met anyone who approaches them with as much skill and appetite as I do. He doesn't like the play to be rough, but he does like it intense, and he's a great kisser and a highly skilled cocksucker (and a very nice guy, which helps a lot), so the time just flies by. He's also a bottom, but he's currently having some bottom issues that he describes as a level of irritation that precludes having his ass either eaten or fucked being enjoyable for him. He also told me, on our first hook-up, that he has some difficulty bottoming without some level of emotional connection, and that should frighten me off, but it doesn't. I'm all about the emotional connection, as long as it doesn't preclude my having sexual and/or emotional connections with others. Besides, lately he's been talking about bottoming as soon as the ass issues clear up, so either he's dropped the requirement, or the level of emotional connection (which he never described as having to be very deep) has developed. Probably the latter, since I like him a lot.

But back to Saturday. When I got home from the awkward something-akin-to-a-date with the Taciturn Teuton, it wasn't all that late, but I was very, very tired, so I lay down with the intention of collecting my thoughts, and I fell immediately asleep. I had not, however, bothered to undress or turn off the overhead light, so I only slept until about 1 am, at which point I decided to check my mail and saw that there was a message from yet another guy at yet another site. He described himself as a versatile guy who had had trouble recently finding any tops and so was dying for a pounding. At 1 am, most guys are as direct as I am all the time. It's a good thing. Anyway, he was Black and fit and 5'8 and smooth and liked to kiss and had huge, juicy-looking lips, so when he called, I told him to come on over, even though he said he was over in Hyattsville or some place like that. He said that he'd leave in half an hour, and I told him just to call me when he got close because that way I knew I could jump in the shower, grab another forty winks, wake up when he called to say he was around the corner, and have the equivalent of morning wood.


All of that worked out just right, the only downside being that I was still kind of tired, and he was exceedingly horny, so it was really only about forty-five minutes after he walked through my door when he was straddling me and bouncing up and down on my cock and I was jerking him off and he came and then I came and then he collapsed on me and said, "Don't worry, I do talk, but I need a minute to regroup first," to which I replied, "Zzzzzzzz." He lay there for a few more minutes, and I polished the sweat off his shaved head and kissed him a bit and then he got dressed and I showed him to the door and told him that if he came back earlier in the evening the next time, I wouldn't fall asleep on him.

I got an email from him today saying that he'd call me when he "need[s] a tune-up." I'm down with being seen as a sexual mechanic, but I hope it doesn't mean that I have to buy coveralls.



Note: Guys, thanks for the inquiries after my well being and sexual activity. I'm touched by whatever combination of concern, horniness, and curiosity makes somebody ask after me, and I want to assure everyone that I'm fine and fucking. I'm not fucking as much as usual, but only because it's tax season, and I'm always working. I'm not giving up either fornication or blogging about fornication: it's just a seasonally mandated reduction in frequency. Blame the government.