Opposites Attract

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

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


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

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

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


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

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


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

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


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


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

Reverse Cowboy

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

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


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

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

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





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

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

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

Nobody's perfect, I guess.

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





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

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




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

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

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

Going and Coming Around

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

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


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

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


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

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


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

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

Double Date

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

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

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


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

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


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

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


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

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


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

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



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

8 1/2

So I spent this past long weekend in New York. I went there to sing in a large chorus for a concert of Karl Jenkins' The Armed Man at Lincoln Center, which meant, among other things, that I had to buy a tuxedo, that I spent about fifteen hours in rehearsals and performance, that I caught a show (Hair. Out of this world, in every possible meaning of the phrase. Loved it.), that I got to enjoy a number of good meals, and that I had a few opportunities to hook up.

Hooking up in New York is a lot like hooking up in the Maryland suburbs, except that the merchandise is of somewhat higher quality, and it exists in much greater abundance. I reckon those two phenomena are linked: with so many options, everyone has to work harder to compete. In any case, the practical effect is that the same issues that exist with, say, a Craigslist ad in Maryland are multiplied in Manhattan: there are a lot more responses, and the opportunities expire a lot more quickly. I'm sure there's a branch of economics and/or a branch of mathematics that deals with the difficulties of coupling in such a situation, and I have no idea what it is, but I did at least gain a bit of appreciation for how difficult it must be to form relationships in Manhattan. With so much out there, how does the typically picky gay male know that he has the best that's on offer? And how does he grab it when so many are grabbing at so many?


I, obviously, am not the typically picky gay male, and I clearly wasn't looking for a relationship, so things were somewhat easier for me. I would have liked to hook up a whole lot while I was there, and since I was getting in Friday afternoon and not leaving until Tuesday morning, I probably could have gone for double digits, but I also had the long rehearsals, and I didn't want to turn my back on some of the many non-sexual delights that New York has to offer. So for those reasons, and just because of a feeling I had, I decided to go for nine.

Reader, I came up short. Sort of. I did hook up nine times, but two of the times were with the same particularly engaging Brazilian (Actually, half-Brazilian, half-Lebanese, he said, but he grew up in Brazil.), so let's just call it eight and a half.


I regret not taking notes, mostly because it took me a few minutes to recreate the list, but also because I'm sure there are details I'll forget and that were of great interest at the time and might possibly have interested you even now, if only I had written them down. What can I say? I was busy.

Anyway, here's the line-up:

1. Itty bitty Filipino (Friday afternoon)
2. Brazilian nipple guy (Friday late night)
3. Hot French nipple sub (Saturday afternoon)
4. Mildly odd Brooklyn redhead (Saturday late afternoon)
5. Muscly Latin virgin (Saturday late night)
6. Former army ranger (Sunday morning)
7. Brazilian nipple guy redux (Sunday evening)
8. Cute Colombian cub quicky (Monday morning)
9. Brooklyn Italian extra quicky (Tuesday morning)


And some random notes.

Every New Yorker who doesn't live in Manhattan thinks -- or at least will tell you -- that he can get to you a lot more quickly than he can actually get to you. Every New Yorker who lives in Manhattan also underestimates the amount of time that it will take to get to you, whether he's coming by subway or by cab, but he won't be off by as much, except perhaps proportionately. On Tuesday morning, I was trying to get out of the hotel by 9:30, and #9 called me around 8:15 and said that he could be in Columbus Circle by 8:45. I almost told him no, but there was the quota to consider. He showed up at 9:20. I was out of the hotel at 9:45, and I was still early for my bus, which -- unlike the bus on Friday -- was not at all crowded. It turns out you can do a lot in twenty minutes, or even eighteen. We made out, I worked his nipples some, I went down on him, he went down on me, I ate his ass, he sat on my cock, I put him on his back and fucked him, he said it hurt too much, I put him on his stomach, I fucked him some more, and we both shot our loads. I hadn't cum in a while, so I was pretty worked up, I guess.


I had to tell a couple of the guys who had particularly awesome bodies to stop lying about their ages. Yeah, the built-like-a-god-and/or-a-brick-shithouse Latin virgin probably could have passed for the twenty-seven he originally told me, but not so much after he said that he'd spent twelve years in the military before starting his current career. That guy had an ass that wouldn't quit. Except that it did, sort of. I was fucking him, and he came pretty quickly, and then I had to stop because he told me it "hurts like a motherfucker." He said that he'd never been with a man before but that he was "very sexually open" so he wanted to try it, but that he thought maybe next time he should try topping. I told him that with a body like his, he could pretty much have his pick. He seemed genuinely touched. It was a very interesting conversation, but I think he was straight and just a little gunshy from past girlfriends and hoping things would be easier with guys. And not overly encumbered by moral or societal considerations. His ass still hurt when he left, but he was very pleasant about it.

Similarly, the Frenchman who'd said he was fifty and who had the body of a (very fit) thirty-five year old looked even better when I found out he was actually fifty-nine. Playing with that guy was literally like playing an instrument: when I bit on his nipples, he moaned in an almost musical manner, and when I increased the intensity, the pitch went up. And boy did he love having them worked. He also loved being fucked. And kissing. Mais attendez! Il y en a plus! When I'd finished fucking him and then stroking the cum out of him while I bit down on his nipples and he went for a high C, we chatted for a few minutes in French! I love that, and I rarely have the opportunity. He also claimed to be impressed by my mastery of the language and my accent (or lack thereof), but I think he was just being kind, out of gratitude for the awesome rogering I'd just given him. I am a lot more modest about my French than about my topping skills, apparently.


Speaking of well-built men, the former army ranger was 6'2 and, well, he looked like an army ranger. Actually, to be thorough, he looked like an army ranger who has retired and become a manager of an IT firm while staying in great shape. Which, in fact, he turned out to be. Let x = x. When we were done, and he had told me what he did, I said to him, "You know, you look exactly like a former army ranger who manages an IT firm." He was very quiet in bed, and the only time I even got slightly louder breathing out of him was when I slapped his ass. I prefer my subs to be somewhat louder and/or more verbal, but I'm pretty willing to forgive a body like that a little bit of silence, especially when the guy sucks well and has a tight, beautiful ass. Besides, he appears to have had a good time. After we were done, he went off to meet former army buddies, hang out in a bar, flirt with women, and watch the playoffs.

The second time the engaging and very talkative Brazilian guy came, he left behind his container of lube. Apparently, the very pedestrian brand of lube I use is not up to New York standards because most of the guys brought their own lube. And many of them brought their own poppers, which is just as well since I never use them. Sadly, none of them brought their own condoms, which, when you think about it, are the ideal gift to bring to this sort of occasion. I almost exhausted my supply, even though I didn't fuck a couple of the guys. I guess I could have bought more, but I can only imagine -- given the cost of a drink -- what a condom costs in Manhattan. I was on Canal Street, and I suppose that when one of those guys said, "Rolex?" to me, I could have said, "Forex," but one can only imagine that the counterfeit condoms are not of the highest quality. Surely that's why the city government has been closing down all those shops. Anyway, I assume the Brazilian left the lube behind by accident. It could have been a gift, but then why would the price tag still be on it. And: that much? He clearly didn't get that lube on Canal Street. What a sucker. Literally: great with the oral, that one. Also fun to cuddle and talk with afterwards. Mmmmmm, Brazilians.


Finally, the Holiday Inn on W.57th Street was a great place to stay for hooking up. Sure, it's not the most convenient location since guys will have to walk a full five minutes from the Columbus Circle station, but the rooms are huge by NYC standards, the bed was very comfortable, and if you invite someone over, he can come up to the room without being hassled by security, except between midnight and 6am. I'm pretty sure the muscly Latin virgin arrived at 11:58. The Brazilian was the only guy who actually had to have someone call up to my room, and I think he enjoyed having the guy at the desk know he was there for a hook-up.

They really need to fix their ice machines, though.

Common Misconceptions

After several failed attempts, last night I finally managed to get a third hoo-up with Shane, the uber-hot, early thirties former gymnast with maybe ten tattoos and maybe six percent body fat. The last time we hooked up was way back around the end of summer. His partner had pretty much kicked him out, and we fucked on the carpet in their nearly empty townhouse. I was sore for a couple of days afterwards, but it was clearly worth it.

Since then, he and his sometime partner had reconciled and then come apart permanently, and he'd been staying with friends in DC and working several jobs, trying to get back on his feet, even though he's clearly most comfortable on his back. I'd contacted him occasionally, but he'd always had to work, and one time he'd fallen asleep until after the last Metro train, but we talked on the phone, and he said, "Come on. You know how much I like being fucked by you." So I texted him on Sunday, saying, "Monday or Tuesday?" and he said that could work, but Monday didn't work, and last night almost didn't work, either. He's starting another job and had to wait around for a form to fill out, or something, and I thought maybe he was going to stand me up, so I sent an email to this twenty-three year old guy who'd been corresponding with me regularly since he'd responded to one of my craigslist ads. He'd never done anything with a man, but he was awfully curious, and earlier in the day he'd said that he'd be available in the evening. I'd told him that I had plans but that I'd let him know if they fell through.

Anyway, I emailed him my phone number, he called, and he came over and came. Twice. Mostly we made out and he went down on me, and I fingered him some and ate his ass some, and then we made out some more while I stroked him to two very quiet orgasms. He'd mentioned when he walked in the door that he was nervous, so I asked him periodically whether he was ok, and he always said, "Yeah" and nothing more. I mentioned later that he's very quiet, and he said, "Yeah, I am." But he was a great kisser (nice lips, good technique) and a natural at sucking cock, assuming that it really was his first time, and it probably was. I think he would have loved being fucked, but he only had about an hour, and I would have wanted more time to get him accustomed to the idea as well as to plow him, so I settled for stroking a couple of small loads out of him. His girlfriend is currently home from college, and he had to go to a party with her after we were done. I asked him whether they had lots of sex, and he said, "Yeah, we do." A bona fide bisexual, I reckon, and very sweet. He apologized for cumming on the sheets. It happens. I wonder whether I'll see him again. It would be interesting seeing his reaction to getting fucked the first time.


He left around 9, and I puttered around for nearly an hour before deciding to try Shane's phone again. He answered, saying he'd been just about to call me and that he was getting a ride to the Red Line. I told him to call me when he got to Wheaton, and I would pick him up at Glenmont. An hour passed, and he called to say he was at the Rhode Island Ave station. This was beginning to look inauspicious, at least in terms of getting started at a reasonable hour. Apparently the train stopped at a number of stations to wait for trains from other lines. Anyway, it was 11:30 or so when he called from Wheaton. I went to fetch him from the station, and before long, there he was, with the body of a jockey wrapped in many layers.

I was not particularly surprised when he wanted a cigarette as soon as we got back to my place. I let him smoke on the porch, then I grabbed him, and he said something about needing to shower and brush his teeth. I grabbed him more fervently and shepherded him upstairs where I found that both nipples and his cockhead are now pierced. Awesome. Well, actually, who cares about a cock piercing, but two pierced nipples? AWESOME. I did my best to get him undressed and in bed, but he was insistent about the shower, etc. (I had showered both before and after the twenty-three year old.) so I let him out of my grasp and dozed on the bed.

He took his time, but when he came back, he was more than ready. I know that what Shane loves above all else is to be fucked long and hard, but he was downright affectionate last night, so there was a little bit of what would have been considered cuddling if I hadn't been kissing him and tugging hard on his nipples at the same time. But we only made out for about fifteen minutes. He seemed hungry for my cock, and I, naturally, was hungry for his very fine ass. As I ate it, he told me that I needed to shove my cock up it, but I continued to eat it for a while, and he didn't complain. Still, it wasn't long before the usual paraphenalia made its way onto the bed and onto my cock and his ass, and he was sitting on top of me, riding.

Which reminds me how, the night before, I'd gotten an email in response to a craigslist ad from this guy who was in his early twenties and extremely cute, and he said he was going to hop on the Metro and come see me, even though he was in Bethesda, and I was pretty sure the last train had already run. Also, he didn't ask for my phone number or my address, and while I suppose he could have emailed me for them from his cell phone after arriving in Glenmont, I was pretty sure that he was either playing me or just deluding himself. So I accepted the proposition of someone else who wanted to come over and have me dominate and pound him, and that was a very good choice, indeed, since he was able to handle nipple work at about a six. And when we were done, and it was well after midnight, I checked my email again, and there was an email saying -- lo! and behold! -- that the Metro had been closed. I felt like sending that guy an email saying, "Dude. If you want to pretend that you're going to hook up with someone, at least make your story plausible. Ask for a phone number to call so that you don't have to pretend to be someone who's going to spend nearly an hour on the subway with no idea of your specific final destination. Also, choose an email address that's a little more subtle than ride.this.biotch@gmail.com.


But back to Tuesday, Shawn was riding me for a while, but I knew what he wanted was to be on his back with his ankles around his ear and my cock pounding his prostate so that he almost couldn't take it but would be damned if he'd ever give it up, so we did that. For a long time. For whatever reason, Shawn turns me into a fucking machine (admittedly not that much of a transformation) that just won't stop. We switched positions a few times and then took a break during which he queried me about whether I'd been having much sex lately. "I'm doing ok," I said, and he pretended to be hurt that I wasn't the first guy he'd plowed in my new home. "If you loved me, you'd wait for me." "Dude, even if I did love you, I wouldn't wait for you." He laughed. Then he asked whether he was at least the first guy in 2010 to be entertained in my bed, and I was thinking to myself, "Just please don't ask whether you're the first one tonight," and fortunately, he didn't.

I get this sort of reaction a lot, though, from bottoms. They apparently think that because I'm extremely passionate when I'm kissing and fucking them (also, apparently grabbing someone and kissing him when he comes in the door and before shaking his hand or whatever is seen as extremely dominant and sweeps some men right off their feet when all I'm going for is efficiency) that I haven't had sex in a while or don't have much sex. No, I just really get into what I do.

Shane said that he hadn't been fucked properly in a long time, but then he proceded to tell me about a straight friend of his who'd never done anything with a guy before and who was about to move back to Wisconsin, and the two of them had been hanging out and Shane got up to get something, and his friend pulled him back down roughly onto his lap where Shane felt a "raging hard-on. Then he pulled my jeans down and buried his face in my ass for like four minutes and then he fucked me. It was like a transcendental experience because he'd never done anything with a guy before. He was a little drunk."


That was something of a turn-on, not that I needed more, so I put him back on his back and rogered him for another few minutes before turning him onto his stomach, lying on top of him, and plowing him until I came, which only took about another fifteen. That boy is one hot fuck. Then he pulled out his camera and showed me a video of a guy who visits regularly from Atlanta fucking him. That didn't get me so worked up, but it may just have been the exhaustion of cumming hard at a late hour after more than a half-hour of hard pounding.

We cuddled up for a while, then he went down on me and got me hard again, and I fucked him a little bit more from a spooning position, but it was after 2 and we were both tired, so we fell asleep, entertwined.

I messed with him a little bit more during the night, but he was hard to wake up, even when I rubbed my cock against his ass, so I went back to sleep until about 8, when I got up, showered, and called the office to say I'd be in late. Shane was still dead to the world, so I lubed up, rolled him onto his stomach, and entered him from behind. He groaned, but I knew he liked it, and I was really, really hard, so I just started to plow him, nothing fancy. We'd been at it for nearly fifteen minutes when he called a break. I rolled off him, kissed him a bit, got him all the way on his back, pushed his knees up, and started in again on his prostate, and he took it pretty well for another five minutes, but then he said he couldn't take it any more. So I rolled off him, figuring I'd had more than my share, but he insisted that I cum. It took me a while, and after the night before, I didn't have all that much cum left, but the couple of shots I did have flew all the way to my shoulder.

I jumped in the shower again. We chatted for a while as we got dressed, and I drove him to the subway. He said that he's moving back to Maryland and that he promises it won't be another six months before we fuck again. We'll see, but I'm going to have to make sure the next time is on a weekend because I'm pretty wasted today.

Misc

I've been having lots of sex lately, at least on days when neither of the kids is home, and it's become impossible to chronicle it all, or at least, if I took the time necessary to write entries for every time I fuck, it would cut into the actual fucking time, and we simply cannot have that, can we? (Hint: the answer is NO.)

Besides, I've begun to get a little bored with reporting the same old sexual activities over and over. I don't ever get bored with the sex, of course, but sex is part of my practice, my meditation, my approach to the ineffable, so at some point writing about the details -- as fun as they were, and they were -- becomes like talking about chanting sessions, or something similar. "I walked the labyrinth again; it seemed unusually twisty today."

But I don't want to give up the pornographic non-fiction altogether, and I do need to be keeping notes. This past weekend, I narrowly averted hooking up a second time with a guy who I really don't want to hook up with again, and I only avoided it by memory. I should have been able to avoid it by referring to some sort of record, other than gmail. I have to come up with something, but is a puzzlement.




Among my hook-ups this weekend was a guy with the largest nutsack I have ever encountered. It was the size of a grapefruit, and it was beneath a rather small cock, which made it all the more impressive. It was shaped a lot like a grapefruit, too, as if there were only one supermassive nut inside. I asked the guy whether the nuts (I'm assuming there were, indeed, two) had always been like that, and he said they had.

This guy was otherwise rather uninteresting, and though he wanted to be fucked, he said, it seemed like the best option was just to get him off as quickly as possible and send him on his way. So we made out some, and I worked his nipples gently but intently, which got him leaking all sorts of precum, and I stroked him off until he came, almost violently. He thanked me and said that he would sleep well. It was all very civilized.



I encountered no fewer than three pairs of button-fly jeans this weekend. I can't remember the last time I hooked up with a button-fly-jean-wearing guy, so that seemed odd to me. It may have been that I was feeling extra assertive this weekend and got so many of the guys on the bed before they had a chance to remove anything: other times, they sometimes take off their pants before they hit the bed. But I don't think that explains the situation entirely. Two of these guys were in their early forties and one was in his mid-fifties, and they were otherwise very different from each other in looks and manner, so I have no common factor to explain the sudden spike in 501s and/or 501 wannabes. (I didn't actually check brands; in most cases, I was working on the buttons with my hands while I was making out with the guys, so I didn't actually look at the flies.) Perhaps they're more common than I realized, or perhaps there's a resurgence.

It's not a big deal, but despite how much I like taking my time when undressing a man, I prefer zippers.




My favorite hook-up from the weekend was a shy, smooth Asian who had driven all the way from downtown DC in a VW Beetle. (I didn't notice the car until he was leaving.) He had all the hallmarks of repressed sexuality, most notably timidity, vocal enjoyment, and being easily overwhelmed by passion. He was so tight that I wasn't sure I'd be able to fuck him, but I slowly opened him up, and I took my time getting into him, and the transition from "too thick!" to "fuck me!" was gratifyingly smooth. When I had fucked him in several positions for as long as I wanted, he still needed me to cum so that he could cum, and I finished myself off by hand as we kissed. I shot all the way to his shoulder, and he came very shortly thereafter.

I'm pretty sure, from how much he closed up after he came, that I'll never see him again, and that's a damned shame. He had the most amazing pair of full, soft lips, and he knew how to use them. Oh well: next!