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.