Inverted

Over the past week or so, I've noticed a lull in my appetites. This is most notable in my food intake and my sex drive. I presume that my other appetites are similarly attenuated, but as I don't pay much attention to them, I don't know. That's assuming that I even have other appetites. There's something of a positive feedback loop here: less red meat means less craving for sex, and less sex means fewer cheeseburgers. Actually, it's not so much that I want less sex, just that I'm willing to go to less trouble to get it. Yesterday, for example, I had no obligations and no plans, and posting a craigslist ad just didn't seem worthwhile.


I've tried to do some research into what might cause a decrease in my appetites, but, frankly, the Wikipedia entry on the four horsemen of the apocalypse is really not as helpful as it should be. Nonetheless, if you see a guy riding around with a bow but no arrows, let him know I'd like a word, won't you?


An ebb in my need to hunt is rare, but not unprecedented. I tend not to worry about them when they happen because, well, this too shall pass, right? More importantly, a lessening in the urge to pursue sexual companionship tends to be accompanied by an increase in masturbatory enjoyment and efficacy. I suppose that if you look at lambasting the parapets as a poor substitute for hot man-on-man sex, it could become routine, or even tedious. But if you approach it as a noble pursuit or as an art form, then taking matters into your own hands takes on a whole nother level of meaning. If you're more comfortable with touchy feely rhetoric, you could call it practicing mindful masturbation. Which, by the way, would make the Best Title Ever for a self-help book. (Thank you: I'll be here all week.)


As it happens, I didn't get around to stenciling the kielbasa last night, but only because when I was geeking out by watching Enterprise on the SciFi channel, I got a text message from Kip, who claimed, yet again, that he was finally ready to be fucked. Regular readers will remember that Kip always claims that he's ready to be fucked, and then when push comes to shove, he always claims that he's too tight to take it.


So finally getting to fuck him should have been a somewhat momentous event, and, really, it was a lot of fun, but it was a bit anticlimactic. Kip is always here and gone again in less than a half hour and that -- along with the fact that he always comes to me -- is a big part of his charm, but he wasn't kidding about being really tight, and having finally worked my cock into his ass, I found myself on the edge of ejaculation in about three minutes. Given that it was late and that he was urging me on, I went ahead and dumped the load then flipped him onto his back and quickly sucked him to completion. Making out and eating his ass had consumed no more than ten minutes, so the encounter really did take on something of the aspect of a maintenance fuck.

Unclean

When I woke up this morning, there was no running water. Apparently, there was a water main break in the area and many homes were without running water this morning. Once the repairs are complete, we are supposed to boil our water for the next three days or use bottled water. I'm also not supposed to water the grass or fill my non-existent pool, and I'm supposed to limit my flushing.


I don't find these restrictions particularly onerous, but the idea of facing the day without a shower is another matter altogether. I did manage to find a quart or so of clean water in my teakettle, and I heated it up and washed myself enough to be able to go into work, but I have felt both miserable and unclean all day. Apparently, my morning shower is as necessary as my morning caffeine is to help me face the new day.


The pleasures of a shower, particularly when the temperature and pressure are right, are not to be underestimated. Most of the time, when I get into the shower, I disappear into my head. The exception is during high stress periods at work, when I'm typically so exhausted that I turn the water cold for the amount of time that it takes to sing a chorus of La Vie en Rose, aloud and in French. But when I'm not channeling the Little Sparrow, the shower is a fully meditative experience for me. It's the closest I come to a daily religious practice. No wonder I'm so out of sorts when I don't get it.


Feeling the water run over you, or being under water in almost any setting, is an atavistic pleasure that largely defies description and thus doesn't need to be described. Everyone understands it. It's the same thing you feel when you walk by the ocean or emerge from the ocean. Or get caught in a warm rain. Two years ago, b&c and I were hiking in the Everglades in January, and we got caught in a downpour, half a mile from the car. It was in the low eighties, and it was the first time I'd been caught in a warm rain in maybe thirty years. Rarely have I been so happy, even as I wrung quarts of water out of my t-shirt and shivered on the way back to the motel. The water is a call back to the womb or to the primordial soup. Coming out of it is a form of rebirth.


Maybe that's why I don't really get wet sex. I've read plenty of good porn about sex in the showers, and Cthulhu knows that a layer of water on a man further sweetens the eye candy. But actually having sex in the shower would take me right out of my head. I reckon many people spend too much time in theirs, so maybe that'd be a good thing, but that's not so much the case for me. Besides, it's just impractical. The same thing is true in a hot tub. It's very nice to sit next to someone and perhaps feel the touch of flesh to flesh, or at least hand to hand, as a way of reaching out to the collective unconscious, but if you want to have sex in there, someone's going to have to be really good at holding his breath, or you're going to have to figure out how to not let the water soluble lube wash away. Far better to enjoy a quiet communion, then get out, towel off, and fuck like crazed monkeys on the bed.


YMMV, of course, and more power to you, if you can successfully fuck in the shower. At least you'll be clean again soon. Sometimes I think I should give the YMMV proviso more frequently. I'm a man of strong opinions, but they're meant to apply mostly to me. (Except for matters of grammar and usage: y'all have to toe the line on avoiding the greengrocers' plural, or deal with my wrath.) That should be implicit, but it's probably not. Am I rambling? I blame the lack of running water.


I have long maintained that no invention of the past 200 years has so revolutionized everyday life as has indoor plumbing.

Think about it.


I'm sure there are substitutes for the daily shower. I could meditate for fifteen minutes and then have a sponge bath. A number of religions have ritual baths, and I suppose I could join one of those.

But let's hope it doesn't come to that. I'm told that there's a good chance that water and water pressure will be restored when I get home. I'm probably meant to limit my shower length so that water pressure can be maintained for firefighting, but we had a couple of inches of rain today, so I don't guess the risk is all that high right now. If the pressure's good and the temperature's right, I may not come out until Friday.

The Opposite of Sex: Fathers' Day Edition

This weekend, EFU, YFU, and I journeyed far to the Amish country of Western Maryland and Southwestern Pennsylvania, where my parents have their summer home. I was not originally scheduled to have the girls this weekend, but when the need arose to make other scheduling changes, one option was to get this weekend, so a trip to see my parents on Fathers' Day seemed like a good idea.


As usual, we did not get started as early as we would have liked. I wanted to leave work early, but my boss reminded me that we had not done my semi-annual review and that the reason we had not done so was that I had not completed my self-review, which had been due two weeks earlier. My boss expects me to drag my feet on any administrative matter, so he was neither surprised nor dismayed by this state of affairs, but I knew that I needed to get the damned thing done, so I spent five minutes giving myself rankings and writing goals for the next six months, and then I gave it to him, saying, "No pressure, but when [other, slightly lower level boss] gave me the review he did, it only took forty-five seconds and most of that was spent trying to figure out how I could get a fourth week of vacation." My boss then informed me that he had gotten me a fourth week of vacation, so I no longer had any interest in my review, but we did later sit down for a full five minutes, and he told me what I already know, as he has for the last two or three reviews. Then he told me that he didn't remember how much my raise was, and I said that I'd just wait for the letter at the end of the month, like everyone else, and I went back to my office. And celebrated in a quiet-but-very-happy way: a fourth week of vacation is a big deal.


Eventually, I did make it out of the office, and I picked up the young'uns, and we headed home for packing, etc. I stopped to get the girls something to eat, and the following conversation (whose exact context I forget because I forget most things -- generally to my benefit -- these days) occurred:

EFU: Oh, please. He probably didn't even know you're gay. No one thinks you're gay unless you tell them.
TED: What do you mean?
EFU: Well, you're not exactly a stereotypical homosexual.
TED: I take great offense to that statement. I have almost ten pairs of shoes.
EFU: Whatever. Most of my gay friends have trouble believing that you're gay. Anyway, it's not an insult: no one wants to be typical.
TED: Almost ten pairs of shoes!
EFU: Give it up, Dad.
TED: Fine, but I'm going to pout for the rest of the way home.
EFU: Cool, let's see.
TED: I hate it when you call my bluff.

I mention this conversation only because two or so hours later, when we'd all finished packing and wasting time and were finally on our way out of the driveway, we had another conversation:

YFU: [Sarcastic comment that I cannot, for the life of me, remember.]
TED: How can you say that? I'm hurt!
YFU: Whatever, Dad.
TED: I am decidedly injured. I have not been so hurt since EFU said that I'm not a stereotypical homosexual.
EFU: That was only two hours ago.
TED: That's right, but I am easily wounded because I am a stereotypical gay man, and we are a very dramatic people.
TED: Stop laughing!

Anyway, the weekend was fun and relaxing. It rained a lot while we were there, but my mother insisted that we go ahead with a planned cookout, which meant that I spent a lot of time standing over a grill with an umbrella, and my mother spent a lot of time squirting lighter fluid onto apathetic charcoal that was already lit. I guess she likes the big whoosh of flame.


This cookout involved immediate and extended family members, many of whom are appalled at the idea of a Black president. Accepting things that you can't change is, supposedly, a mark of maturity, so I've long since accepted that many of my older relatives are bigots. I generally try to excuse myself from the conversation or change the subject if I can, but it's not always easy since my mother seems to take pleasure in instigation.


In fact, while YFU (who, you may or may not remember, is twelve) was trying to get their dog to eat some ham, we had the following conversation:

Mom (to YFU): Just let him be. He won't eat if someone's watching.
Mom (to TED): He's just like those n-i-g-e-r-s that your Grandma used to feed...
TED: You know how much I hate that word.
Mom: That's why I spelled it out, so YFU wouldn't know what I was saying.
TED: For God's sake, Mom, she's TWELVE YEARS OLD. And she's been able to read since before she was six!
Mom: Well, I forgot that.
TED: And you misspelled it!
Mom: Well, I'm sorry.

I figured it was better not to ask exactly what she was apologizing for.


My father seemed in very good spirits, and he always loves having us around. He'll be 78 in a couple of months, and he has finally decided that they can't keep making the trip north for the summer, so they're thinking of putting their Pennsylvania home on the market unless I decide to buy it. I'm considering it because I really love it up there and because I don't currently own any property, but I'm not sure that it's practical. It might be a good place to retire, but maybe for a less active retirement than I'm envisioning. On the other hand, it'd be cheap, and you always need a place to leave your stuff and come home to, even if you're 70.


Fathers' Day is not really something that either I or the girls think much about. Being a father is certainly the thing that I consider most important in my life, but the holiday itself is kind of silly. I haven't studied the history, but I reckon the distilled liquor industry was jealous of how much money the floral industry was raking in on Mothers' Day. No liquor exchanged hands during our holiday. I got my Dad some DVDs, and the girls each made me a card and a bookmark, which I found appropriate and very nice. YFU's was very effusive, but EFU went back to basics with her card:

Dear Father,
Thanks for feeding and clothing me.
Love,
EFU

It was just what I wanted.

Games People Play

In general, I think that blog memes are for people who can't think of something substantive to say, but a) I thought this one was fun, and b) I can't think of anything substantive to say.

I stole this one from Franck. I'm supposed to post a list of questions and some instructions, but I can't be bothered when you can just get it from Franck. While you're there, be sure to look at his abs. Yum. Anyway, the one above was the result of my answering his questions. The degree of correspondence between the answer and the image is sometimes greater than others, but that's the nature of searching Flickr. I'm so ignorant about manipulating images that I can't put an array like this together without help. Maybe someday I'll learn, if only so that I can print out high-resolution, poster-sized photos from Costco, where they're very cheap. But for now, have a look at two other grids I created, using my own Flickr searches. Here again, I didn't always get exactly what I asked for, but something doesn't have to be exactly what you asked for to be worthwhile. That's a good idea to keep in mind with men you meet, as well as those you only see in pictures.

Enough!

"Nonplussed" does not mean what many of you think it means. If I read one more motherfucking blog where "I was nonplussed" is used as a synonym for "I didn't react" or "I remained unruffled" or "whatever," I am going to hunt the offending party down and bludgeon (tr.v. To hit with or as if with a heavy club.) him with my compact OED. You have been warned.

You miscreants (and you know who you are) are using a word to mean its opposite, and you're doing it without irony. If you hear a word for the first time, you have a responsibility to determine its correct meaning before you pass it along. Do not let the destruction of English be your fault.

For the record, here's a definition of the adjective:

nonplussed
adjective
filled with bewilderment; "at a loss to understand those remarks"; "puzzled that she left without saying goodbye" [syn: at a loss]

And here are definitions of the verb and noun forms:

non·plus
verb, -plussed or -plused, -plus·sing or -plus·ing, noun
–verb (used with object) 1. to render utterly perplexed; puzzle completely.
–noun 2. a state of utter perplexity.

Thank you for your kind attention to this matter. We will return shortly with more dirty pictures and poorly edited ramblings.

Unsexed

The universe, readers, is conspiring to keep me from having sex. Despite the fact that b&c is in Jordan, consulting by day and being a human pincushion by night, my own opportunities for play have severely dried up since last Thursday. Familial obligations (Darn those unpredictable kids. When your daughter calls you and tells you that she can't work because she burned her hand on a microwaved lunch at the office, there's not much you can do but go and pick her up and be nice to her, but trying to explain to the craigslist guys you just arranged play dates with that you're no longer available for that reason is almost certain to lead to people not believing you.) have limited and will continue to limit (a family trip to PA for Father's Day) my opportunities. And then, of course, there was last weekend's trip to Rehoboth.

Other people may have a lot of sex at the beach, but I don't see how anyone has sex in Rehoboth. Everyone seems to spend so much time posturing and drinking that there can't be any time or sobriety left for actual sex. Though I suppose there are some people who can still get it up when they're falling down drunk, and there are always double-headed dildos. Which reminds me to do some research sometime to see if there are dildos with more than two heads. For those group relationships consisting entirely of bottoms or social gatherings when a bunch of bottoms get together to drink Cosmos, dish, and ride the Hydra. Well, what else would you call it? (I do not mean, by the way, to imply that bottoms are more likely than anyone else to drink Cosmos, or dish. But it's hard not to conclude that they'd be more likely than, say, tops to ride the Hydra, assuming it were to exist.)


All of this reminds me of a gay(er) version of Sex and the City, which I saw in Rehoboth on Friday night. I thought the movie was fun and that the producers did an adequate job of providing me with eye candy. I did not expect more than fun and eye candy from the movie, so I was not disappointed by the lack of any great depth. There are, after all, plenty of movies that have no great depth yet still fail to provide me with either fun or eye candy.

Rehoboth seems a bit subdued this year, and the chatter is that the economy generally and high gas prices in particular are to blame. I did spend $65 to fill my tank on the way there, but it's hard to imagine that people are passing up on weekends that run to several hundred dollars (at least) because of an extra twenty or so bucks at the pump. In any case, I do not mind seeing fewer people at Rehoboth. I understand that a relative lack of visitors is bad for the local economy, but it also ameliorates the twin evils of traffic and having to wait for a table at a restaurant.


I had planned to further reduce traffic concerns by traveling down Thursday evening, but I got a call from Jeff asking if I could take Duncan (Jeff's boyfriend) with me, and it turned out to be easier to do that if I picked him up in Annapolis, on the way, on Friday morning. Friday morning is still a low-traffic time, so I met Duncan at the Nordstrom in Annapolis, where he was having some shirts put aside so that he could a) buy them next (now this) week when they're on sale, and b) get Jeff's approval for the specific shirts he'd chosen. When we got out to the parking lot, I took the opportunity to change the rear blinker bulb which had blown Wednesday. The process involved a wrench, four bolts, a new blinker bulb, some bottled water, and a Band-Aid. Then we were off. Unlike all of Jeff's previous boyfriends, Duncan is someone who is actually pleasant to spend time with, and the traffic was very light, so the drive was fine. He also showed me an alternate route. Woohoo.

I was fortunate this year that my annual summer visit happened on a slow guest weekend for Jeff. Typically, there will be a group of his friends there, and they'll want to hit the bars on Friday and/or Saturday night, and I'll be forced to suffer through two hours of men trying on different yet indistinguishable outfits in the hope that they'll make themselves marginally more attractive to unknown men who they will never have the guts to talk to. They will, nonetheless, tell me that both the preparation and the actual bar going are much more fulfilling than an Internet sex date. This position is generally very much misguided, but as Jeff prohibits either the bringing home of men from bars or the inviting over of Internet conquests, it's only half as misguided as usual. I'm not, by the way, complaining about Jeff's policy. I go to the beach knowing that no one's going to hook up, so I'm not disappointed. I just don't get how the other guys know the same thing and should know that even if the policy were rescinded they still wouldn't be hooking nonetheless manage to be disappointed.

Anyway, there was only one other guest (Jay, a decidedly cute Korean from Wilmington) and no bars this weekend. We had an excellent dinner on Friday (pistachio crusted swordfish with wasabi mayonnaise, mmmmmm) followed by the movie, and on Saturday evening, when the lack of both bar hopping and sexual frustration had so demoralized Jay that he had left early, we had another excellent (albeit early and very, very hot because we could only get an outdoor table at 6:15) at The Cultured Pearl, where I had a squid and seaweed salad that I shall remember fondly for the rest of my days. Then the three of us went back to Jeff's townhouse, where our plans to play board games were destroyed when Jeff flipped on the TV and Silence of the Lambs was starting. It is the one movie that I (and, apparently, others) cannot resist watching, whenever it's on.


We also took several walks, including a brief, 4.5-mile stroll to and along the beach on Saturday morning, and on Saturday afternoon, Jay dragged Duane out shopping, where they spent roughly four hours for Jay to buy two shirts and for Duncan to pick out but not buy one shirt that he hoped Jeff would later approve. I spent the same time doing a bit of grocery shopping, taking an extended nap, and failing once again to break a million in Word Dojo. Truly, my idea of a good time at the beach.

There was some talk of my going back sometime in July, when b&c will be whoring working in Colombia and Nicaragua, but I don't think it's likely. I'm not sure whether I dread more the prospect of fitting in with or not fitting in with the conspicuous consumption crowd, but as much as I like the beach (which, I grant, you would never know from the way I write about it), I dislike the scene more, and the truth is that at Rehoboth, the beach isn't all that, and the scene is all that and a ton of bricks. My idea of a beach holiday is a place far from crowds and outlets and bars (ok, maybe one bar, but a beachy version of a dive bar), where you bathe in the morning and take a long walk at sunset and cuddle under the stars at night and have cold, rum-based drinks late in the afternoon after having spent the balance of the day reading a lazy book in the shade and napping in between bouts of surprisingly energetic sex.

Guy, Tied

I've written about William, the boy I had tied to my bed Thursday evening, before. We'd played around two or three (but not one or four, I'm sure) times prior to Thursday. He's always fun, but he's always weird about getting together. We last hooked up, apparently, in December, and since then, we've gone through the usual process where he says hello to me online but then comes up with excuses as to why we can't meet. He's recently moved from DC to Bethesda, so now he's just a few blocks from my office, and that would be great, except that he now has a straight roommate, and he has, he says, agreed not to bring guys over. Which, given the difficulty he has in following through, is probably not so tough. Anyway, on Thursday early afternoon, I apparently had gay.com running in the background, because when I minimized one window, there was a gay.com private conversation window, and William had posted several messages to me. He definitely responds when I play hard to get, so when I finally saw the window and responded, he was -- metaphorically -- ravenous.

I told him that I could pick him up on my way home and then drop him at a Metro station after I was done with him. He asked me to come back on later and make further arrangements, but I told him to be at the CVS at 6:30 or forget about it. He started asking a bit about specifics, but as soon as I expressed impatience, he stopped and said that he'd do as he'd been told.

The last two (or three) times that I'd seen William, he'd had me over his DC studio apartment, and he'd always been on the bed, in his underwear, in a darkened room, so while I could make out the shape (very pleasing) of his body, I didn't get a really good look at his face. When I pulled into the parking lot at 6:30, I knew who he was, and when he got in the car, my first thought was that he looked a lot like Richard Blais (who bears a passing resemblance to, but is not as attractive as, this guy) from Top Chef. William was wearing blue basketball shorts, a white t-shirt, and a very loud pair of Nikes. He looked good. His hair was beginning to get some gray in it, but I guess he's probably 37 or so by now, so that makes sense; besides, it looks good on him.


Anyway, it's kind of a long drive from Bethesda to my exurb, and William attempted, at first, to make small talk, but I mostly grunted in reply, and then occasionally I'd twist one of his nipples through his t-shirt, so he shut up, and then he dozed off. I wasn't trying to be rude, but I knew that engaging him in conversation was the wrong mood, and, besides, I knew that he'd be a lot more conversational afterwards, and it's a fifteen-minute drive to the Metro, and he really doesn't have fifteen minutes of worthwhile chat in him. Or at least not fifteen minutes that he'll share with me: I know so little about him that he might be a genius, though the available evidence certainly suggests otherwise.

When we got in the door, I pointed up the stairs, and as he began to climb them, I pulled the waistband of his shorts down below his ass and began to squeeze his buttocks. He whimpered a little. William is an amazingly quiet lay. Spank him, tie him down, pinch his nipples hard, and the most you're likely to get from him is a whimper. If you've been working him too hard, you might get a very quiet, "Baby, please," which means that I need to ease up a bit. If he comes right out and says he can't do something, it means that he wants to be forced. He's entirely counterintuitive, but at least he's consistent.

When we got upstairs, I kissed him for a minute. He doesn't especially like kissing, I don't think, but he's good at it, and if I grab him by the hair and pull his head back, he whimpers and then he likes it a lot better. I pushed him down on the bed and began licking and chewing his nipples through his t-shirt. More whimpering. After a bit more of that, I fetched the blindfold, put it on him, pushed him on his stomach, covered his head with a pillow, grabbed the camera, and began removing his shoes and socks. I tickled his feet as I went, and his body shook, but he said nothing. Then we made out some more (he also likes it better when he's blindfolded), I took off his t-shirt, and I started to restrain his wrists. One of the few coherent comments he made during the session was to ask, just then, whether he'd be able to get his poppers. I told him not to worry about it and got both of his wrists into restraints. Fortunately, they, along with the ankle restraints, were still tied to the bed from Mike, on Tuesday. William's a couple of inches taller than Mike, so the ropes going from the restraints to the corners of the bed weren't as short as they should have been, but the overall arrangement was only a little bit looser than ideal.


Before I got to the ankles, though, I had to pull off his shorts and his somewhat ridiculous underwear. When I did that, I saw that he had leaked all sorts of precum, so I gathered some up on my fingertip and rubbed it on his nipples. Then I got some more on my thumb and put it in his mouth to suck on for a moment before I kissed him. He was starting to get a little worked up now, and it was pretty fun. I wasn't aroused, exactly, but I did enjoy seeing him drip all that precum.

I got his ankles into their restraints and then I spent a little longer tickling his feet, watching his body go tense and then slack, occasionally tugging hard enough on his nuts to elicit a whimper and make his cock rise up, leaving more trails of precum to fall to his stomach. I put a clothespin on each nipple, then I folded my belt in a loop, stroked his face with it, and began lightly brushing the clothespins. When he whimpered more, I began lightly spanking the soles of his feet, which made him writhe (again) and drip precum (again). Then I took the clothespins off his nipples (removing the clothespins from a tender area, apparently, is more painful than putting them on) and put them -- plus one more: all I had because the others are, inexplicably, in the trunk of my car -- on his scrotum. He took all that pretty well; I took pictures.

I wanted to drip some hot wax on him. It took me a while to find the candle, and then it took me a while to carve off enough wax so that it would stay lit, but making a blindfolded submissive wait is all part of the fun. He wasn't expecting the wax, and that makes it a lot more effective, but it also makes it kind of cruel, so when, after the second drip, he said, "Baby, please," I only let him have a third and fourth drip before I stopped.


All of this was fine, I suppose. He'd said that he wanted "ruff" sex, and I'd spanked him, restrained him, worked hard on his nips and nuts, and dripped wax on him. It was all interesting, in an academic sort of way, but I wasn't all that engaged, and I sensed that I'd reached the point of diminishing returns with William, so I (carefully: I'm not vicious) removed the clothespins from his nutsack and tied his nuts tight with a shoelace. Then I unbuckled the restraints and told him to suck my cock. He asked for poppers, but I told him to wait. He started to go down on me, and he did it pretty hungrily. I was getting harder, but it was still going slowly, and I didn't know whether it was fatigue from the aftereffects of my cold or just a lack of engagement, but it didn't really matter. I'm more used to getting wood as soon as I kiss a guy or as soon as I start sucking on his nipples, and I didn't with William, but the oral did it soon enough, and as soon as I was hard, I grabbed him by the hair, pushed his head up and down on my cock and began to talk dirty to him. He liked that a lot, as he did my wrapping my legs around his head and fucking his face.

William loves the submission, but his greatest physiological response always comes from rimming. After he'd been going down on me for a while, I pulled his ass around, put his knees on either side of my head, spread his asscheeks with my hands, and dove in. I warned him before I started not to stop going down on me, and he was pretty good about that. He got overwhelmed by the sensation once or twice, but a stern warning from me was enough to bring him back. He asked a couple more times for his poppers, but I told him to wait and went back to eating his ass.


We were both having a great time with my tongue up his ass and my cock down his throat, but eventually, I was ready to fuck him, so I grabbed the lube, and I told him he could have his poppers. He took the blindfold off to find them and then came back to the bed, where I had him get back in the same position. He played with my cock while I started pushing lubed fingers into his ass. I'd press down hard on the prostate, and he'd whimper and take another popper hit. Then I told him to face me and sit on my cock.

When he started to lower his body onto my rod, he was going very slowly. I grabbed his hips, but he resisted, so I grabbed his hair with one hand and slapped his face with the other. The slaps were hard enough to cause some very mild pain, but not hard enough to make his face red, and he whimpered still more as he allowed me to pull his hips down until I was all the way inside him. Him astride me is not really the position he wants, but he was happy enough to be getting fucked that he started to get a little more verbal, which mostly involved him saying, "Fuck me." For a couple of minutes, he bounced up and down, and I pushed up, and then I stopped him when he was all the way down. I grabbed his hands and lowered him into X position. We only stayed that way for a couple of minutes, and then I put him on his stomach and started to fuck him from behind. I fucked him flat on his stomach, then I turned him sideways and pushed one of his legs up, straddled the other one, and fucked him more. It was a very submissive position for him, so he got still more verbal.


We kept that up for a long while, until we were both covered with sweat. I needed a breather, so I lay back on my back and told him to sit on my cock again. He did, and I twisted his nipples and slapped his face a few more times, and he got very excited, so that when I pulled his face down to mine, he kissed me hard, and like he really meant it. Pulling him down to me had pulled him off my cock, and I grabbed the longer free end of the shoestring and began tugging on it. Then, I bit down lightly on his neck and his nipples, and then I started licking the sweat off him. After a while doing that, I let my head fall down for a rest, and he moved back so that he was sitting between my legs and started stroking my cock.

That was very pleasant, so I let him do that for five minutes or so, until he said, "I don't think it's going to happen," meaning that he didn't think I was going to cum. This was a clear challenge, and I couldn't let it go unanswered, so I replied, "It's going to happen, all right. It's going to happen right now when I fuck you again." He started to tell me how he really couldn't take any more, but that, of course, just means that he wants to be forced. So I got up and shoved him down on the bed. He resisted a little, but it wasn't very hard to muscle him into a three-quarters position: basically on his stomach, but with one leg bent and his body slightly sideways. I straddled his leg and pushed back into him, and he immediately began egging me on. It took a while longer, but it felt really great, so I plowed him harder and harder, until I came. Then I collapsed next to him. The sheets were soaked.


After a minute or so, he got up and headed for the shower, and I started to strip the bed. When he was done and drying off, he said, "Damn, you really are one kinky bastard," to which I replied, "What do you mean? I didn't even get the hamsters out of their cage." (I let the bastard part go, but, for the record, my parents had been married ten years before I came along, and nobody who has met them and me can have any doubt as to my parentage. I suppose he was speaking metaphorically.) He laughed and then looked at me and said, "You are joking, aren't you?"

I jumped in the shower for a quick rinse, then I threw on some clothes and drove him to the Metro station, and then I went to get a cheeseburger. All in all, it was a pretty good time. I'm ambivalent about the bondage and the spanking and the wax and the clothespins, but he was a great fuck, and sometimes it's good to cum while I'm fucking a guy rather than while I'm thinking back over the encounter. Not that I didn't cum again while thinking back over the encounter, of course.