Sleet

After days of unseasonably warm weather, a winter storm moved in yesterday, just in time to make the roads icy for the evening commute, resulting in five different guys calling within ten minutes to tell me that they had to cancel for dinner last night. Wimps. There were two other guys who I could only reach by email. I was pretty sure that they wouldn't venture out (the roads were pretty bad, I guess, and there were a lot of traffic incidents), but I emailed them when I got home to make sure, and I was right. That still left two guests: one who lives less than a quarter mile away and one who works way over in Northern Virginia and who I figured might be coming directly from work and probably wouldn't get the message I'd left him.

And, hell, I'd already made all the food, so I started heating things up and figured that if the last two guys couldn't make it, then b&c and I could drown our sorrows in chili and beer. Or chili and wine. Or chili and martinis. As it happened, they both made it, and it was a great evening. I drank wine while I was cooking, then switched to a martini while we were standing around the kitchen talking and then beer with dinner.

Dinner was a little comical. I'd cooked for a crowd, and we had our table open all the way with the leaves inserted. If it hadn't been for the weather, there would probably have been eleven or twelve of us, and we couldn't have all eaten at the table, probably, but with four, we could have all passed out on the table without touching each other. Nobody did, though, not even A., who had three or four of my martinis as well as some wine and a small glass of Port with dessert. That boy can hold his liquor.

[Just so you know, the way I make a martini is to drain a big jar of olives and then add some lemon zest to the olives and then fill the whole jar with Vermouth. I keep a bottle of Tanqueray in the deep freezer. I take a toothpick and spear three of the olives on it, then I drop that in a martini glass, and then I pour the gin over it. So basically, you're drinking below-zero gin and eating olives. Best martini ever.]

So we ate and sat around and talked about sex for four hours. We talked about everything, but all topics should and do lead back to sex. It's really too easy with four people, but I like to draw little mental maps of who's had sex with whom at any party. So there were b&c, C., A., and I. Obviously I have sex with b&c frequently. C. and I just met a couple of weeks earlier, and we've had sex, but only once. I've had sex with A. a number of times, and he, b&c and I, had a threeway once. C. and A. were meeting for the first time last night, but C. was -- verbally -- all over A., and while I doubt they hooked up after dinner last night (they left after midnight, and C. had to be at work early this morning), I'm pretty sure that within a week they will have hooked up. Still, as of last night, I was the only one there who'd had my hands in the spunk of each of the others. Go me.

[Late update: I asked b&c tonight whether he'd noticed how C. seemed to be really into A., and he agreed that it was a surprise that C. had managed to restrain himself from leaping across the table and taking A. over coffee. As it happens, he nearly did: I just got an email from A. saying that after they left here, they went back to C.'s place. ]

I was thinking during dinner that it probably wouldn't have been that hard to get everyone into bed together, but I was too tired, full, and inebriated, so that my mind was all horny, and my body was all "Dude, you are not getting out of this chair." Besides, I would have needed a shower. And I'm not sure that I'm ready to get that much of a reputation. Yet. Maybe sometime soon, though. It would have been two tops, one vers/bottom, and one bottom, and it could have been pretty hot, especially since I know what pushes all their buttons.

I think that's it for my social life for another month. I'll still be doing some limited hooking up, but it's work, work, work, work, work from here until the tax deadline. No time, and I'm a bundle of hormones. I might have to start jerking off in the shower.

Slicker

I finally reconnected with S., my young (compared to me), thin (compared to most everyone), super-sweet (compared to anybody) Indian massage buddy last night. We'd been trying for a while, but schedules weren't meshing, and I was beginning to wonder if maybe he was too shy for a second meeting, especially after he e-mailed late Wednesday to say that the guy installing his carpet was going to be coming by Thursday evening, so he wasn't sure it would be a good time after all. But he did finally e-mail me again last night to say that the carpet guy was gone and to ask whether I could still come over. So I told him 9:00, which gave me time to finish up some more work and then head over.

I realized as I was headed out of the office that my fingernails were too long for me to be probing his ass, so I made a quick stop at CVS to get some clippers and emery boards. I should have these in my car at all times, and I used to, but late last year, after years of exemplary driving (really), I wrecked my car, and when I went to the junkyard to clean it out, I somehow forgot a few things.

So, anyway, I clip the nails, and then I'm driving up Wisconsin Ave, filing my nails like I'm a housewife of Orange County or something, feeling entirely ridiculous but at the same time getting worked up thinking about my fingers in his ass. His very tight, very pretty ass.

I get to S.'s place, and I wrap my arms around him and start to kiss him, and he's very shy but he's responding, all at the same time. Damn, but that boy has lips. So we do that for a little while, and then we head for the spare bedroom, so I can give him a massage. He apologizes for the state of his house (the old carpets have all been pulled up, and everything's been taken off the walls in preparation for whatever work he's having done; I note the bare wood floors and hope that he's not going to cover them back up with wall-to-wall, but my mind is really elsewhere), but he's got a bed, and there's a chair with a towel and the baby oil, and what else do I need?

He leaves and comes back in his boxers and lies down on the bed. I start to rub his back a little, but it's very warm, and that makes me realize my hands must be cold, so I excuse myself, head to the bathroom, and run some hot water that I put my hands and the baby oil bottle into. Then I head back and get to work on him.

He's a lot more relaxed this time around, and he asks me about my party. I'd invited him to dinner the next night (which is now tonight). I work all kinds of hours at this time of year, and I still have my normal family obligations, and my social life usually takes a two-month nap, but this year I said screw it I'm going to invite my friends to dinner and make a big pot of chili and some sides and buy some desserts (which I would normally only make myself) and get a bunch of beer and wine and make some of my amazing martinis, and we'll all have a great time on Friday night, and then I'll be back in the office at 7:30 am on Saturday, and maybe I'll be exhausted, but at least I'll be happy. So while I'm working S.'s neck and back, I tell him that it'll just be very casual and a bunch of good guys and ask whether he's coming, and he says that he'd really like to but that he doesn't drive and he'd be happy to take a cab there, but he'd worry about getting home.

I'm working on his lower back, on the left side, now, and I know that's a problem area for him, but he's really enjoying the massage, so I don't say much, but my mind's working while I'm oiling him up and sliding the waistband of his boxers halfway down his very tight, very pretty ass, and I come up with a solution, and it makes me smile, and I tell him that I'm pretty sure I can get him a ride home, but we can discuss it later, and I'm not sure he's listening any more, anyway, because he's purring a little.

I knead his buttocks really well, and then I run my index finger down to his asshole and play around the outside for a bit and then put the fingertip up against it. With my other hand, I dribble some oil onto the top of his ass crack, and it runs down and makes a little puddle where my index finger dams it up. I press a little and my finger goes in, and it's very tight, and I can tell he likes it, and I take my other hand and work that problem area on his lower back while my index finger hunts down his prostate. After a little bit of that, I decide to work his legs, so I get more oil, and I work down his thighs and calves and then, one at a time, I massage his feet, which he really likes. Then I run my hands back up and get into some more serious ass play. Index finger first, then middle finger, but when I put them both together, it's already more than he can take, and I'm thinking "this boy is too sweet and too tight for me to ever fuck." With time and persistence, I'm sure I could get around the tight part, but I decided right then that I probably don't want to get around the sweet part. There are plenty of slutty bottoms out there for me to fuck. I'll leave fucking S. to his (as yet nonexistent) boyfriend, who hopefully will be someone like me, only five years younger, and with a much thinner cock.

But S. was enjoying the single finger and the rubdown, and there's way more to sex than fucking, so I told him to roll over on his back, and I took off my pants (but not my boxers) and lay down next to him and we started to make out. Damn, but that boy can kiss. I was flicking my thumb over one of his nipples and feeling his very full, very soft lips dance with mine, and it was just heaven. And you know that moment when you're with a guy and he's having a good time but he's still a little bit guarded and then suddenly the last bit of his defensiveness melts away and his whole body simultaneously relaxes and engages you as he surrenders to pleasure? Yeah, that happened, and, well, wow.

So we stayed that way, his arms around me, our lips playing, my hands working his small-but-perky nipples for a while, and then I started to play with his cock. Mmmmm, small dick. I love it. After a few minutes of that, I grabbed his hand and put it on my cock, and he held it lightly and stroked it, which I liked even more than I usually do. Then I spread his legs and started to finger his hole again, and then I told him to turn back over (I got rid of my boxers), and I spread his cheeks and started to eat his very tight, very pretty (and very clean) ass. He wasn't, I think, expecting that, but I'd been looking forward to it for days, and he loved it. He is, by nature, not demonstrative in bed, but where before I'd had to infer his enjoyment from the (very clear) reaction of his body, he now vocalized his excitement, and that really got me going. After some protracted tonguing of various degrees of intensity, I ran the tip of my tongue up his back to his neck and started to lick his ear while my very hard cock played between his nuts and his asshole.

He was moaning now, and I kept alternating between kissing his ear and kissing the back of his neck as I readjusted my cock so that the head was right up against his asshole. I pressed a little bit, and he said, "Ted, no" very softly, and I laughed a little and said, "Don't worry. I'm not going to enter you. I would never fuck you without a condom, and I don't think there's any way this cock would fit inside that ass, even if I wanted to." So he relaxed and enjoyed feeling my cock rub him, but after less than a minute of that, I told him to roll back over. I was ready to finish him off.

We went back to kissing, and I grabbed his cock and started stroking. I was going pretty slowly because I knew that's all it would take, and after a couple of minutes, I decided to suck on one of his nipples. A minute of that had him really worked up, and he said, "Ted, I think I'm going to cum," and I said, "Well, I sure as hell hope so," and then I kissed him and kept stroking him. He jerked a little, and the semen began to flow. I kept stroking until he had a nice load on himself, and then I grabbed the towel and started to mop him up, kissing him all the while.

I held him for a bit longer and told him that I was going to call a friend about a ride for him, then I picked up the cell and left a message to that effect with my buddy G. G. is the living proof that it is, indeed, possible for me to have a gay male friend whom I've never had sex with. (In fact, I have many. Or at least several. Or at least two.) Then I embarrassed S. by telling him how nice various parts of his body are and by telling him that he was going to be the cute young thing at my dinner/party and how he was exactly the kind of guy that G. goes for in a big way. I'm sure that S. was now blushing furiously, but one of the many reasons that I'm jealous of men with dark skin is that they can blush all they want, and it doesn't show.

I got dressed and got in the car and G. called me back, and I told him that the guy I wanted him to give a ride to was a cute, young, Indian schoolteacher, and I'm pretty sure I heard him salivating. G. is a terrific guy. He's in his mid-fifties, but he looks more like mid- to late-forties, and he mostly goes for guys about half his age. S. is actually a bit old for him, at thirty-two or thirty-three, but if you met him, you'd think he was at most twenty-five (it's the smooth dark skin and the shyness), so he's just right for G. And since G. already has a boyfriend (who lives in NYC, though), he'll be entirely happy to just fool around with S. without any butt sex. And I'll probably get to keep giving S. massages with happy endings. Everybody wins.

I felt GREAT after playing with S., so I ran off to the supermarket and then home, where I made the cole slaw. I mixed it with my hands, and my fingertips stung a little from the close clipping I'd given them. They're still a little sensitive today, and that's a very nice physical reminder of where they've been.

Married Men

(In which a few things that you did not know about me are revealed.)

A few months ago, maybe even as long ago as last September, I was making out with a guy in his bed, and he said, "Did you used to be married?"

"Yes. I've been divorced for, um, I don't know, a little over five years now, I guess. Why?"

"Because you make love to me like you'd make love to a woman."

I rolled up on one elbow, smiled warily, and said, "I'm not sure how to take that. If I were making love to a woman, well, I don't even want to complete the thought. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

He stretched. "A very good thing. I want to follow you home and live with you. Do you think your partner would mind?"

"I don't think so: he's pretty easy. Unless you wanted some closet space. Then he'd have some issues." Then I rolled back over and bit down on his nipple, which rather shifted his priorities, and there wasn't any more conversation for another hour. When he didn't have my cock in his mouth, he was too busy moaning or grunting, and my mouth was pretty busy chewing his nipples and then eating his ass and then kissing him while I was fucking him, which always takes a fair amount of coordination.

After about ten minutes of fucking, he was too sore to continue, so I stroked him off while continuing to suck and bite one of his nipples. Then I stroked myself almost to completion, grabbed his hand and wrapped it around my cock, and shot all over him. Then we both lay back for a while and talked.

"So congratulations on your new worship hall," he said, out of nowhere. *

"Um. Thanks." I had to think for a moment. "How did you know about that?"

"One of my lesbian friends wanted to visit your church, and she took me along at Easter."

"Damn. It really is a small world, after all."

"Uh-huh. I was sitting a row behind you."

"And you didn't say hello?"

"I didn't know you liked ass, or I would have."

"I do like ass."

"I know. I'm going to be sore for days."

I smiled at him. "I'd apologize, but we both know I'd be lying."

He laughed. "And I wasn't complaining."

I thought some more. "So was I there with one of my kids? Is that how you knew I used to be married?"

He started to wipe us up with a towel. "No, you were there alone. I got that from the way you make love."

"It's the kissing, isn't it?"

"No," he said, "well, sort of. I mean it's mostly the attitude. Married men are good kissers, but they're never as good as you."

"Thanks."

"No, really, the pleasure was all mine," he laughed.

"Maybe not all." He was lying down again, and I put my arm over him and spooned him.

"I mean," he continued, "that you were taking your time and that you weren't shoving my head towards your cock or immediately trying to ram your cock up my ass. It was like you were trying to make me feel good."

"I was trying to make you feel good. It's more fun that way. I don't think that's because I was married; I think it's just that I'm not a douchebag." I paused. "Maybe I should put "not a douchebag" in my next craigslist ad.

"Why bother? It'll turn half the guys off, and the other half won't believe you."

I'm not sure to what extent B. (That was the first time I'd met him, but he's since become a good friend. We've only managed to have sex a couple more times since then. He claims that he's entirely comfortable with being friends and having sex, but he can rarely host because he rents out a couple of the rooms in his house, and what he really wants is a husband, so I've pretty much given up on fucking him. He doesn't have much sex generally, and it's a bit tedious never to be able to fuck more than ten minutes without him becoming too sore, anyway. Great nipples, though.) has a point about married and formerly married men. I'm not really unbiased here: it strokes my ego to think that I belong to a class of men that's better at sex.

I was still married the first time that I fell in love with a man. (As a tedious and unnecessary bit of explanation, I will say that I had already told my then-wife that I was gay and that we'd already decided to divorce. As a further unnecessary bit of even more tedious explanation, I'll also say that between the first and last times that I had sex with my now-ex-wife, I didn't have sex with any men, or, indeed, with anyone but her. I'm not claiming any sort of moral superiority because of this; after all, I have no qualms whatsoever about fucking a married man.) And that man was also married, though I didn't find that out until after I was already hopelessly in love. I don't want to go into the details of that particular affair. We're both divorced now, and he lives on the other side of the country, and I haven't had any contact with him in years. More to the point, the whole incident makes me look ridiculously naive, and I'm such a different person now from who I was then, that I likely wouldn't be able to explain how it all played out.

B&c was also once married, though it was many years ago now. He is older than I by a good bit, and his children are grown, so they're not around much. I get along well with them when they're in town, and I went to his son's wedding last year, though. But, frankly, while the first guy I fell in love with was pretty great in the sack, b&c needed quite a bit of training when I first met him (I hope that his men on the side appreciate how much better he is at sex because of his time with me, but the ungrateful bastards almost never send thank you notes.), so it's clearly not universally true that married men make better lovers.

A buddy of mine who does a lot of married men claims that he likes them because they're uncomplicated, predictable, and out the door ten minutes after they shoot. As he puts it, "If I hook up with a married guy, I know I'm not going to have to see them again. And I know they're going to want what they don't get at home: they're going to want me to suck their cock and then they're going to want me to fuck them. I would probably get a lot less action if they were able to have a frank discussion with their wives about the importance of oral sex and strap-ons."

I haven't looked at any statistics, and I don't know whether any even exist, but I'd guess that married or formerly married men must be a minority of the gay population. I'd also guess that the proportion of married men decreases as the age of the population decreases. In other words, in a group of thirty-year-old gay men, hardly any of them would have ever been married. In a group of forty-year-old gay men, the proportion would be somewhat higher.

The reasons for this disparity are obvious. A fourteen-year-old today has a lot more exposure to all things queer than did the fourteen-year-old of, say, thirty years ago. And while there is still a serious stigma associated with homosexuality in much of the country, it's not nearly so bad today as it was then. So while someone growing up in the late seventies might not have understood why he wanted to stare at the boys in the locker room but would have figured out quickly that to do so was unwise, someone growing up today would know exactly why he wanted to stare and would have figured out how to do so surreptitiously, so that he could enjoy it.

Men who've known that they were gay since they were twelve and who've inhabited a gay social circle for their entire adult lives might be surprised to learn that there are a lot of gay men with children and ex-wives (and, yes, plenty of men who've always known they loved cock end up with one or more children, but I'd be willing to bet that most gay dads were once married), but the therapist (more of an exit counselor, really) who my ex and I saw during the divorce assured me that married men coming out had reached epidemic proportions.

This last phenomenon, naturally, is entirely traceable to the Internet. Or, as the first guy I fell in love with (he was a Republican: oh, the humanity) used to say, "God bless Al Gore." If you were a married man back in, say, 1989, and it suddenly occurred to you that you were thinking about guys every time you masturbated (and you would have masturbated frequently), your options would have been limited. You'd likely have been terrified to go near a gay bar, provided you could even figure out where one was. You might have stumbled onto a bookstore or some other site with glory holes, but that would have been a very limited activity.

Fast forward to 1999, and it was a whole nother world. You could get online! You could log on to gay.com and nobody knew who you were, but you could chat with real, live queers. And with other guys who were in your same situation. You would very quickly discover that you were not, in fact, alone. And given this relatively safe way to explore the emotional side of your sexuality, you might easily (or more easily, anyway: it was easy for no one) have come to understand that marriage to a woman was something that you simply could no longer do.

Or at least that was my experience. God bless Al Gore.

But back to where I started. Does having been married make me a better lover? I don't know. I do think that having children has made and continues to make me a better person and, in turn, probably a more considerate lover. If you have kids, you learn pretty quickly to subordinate your own needs to theirs, and while that doesn't mean that you're not going to make sure to get your own when you're bedding another guy, it probably does mean that you're also going to try to make sure that he gets his.

I've certainly experienced plenty of queer-from-the-start guys who had no interest in anything other than what they wanted. I think this situation is exacerbated by the fact that there are plenty of other gay men who find selfishness very attractive. I don't, but it's pretty easy to avoid that sort of man, and that sort of man generally isn't very interested in me, anyway.

I don't, though, equate always gay with selfish. And God knows I've had phenomenal sex with men who've never so much as dated a woman. There are a lot of ways that you can learn to be considerate of other people, and you certainly don't have to have kids to figure out that other people matter. You can get that from having a partner or from having good friends. I do think that men who've never successfully maintained a relationship are probably bad bets. Or, as the second guy I fell in love with used to say, "If he's never had a boyfriend for more than a year, and he's never had a dog, then you don't want to date him, no matter how good a fuck he is."

Not, God knows, that there's anything wrong with a guy who's just a good fuck. At least in the short term.

*Yes, this really happened. Both the hook-up and the fact that this guy recognized me from church. We live in a world where unlikely coincidences are surprisingly common. Like the time one of my best friends and I found out we'd hooked up with the same guy. Not that rare, I know, but this guy lived in Morgantown, WV and my friend lived in Annapolis, MD. I'd hooked up with the guy in Gaithersburg, MD, and my friend had hooked up with him in Atlanta. That was weird. Neither of us thought he was all that, in case you're wondering.

All Work, No Play

Work is vicious these days. I'm rarely out of here before 9 pm, so there isn't really time to hunt. Slick boy from last weekend has expressed interest in another go round, and this time I might get farther with him. Most likely, I'll just get really worked up and go home and fuck b&c, though. That's a win-win-win situation, if I can manage to find the hour or so (plus travel time) I need to spread the oil. But that hour is really hard to come by. I'm almost constantly horny at work, though I can now keep that in check a bit because every time I walk by the office of the higher up who responded to my craigslist ad for a bondage sub, I'm too busy trying not to laugh to be horny. Still, I'm horny 90% of the time. That's a conservative estimate.

Even jerking off (which, really, should be the national pastime) has become complicated. Typically, I'll yank one off to some porn after I get home while b&c's making dinner, but these days I get home too late for that, so I have to get up early, and since b&c's still sleeping, I can't turn the TV on.

When you're as skilled a masturbator as I am, you don't need porn to get off, but you do need some time to do it right. On some level, ejaculation is like eating: if you don't do it at all, your health will suffer. But fine masturbation is as much more fun than a fast one in the men's room as a great dinner is better than the McD's drive-thru. With plenty of time, you can bring yourself to the edge and keep yourself there for a good long time before you shoot. There aren't many better ways to spend an hour.

When you only have five minutes, you have to be efficient. That's easy with a hot porn scene to focus my attention. My memory and imagination are hotter than any DVD, but five minutes isn't even long enough to choose what to think about. Six or seven years ago, I'd have just thought about whoever I was dating or one of the limited number of guys that I'd had very hot sex with. Now, if I start remembering hot guy A, my mind shifts over to hot guys B, C, D, E, and F, and it's all good, but it's not getting the cum out within five minutes.

This is why I avoid those restaurants with twenty-page menus.

Ultimately, I manage, if not in five minutes, then in ten. Sometimes I think of the second guy I fell in love with. He wasn't that great in bed, but he had the most amazing body I'd ever seen, and all I had to do was put my tongue against his asshole or bite down on his nipple, and his whole body would jerk and he'd start shouting as if he had Tourette's. Sometimes I think about the guy who still emails me once a year but who I only fucked once, at his boss' house, a few months before his wife outed him and he lost his job. He was tall and smooth and cute, and he kissed well. He was sad, but he loved to suck cock, and he was happy for the three hours we spent playing. Sometimes I think about one of several men who have been tied to my bed and begging me to fuck them. And sometimes I think about that cute, naive, twenty-five year old boy from South Carolina who I took to the movies and then drove back to his apartment. It was late, and no one was around, and we started making out in the car, and when I reached down and squeezed his crotch, he shuddered and came, making a big wet spot in his jeans. He was so embarrassed that he ran out of the car, and I never heard from him again, but he occasionally still gets me off.

Slick

By Saturday afternoon, I just wasn't going to take it any more. I had gotten into the office at 7:15 (Starbucks wasn't even open yet), and it was getting on towards 3:30, and I was tired and cranky. I took a look at the craigslist ads, and one stuck out. It was a 32 year old guy who wanted a massage.

Like almost anything else that involves giving a man pleasure by touching his body, I love to give massage. I've never had any training, but I've always been good at it. I've received a few massages myself, and I've always paid attention to what the guy was doing. And it's just not that hard, really. You rub the right muscles the right way with the right amount of pleasure, and the guy melts in your hands. In fact, you know you're doing it right because he starts melting in your hands. You pay a little bit of attention, and the guy's body tells you what you need to do.

So why so many guys give such lousy massages is a mystery to me. I guess they don't like it. Perhaps they don't get as much pleasure from using their hands (unless their hands are on their dicks) as I do. For whatever reason, it's something that I very much get into, so much so that on a number of occasions I've had to say to guys, "Look, if you need to get up and get dressed and get out, then go ahead, but as long as you lie here, I'm going to keep doing this." Usually by that time, I've found a sweet spot that they didn't know they had. Oftentimes, those are post-coital massages, and since I've already made the guy shoot, the massage has a hypnotic effect.

Pre-coital massages, of course, are a great form of foreplay, most especially for men who are too shy to say that they want you to have sex with them. That was pretty clearly the case with S., my new acquaintance from craigslist. We exchanged a couple of messages, and I learned that he was short, dark, and slender. I will, with equal gusto, massage a guy who's tall, pale, and stocky, but it's good to know which you're dealing with in advance so that you can start salivating over a particular type.

S. was as he'd said. He was also Indian, with one of those very musical accents that many Indian men have, cute, and very shy. He showed me to the spare bedroom, said he was going to get the baby oil, and told me to make myself comfortable. "Make yourself comfortable" is, of course, a way of saying "take something off" without actually saying it, but I thought it would be fun to maintain the pretense of an actual massage for as long as possible, so I only took off my shoes and watch. I also pushed up my sleeves a little. He came back to the room, wearing only some boxers. I told him to lie down on the bed on his stomach, and I poured some baby oil onto my hands.

He really did need a massage. Tight neck, tight shoulders, tight back. About ten minutes took care of all that. I was doing a pretty good job on him, and he was practically purring. I'd been working on his lower back and the top of his ass, and I had his boxers about halfway down. It was a very pretty ass, and when I poured some oil into the hollow in the small of his back, I kneaded both cheeks and push the boxers the rest of the way over his ass and slid them off. I'm guessing he had a twenty-eight inch waist. He certainly had a nice bubble butt to set it off.

I had most of him nice and oily now (your skin is normally drier in the winter; having someone come over and oil you down is very good for your skin; and your mood), and I worked his lower back with one hand while my other squeezed his ass. I put some more oil at the top of his crack, and when it oozed down over his asshole, I slid a finger into him. So now we were at loose neck, loose shoulder, loose back, tight ass. It opened easily enough for a single finger, and he purred approvingly, but I figured that two fingers was about as far as I was going to get into that ass, and I didn't have a problem with that.

I worked on his legs for a while, bending his knees and kneading his calves, then giving him a nice foot massage that melted him further. Then I worked up and down the whole body for a minute and told him to flip over.

Not surprisingly, he had a small, uncut cock. Somewhat more surprisingly, it was soft, but he told me that he was nervous. I guess he doesn't do this much. I told him to relax and started to work on his chest and nipples. Then I told him that I wanted to kiss him. He said that would be fine but that he wasn't a very good kisser. Boy was he wrong about that, though.

I took off my shirt and lay next to him, and gave him a soft kiss while I worked an oily hand over his nipples. He responded (to one or the other or both: who knows?) and I got plump lips with just the right amount of resistance. Yum. I started to play with his cock, and he got hard, and we kept kissing. Then I sat up next to him and lifted his legs so that I could slide a couple of fingers into his ass while I stroked his cock. His enjoyment was very evident.

I kept doing that for a while. He was pretty worked up, and I was on a tight schedule, so I leaned down and kissed him again then started to lick and suck on his nipple while I stroked him harder. He started to breathe hard and speak in tongues, the inarticulate but sure indication of impending orgasm, and then he came all over his pretty chest. Semen on a dark chest is a beautiful thing, and it seems a shame to have to wipe it up, but I did. We chatted briefly, and he said that he'd like to get together again, and then I left and drove home.

I'm not sure whether he really wants to get together again or was just caught up in the moment, but I'm good either way. I really do need to get someone regular to massage, though.

Vanilla, Fatigued

I work a lot of hours at this time of year. My overlords expect me to put in sixty-five hours a week, which is actually quite a lot if you don't want to work Sundays and want to eat lunch, and if, as I do, you have responsibilities outside of the office that require you to leave the office by 7 pm a couple of days a week.

So when b&c got back from his little vacation late Thursday afternoon, I didn't really see him until late Friday night. I got home about 10:30 on Thursday, and he was already sleeping off the jet lag. At least, I assume that was him in the bed next to me. It was dark, and one guy is pretty much like another, right? To wind down, I played a little bit of Legend of Zelda on the Gamecube (yes, I know, terribly behind the times), read a few pages of a novel, and went to sleep around midnight. I had to be out of the house by 6:45 the next morning, so he (or whoever) was still asleep. I called him around 10 am and told him to meet me at 9 pm in Bethesda for dinner because that would allow me to work until 8:50 and then walk over to the restaurant.

So we had dinner, and he told me about what (and who) he did on his trip. Then he drove home, and I went back to the office briefly and then I drove home. By then it was nearly 11:30, and he was asleep again. I was pretty beat myself, having worked a thirteen-hour day. Plus, while b&c was out of town, I was slutting it up as much as possible, and most of the time I spent on that had to come out of time when I'd otherwise have been sleeping. So I was beat, and I really wasn't all that horny, and the temptation was pretty great to just get under the comforter and drop off. But sometimes you just can't, you know? There are times when no amount of tired and no amount of familiarity can overcome the desire to touch the man you love. And make him messy.

This is a fairly standard late-night scene for us, though it typically lasts longer and ends differently. I turned on my right side and put my left arm around him and spooned him. He was nice and warm, as usual. That can be challenging in the summer, but it was below freezing last night, so I got my cold self as close to him as I could and then I reached through the fly in his boxers and started to play with the head of his cock. I was gently running a finger over his frenulum and he was getting nice and woody. I worked my other arm free and used one of those fingers to trace along the outside of his ear, also very lightly. He likes that a lot. I do that sometimes when he's driving.

I took my left hand off his cock and started to rub his nipple between my thumb and forefinger. I always try to do that lightly, but I always get somewhat carried away. His nipple felt a little rough, as if someone he'd met on vacation had been biting it, so I figured I could be at least slightly more insistent. I hadn't really intended playing with him to be about me at all, but once I was working the nipple, I had wood. I had no intention of staying awake long enough to fuck him, but I know that he likes to feel my cock lying against his ass crack.

I spent a while alternating between cockhead and nipple, and b&c started what sounded a lot like a whimper, which kept getting louder. At some point he finally responded to my tugging and rolled onto his back, allowing me to get my mouth on his nipple. I was in a somewhat awkward position, but I still managed to suck his left nipple and flick my tongue across it while working his right nipple with one hand and his cockhead with the other. The whimpering continued to escalate, and when I started concentrating harder on the nipple play and let his cock out of my fingers, he started to stroke himself off.

Usually, b&c and I are all about the making out as the beginning of foreplay, but last night, I didn't start kissing him until he was stroking himself off. I have to say that they were pretty great kisses last night. I think he must have been past where he could think about it too much or put too much energy into it, because they were perfect soft kisses with moderate amounts of tongue. Awesome.

Ultimately, last night was really a quickie, though, and not long after we started the making out, he started to shake and breathe hard, and he came. I guess his nipples got very sensitive then because he took my hands off them. I lay back on his chest, and he wrapped an arm around my head. I was really hard, and I started to stroke myself off.

And then I fell asleep. I guess what I was after wasn't so much to shoot a huge load as to feel a certain level of intimacy, and once that desire was satisfied, it wasn't hard for the (very great) fatigue to overcome me. B&c is used to this: in March, it's not at all unusual for me to nod off while he's going down on me, no matter how great a job he's doing. And since I needed to be back in the office by 7:30 this morning, he let me sleep. He was still asleep when I left this morning. And I was still hard, so I let fly in the shower and then came to work.

Nipple Play

As I've said before, I'm not a big fan of metrics for sex. (And no, by that I do not mean that I prefer to measure a man's equipment in inches rather than centimeters.) Assigning ratings and statistics to your sexual encounters lessens their ineffable nature and leads to excessive consumption of cheeseburgers. But sometimes, when I'm not actually having sex, I amuse myself by coming up with rating systems that I then never use. The current example relates to nipple play.

You could, if you wanted to, rate nipple play preferences on a scale from 1 to 10 where a 1 means "don't even look at them or I'll start giggling uncontrollably and maybe cry" and 10 means, "bite 'em off; I'll grow more." I've never run into a 10, which is probably just as well because I don't think they really grow back, and if I ponder that any longer, I'll get a mental image that I really don't want to have but which would not have been out of place in Pan's Labyrinth.

I've known at least a couple of 9s. A 9 indicates that I'll work their nipples as hard as I'm comfortable with (anything short of blood, really), and they'll enjoy it. Or at least they won't complain. The first guy who ever asked me to tie him up was probably a 9. I'd actually leave bruises on his nipples, and he would complain about that, but only a couple of days later. And then when I'd asked whether he'd enjoy it, he'd say that he had but that now he was bruised. And then I'd ask whether he wanted me to kiss them and make them all better, and he'd ask me how dumb did I think he was, which I wouldn't answer because I still wanted to fuck him.

My favorite nip guy ever was probably an 8. I would work his nipples very aggressively. Nibble, bite, gnaw. And after an hour or so of that (interspersed with some other things, but his nipples were being worked for most of that time), he might allow that I had reached his limit of intensity, but then after I'd backed off for a couple of minutes, he'd be begging me to get him back to his limit. This particular guy was of European descent, and he had a somewhat huge head of hair, but he had no body hair. I'll take my guys either hairy or smooth, but there was something especially hot about a guy who was naturally hairless. I had always assumed that he waxed or shaved or something, but when I asked, he told me that he'd just never had any body hair.

Nipples on a smooth chest are very hot because of the way they stand out, (Nipples on a furry chest are very hot because you have to dig for them.) and this guy's nipples stood out easily half an inch, and more when I'd been working them for a while. I wish that guy and I still had sex, but he lives around the beltway, and it's too far to go. Also, the first time b&c and I ever had a threeway was with him, and he was a little weird after that, though I'm pretty sure I could get him to play again if I were going to be in the neighborhood. He always had a gratifying amount of enthusiasm for me.

I can only remember hooking up with one 1; unfortunately, the entire encounter was memorably dreary. I'd guess this happened about five or six years ago, and this guy (who was otherwise reasonably attractive) came over and proceeded to tell me about how awful his life was and how no one liked him and how he'd been dating a guy for eight months when the guy just stopped returning his calls. I was trying to be sympathetic, but there are limits, so I hurried him to bed, where he kept asking me if I thought he was attractive. Over and over and over again. He was a top, so anal sex was out, and he kept jumping away because I would accidentally graze his nipples (through his loose t-shirt) while we were making out, and it would send him into near convulsions. He told me that he couldn't even touch them himself. Then he asked me another thirty times whether I liked him and made me promise that I'd call him. And since I'd promised, I did call him a couple of days later, and he never returned the call. Which was just as well -- since I wouldn't have known what to say to him -- but annoying nonetheless.

My own nipples, alas, probably rate a 2. That means that you can play with them a moderate amount, but I won't feel anything, and if you play with them any more than that, I'll have to stop you because it hurts (without any compensating pleasure). Men are frequently surprised that someone with such a voracious appetite for nipples (if a guy puts his hands in front of them, I'll pull them away and say -- firmly -- "access to the nipples must remain unrestricted at all times!") has such inert nipples, but it makes perfect sense to me. Other guys think that since I'm eager to bite their nipples, I should be willing to have my own bitten. "Don't dish it out if you can't take it," they'll say. And I will invariably reply with something that I have found true in most areas of life, and which I will now put in a separate paragraph because it's one of my very best aphorisms.

In my experience, the more you dish out, the less you have to take.

I leave it for others to hypothesize whether and to what extent my enthusiasm for nipples is related to my own mother's failure to breastfeed me. (In fact, I may have to go find a shower just for having written that sentence. Ewww.) My nipple fascination is, to me, yet another area where I see no point in asking why. I am simply grateful.

This is all on my mind because of a recent hookup with someone who's nipple rating I appear to have adjusted. I have long known that a man's enthusiasm for having his nipples played with (Does that make him a nipple bottom because he's screaming in pleasure while I'm chewing on his nipples, or am I the bitch since I'm the one using my mouth? You see what an innocent I am; I don't even know the proper terminology.) can change over time. In the most depressing example of this fact, b&c used to be a 7 (back when he was still trying to impress me, I guess) and now he's at best a 5. On the plus side, he's much better at giving head than he used to be.

But sometimes you get lucky and come across a 2 or 3 whom you can elevate into something greater. I had my buddy B. in my bed over the weekend. I think it was the fourth time we've played. He's always been a good kisser and a decent cocksucker, so we've always had fun, but the last time (i.e., the time before this weekend) I had him over was the first time I got into concentrated nipple play with him. Previously, I'd sucked on them a little, but I hadn't gotten much response. But a month or so ago he came over, and after a decent period of nice kissing, I started to lick and suck on his left nipple.

At first there wasn't much of a reaction, but I decided to keep at it. I bit it very gently and then sucked it in between my lips and started to flick my tongue quickly back and forth across it, and there was suddenly a lot more interest on his part. So I mixed it up for a little while: first on one nipple, then the other. I pushed my tongue harder against the nipple then sucked with my lips while my tongue retracted. He was moaning then, and I went back to the suck-and-flick technique, concentrating on his left nipple. I got into a steady, fast rhythm with my tongue, and before long, his entire body was shaking. If I varied the intensity or the speed, he'd stop shaking, and then I'd work a little harder to make him shake again.

After about forty-five minutes of dedicated nipple play, I took a breather. He told me that he'd never experienced anything like that before and that it was like having a full body orgasm, only without the ejaculation. And then he said. "Wow. You can do anything that you want to me now." So I did. Up until then, he'd always claimed to be a top.

Anyway, this weekend was also a lot of fun, though I no longer felt like I was sailing into uncharted territory. He clearly wanted the intense nipple play again, and I certainly wanted to do that with him, but I wasn't having any more of this "orgasm without the ejaculation" crap. So after a nice long make out session, I worked his nipples for about fifteen minutes to get him nice and hungry for it, then I flipped him onto his stomach and ate his ass for a little while, and when I had it nice and wet and hungry, I took out the thinnest of my butt plugs and pushed it into him. Then I flipped him back over and started working his nipples intensely again until I got him back to the shaking point. I upped the intensity a little more then, and he started writhing and shaking, and then I grabbed his cock and stroked him until he shot. He shot a lot, and he shot hard.

At that point, he really couldn't do anything except lay there and glow, so I finished myself off by hand. He stayed the night, and in the morning I fucked him.

I'd like to play with him plenty more and see if I couldn't work his nipples so that they get bigger. That might happen, but it's not something I'll count on. He wants to be dating someone, and there's no good reason why he isn't, especially now that he's versatile. I don't reckon it'll be long before he's got a boyfriend and is off limits. Though I've been wrong about that sort of thing before.