Dinner Conversation

The scene: a dimly lit table in a Gotham speakeasy a booth in the suburban restaurant where they know us, last night, around 10:30.

B&c: How's work?

Teddy: I haven't killed anyone yet.

B&c: So, better than last year?

T: I said "yet." How's your fish?

B&c: Good.

T: You know that guy who's always out walking?

B&c: Who?

T: You know, the one that you'll see walking on Georgia Avenue all the way up past Aspen Hill and then again down on Connecticut in Kensington?

B&c: Oh, the really fit guy with the giant ponytail?

T: It's not a ponytail. It's a monolithic dreadlock. Or it was, anyway.

B&c: What do you mean "was"?

T: Dude cut his hair. The dread is gone, now it's just blond, curly, and not quite to his shoulders. He looks hot!

B&c: Is he still wearing the bright...

T: Yeah, hot pink shorts and an orange t-shirt. They go really well with that borderline insane aesthetic he's working.

B&c: You want him, don't you?

T: Well, sure, he stirs my loins, but how would I go about meeting him? Besides, it's bad karma to fuck crazy men.

B&c: How do you know he's even a bottom?

T: Dude. Don't bring around a cloud to rain on my parade.

B&c: Ok. So why is it bad karma?

T: It just is. Besides, if you fuck a crazy man, he's likely to attach himself to you, and then you can't get rid of him. Which is a problem, because he's crazy.

B&c: Poor Teddy. Always attracted to what you're afraid to have.

T: Yeah, yeah, my tragic life. Seriously, though, there's this really hot Tourette's case who hangs out in the Starbucks on the ground floor of my office building. He's there every day when I go in to get my mocha.

B&c: You mean your venti decaf skim no-whip mocha?

T: Bitch.

B&c: Thank you. It's a gift.

T: Anyway, he's there every afternoon, sitting at a table, reading the paper, listening to music with headphones and making his Tourette's noises.

B&c: And this is attractive because...

T: Because he looks like he's in his mid-thirties, but with gray streaks in his hair, which is very thick and moderately long, but always impeccably clean. Also, he's very fit, and fairly handsome, and you just know that if you fucked him, it'd be really loud. Plus, he twitches uncontrollably from time to time, and how hot would that be.

B&c: I thought guys already did that when you fucked them.

T: Good point. This guy would be hotter, though. I have this whole fantasy where some bleached-blonde Bethesda bimbo comes in and starts complaining about this guy, and I tell her off, and he's very grateful to me for rescuing him from the intolerance of others.

B&c: A mocha-wielding knight in shining armor. That's you, in a nutshell. Well, I suppose it could happen.

T: Nah. Nobody even bats an eye when he makes the noises or twitches. He's like a fixture there. If he's not there, it's like they've run out of Splenda.

B&c: Hmmm. Speaking of fixtures, Jerry asked me for advice about how to get rid of Van today.

T: He's tired of playing with him?

B&c: Well, you know how he is.

T: I've never had the pleasure, but as soon as he's ready to embrace his inner bottom...

B&c: I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you. He's, well, stubborn.

T: So what's the problem for Jerry?

B&c: I don't think it's a sexual problem. Van just always wants to talk about the same things and isn't all that interested in what other people want.

T: Like I said, embrace his inner bottom.

B&c: Oh give it up.

T: No, see, I want him to give it up.

B&c: You know what I mean.

T: But he's so cute.

B&c: Yeah, but he's a pain in the ass.

T: [meaningful stare]

B&c: Don't even say it.

T: I wasn't going to. It was too easy, even for me. Anyway, Miss Manners says that if you want to get rid of someone, the best way to go is the passive aggressive approach. Just refuse their invitations until they stop asking.

B&c: Yeah, I told Jerry to just stop taking his calls.

T: I've always thought that a short e-mail saying that you're not interested was the better approach, but I reckon you end up in the same place.

B&c: Anyway, I told Jerry that I knew someone else who's interested in him.

T: Oh? Who?

B&c: Ben, my Ph.D. buddy from Zaire.

T: The priest?

B&c: No, the other one. But I don't think Jerry's interested.

T: Really? Does he have a fear of big wood?

B&c: No. I think he just doesn't like black men.

T: Oh well: more for us.

Briefs

Ah yes, readers, another misleading title. No underwear here. You can discuss among yourselves whether I mean that this post will not be about underwear or that no one's wearing any. I do love it when men go commando, though. Any time I'm going to be tying a guy to my bed, I tell him to arrive wearing jeans without underwear. If you drop those halfway down his ass and give him a few whacks with the belt... good times.

I am up to the tips of my ears in work right now, and that's where I'll remain for almost another month. Being at work at 8:30 on a Friday is bad enough, but knowing I'll be here for two more hours is worse. Adding further insult to injury is the fact that I just got an email telling me that the fulfillment house I just ordered some vintage porn from don't have it in stock and will have to order it from the distributor. They say six weeks. Egad. Fortunately, it was not the only porn I ordered this week. Or even the only porn I ordered yesterday. I have some hot French porn on order, thanks to a recommendation from Atari. With any luck, I should have spent my entire income tax refund on porn by the time busy season is over. (I have a way to go, though. Big refund this year.)

The back-ordered titles were two Danny Sommers flicks from the 90s. They would have originally been on something called videotape (for my younger readers), but they have now been transferred to DVD.

I was actually looking for a different title, which I believe also starred Danny Sommers. It was one of the first gay porn videos I ever owned, and it holds a very special place in my heart because I got it when I was first separated, back in the days when walking into the back of the video liquidator and going to the gay section was still something that frightened me. I think that this film was directed either by Jim Steele or by Chi Chi Larue, and it was about a married high school teacher who falls in love with a closeted military officer (Danny Sommers, I think). There was actually a plot, though it was mostly just a lot of hot sex, and the actors, well, they sucked, in all meanings of the word.

The film was something of an indictment of the Clinton Administration's DADT policy, though, again, mostly it was just a lot of hot sex. At the time I found it very touching, and I touched myself a lot while watching it.

Anyway, I hope to track this movie down soon. I am somewhat stymied when searching for porn titles at work by my office's content filters. Amazingly, though, the content filters don't keep me from getting onto gay.com and (when I have time) finding someone to hook up with. They are decidedly quirky. I cannot, for instance, go to joe.my.god or the malcontent (no great loss on that last one, really), but I can go here. Which I do. Daily.

Anyway, I will eventually be the proud possessor of two movies starring Danny Sommers, who, I am told, was the most popular porn bottom of the early nineteen nineties. I can certainly belive it.

He plays a gymnast in training in one of the films. How am I going to wait six weeks for that?

Zzzzzzz

One of the things that I like best about the times when b&c is out of town (aside from the unrestricted opportunity to chase men, of course) is falling asleep with the DVD player on. It's a throwback to my single days, when I did that all the time.

I used to have a lot of sleep issues. Some of these have to do with light: I have a terrible time staying asleep if there's any daylight in the room, and I go to considerable lengths to block it out. I don't give a flying fuck about how my window treatments (yes, "window treatments" is the appropriate term for several layers of heavy fabric thrown over a curtain rod and another heavy layer of fabric covering all that and tacked to the wall) look from either inside or outside of the bedroom, but if I wake up early on a Saturday morning because of the sun, I am one pissed-off motherfucker.

Mostly though, the sleep issues stemmed from NMS, or noisy mind syndrome. I think the way the medical literature describes NMS is "the inability to tell your brain to STFU," though it is possible that I'm paraphrasing. In any event, back in the day, if I tried to lay me down to sleep, I often couldn't because I would start thinking about stuff. I will spare you most of the details of my inner monologue, but I will say that at least these days I'm thinking mostly about sex. In those days, I was often thinking about Victorian literature and/or whether I still knew how to derive the quadratic equation. It turns out that with NMS, it is not enough to have derived the quadratic equation earlier that afternoon. You still have to get up and complete the square again that night/morning.

Anyway. While daylight and most other light from the outside made it impossible for me to sleep, the comforting flicker and glow from the TV wasn't a problem, and the images and sounds distracted me sufficiently so that I could fall asleep without running to the Internet to check whether the fundamental theorem of calculus had changed in the last forty-five minutes. Oh, shut up. It could happen. Did you ever think Pluto would suddenly stop being a planet?

I'd always pick a familiar movie. If I didn't know what was coming, I'd be too interested to go to sleep. And then I'd usually drop off within a few minutes of beginning to watch it. I'd often wake up again when it was over, especially if the DVD menu had annoying music on a loop, but by then I was usually tired enough that if I groped for the remote and hit off, I'd be able to fall right back to sleep.

(By the way, I hear that a lot of people who have trouble sleeping use masturbation as a sleep aid. I don't get that. Jerking off gets me all worked up and alert. It's a great way to start the day, when I have time, but soporific? Not so much. Though I will say that one of the great pleasures of tax season is that I'm so tired that I can crank out a load and still fall to sleep. Score. Generally, though, if you need to sleep, you're much better off with sex with a real boy. It's easy to drift off when you've got somebody warm to hold onto. Especially if you've just fucked a load out of him.)

I mention all of this primarily because within the past few days, I've watched two movies that are excellent to fall asleep to. Sadly, I didn't purchase them with that in mind, but lemons, lemonade, whatever, right? The first was Gone But Not Forgotten, an American film about amnesia and park rangers. You must be thinking that a gay film about those topics cannot help but be hot, but in this, reader, you are mistaken. The movie is predictable, somewhat amateurish, and depressingly void of down-and-dirty. There is one semi-explicit sex scene, which -- don't let the cover fool you -- does not take place out of doors. If you're planning to jerk off to this scene, you won't want to dawdle: it doesn't last all that long. I will say that both of the male leads (hot guys in their thirties) are men that I'd happily fuck. Preferably both at the same time. The movie does have a certain sweetness to it, but it's the kind of sweetness you get when you absent mindedly put too much Splenda in your latte. Not that it's ever happened to me, of course. By the way, if you're looking for this movie, be aware that there is another movie of the same name. Presumably, that Gone But Not Forgotten doesn't have any gay sex at all, which, sadly, wouldn't distinguish it very much from the one I saw.

Comme un Frere is a French film that clocks in at just under an hour, a time that is entirely appropriate since it's pretty much an unrated After School Special. Almost everything about this movie -- beginning but not, alas, ending with the main character's ass -- is depressingly shallow. At the end of this movie, if you're still awake, you're likely to find yourself saying, "so what?" or, if you're culturally aware, "et alors?"

Most stories of young gay love deal with situations that are vastly removed from my own experience; nonetheless, most of them are very compelling. How hard is it for a story about a young man experiencing his first love and/or sex with another young man to be compelling? Harder than I thought, apparently. The biggest problem here is that the main character is unattractive. Not physically unattractive, emotionally unattractive. He's very detached: at every moment, you are half expecting him to say "Aujourd'hui, Maman est morte. Ou peut-etre hier, je ne sais pas." And because of this distance, all of the sexual energy between him and various other men (any one of whom I would happily eat with a spoon) falls flat. The situation is not helped any by the fact that he's very inexperienced, so he's (appropriately) bumbling in the sex scenes. There are, at least, a few of those, and in most of them, he ends up being fucked by someone with a very nice ass, so you can imagine that the hottie is the meat in your sandwich. Or you can just lust after his straight best friend, if you're into that sort of thing. I'm not, but the guy in question is very cute, and you can probably interpret the film to be saying that his sexuality is at least slightly ambiguous, so go for it.

My So-Called Stalker

I don't mean to make light of stalking: I'm sure that some of you (because I know that some of my readers are young and cute, and, of course, you're ALL fabulous) have probably had real stalkers who've caused you real problems. All I've got is some weird-o Texan who calls me every day, forcing me to open my desk drawer and press "Silence" on my cell phone. I know that doesn't sound like much, but it's an ancient cell phone (three years old, I reckon), and the battery runs down pretty quickly, so, um, yeah, so it's not really much of a problem, is it?

The whole incident started innocently enough. B&c was out of town somewhere (NYC, maybe, or Denver, I can't really remember) and I'd already jerked off a couple of times that morning, so I wanted something a little more than that, but I wasn't really in the mood to deal with a full-blown (so to speak) hook up, so I hopped on ye olde gay.com and looked for some phone sex.

I'm aware that phone sex isn't for everyone, but I have a long history with it. Back in the days when I was still married (though no longer having sex with my wife) it was how I made my first tentative forays into the world of m2m eroticism. And before I ever met the first man I fell in love with (I really must start calling him TFMIFILW, except that I don't have all that much more to say about him) in person, he and I would spend a lot of time on the phone, and during some of that time, we'd both be naked and, eventually, covered in cum. Or, at least, I was generally naked. Unbeknownst to me, TFMIFILW was still living with his wife, so he'd sometimes call me on his cell from his car. He'd cum in his jeans, while still driving. That was awesome.

Over time, I acquired and developed other outlets for sexual expression, and phone sex became a rare experience. But every once in a while it seems like the path of least resistance, and I'll talk to a few guys on the phone. It usually takes a few because with a lot of guys I only have to talk about shoving them up against the wall and kissing them hard and forcing them down on their knees, and they've shot before I've even shoved my virtual cock in their virtual mouth and then the line goes dead and because it's a cell phone, I don't even know right away that they've hung up, and I feel silly for a moment, but then I go back to the computer, and there are a couple more guys wanting me to call them and tell them that I'm going to leave their nipples sore for a week. (This, of course, is a total exaggeration, because even when I chew hard on a guy's nipples for an extended period of time, he's usually right as rain in three or four days. Five days, tops.)

So anyway, I chat for a bit with this guy from Austin, and he calls, and he's pretty good. He's no pushover, and he talks a good game about wanting to top me before I flip him and eat his ass and then pound him long and hard until we both come at the exact same time. I mean, none of that actually happens, of course. What really happens is that we both lie on our beds and jerk off while I provide a compelling narrative and he plays along, and then the porn that I'm watching on mute gets to a really hot part, and I shoot a nice big load while keeping my voice relatively level so that I can pretend to be cumming when I hear that he's either cumming or pretending to be cumming. But still, it's a lot of fun, and I end up covered with cum, and when he says that he wants to do it again, I tell him to look for me online, and we'll play some more. But he means he wants to do it again right then, and he starts asking me a lot of questions about guys I've fucked and about my partner and all that, and it's kind of hot because he has this delicious Texas redneckish accent that I just love. (I love all accents, but I especially love whatever accent I'm hearing at the moment the twangy ones.) So I give him some more of my time and I pump out another load, and I tell him he can email me if he wants to keep in touch, and then I get up and take a shower and go do some errands. (It was long enough ago that I had time to do errands, so that means January, which probably means that b&c was in NYC, not that it matters.)

So the next day, I'm at the office, and my phone rings with a number that I don't recognize, and I pick it up and say hello, and it's AustinBoy, and he wants to play. I tell him it's not a good time and say I can call him back after 5, but he says he'll call me. Then, when I'm in the car, on the way to pick up the kids, the phone rings, and it says "Private Number," and I pick it up, and it's AB again, and now he REALLY wants to play. I'm driving, and I've never been very good at having sex while I'm driving, but I figure I can put the conversation on auto-pilot and he can have a good time. So we talk about baseball and the weather erections for a while, and he keeps trying to say that he wants me to sit on his erection, and I keep telling him that I'd flip him over and make him squeal like a stuffed pig (one that's still alive, presumably; God knows where I come up with these similes, but it seemed appropriate at the time, and AB didn't complain) and so on and so forth.

As it happens, phone sex is the only area where I'm semi-versatile. And by "semi-versatile," I mean that every once in a great while, I'll pretend to be the bottom, which, as it happens, is relatively enjoyable for me if I'm pretending so that I don't actually have to fit a cock up my ass. I don't do it often, though, because it's mostly enjoyable as a novelty. Besides, if I'm phone bottoming, I end up screaming a lot (it's easier than making up descriptions of how good it feels), and it's bad for my voice.

But I had no interest whatsoever in phone versatility with AB, so I got him off as quickly as possible and then I hung up and went home and had some real sex.

That was the last time I said more than three words to AB, but it was certainly not the last time he called me. Lately, it's only been once or twice a day, but for the first few weeks, he was calling (and I was not answering) multiple times a day. People would hear the phone ring and ask me why I wasn't answering, and I'd either say "Oh, it's just my stalker" (if it was b&c asking) or I'd explain that I don't answer when the phone says "private number." "But what if it's important?" Well, they'd leave a message, wouldn't they? AB has left precisely two messages. The first one was about a month after the last time we talked, and it just said that he wanted to play again. The second one was about a week after that, and he said, "Hey. It looks like I'm pregnant. We need to figure out what we're going to do about that." At least he has a sense of humor.

In general, I don't believe that you have no obligation of politeness to someone you've tricked with. If the guy emails you and says he wants you to fuck him again, it's kinder and easier (in the long run) to email him back and say that you aren't interested. But someone you've talked with on the phone twice and gotten off three times really shouldn't expect some sort of continuing relationship. I mean, I know I'm amazing on the phone, but come on. Am I the only rich-voiced, articulate, incredibly sexy bass top out there? And even if I am, wouldn't six or more weeks of my not answering your calls make you stop trying? Or at least try something different? AB has my email address, after all. (But not my real name, home phone, or physical address, thank God. Then it might not be funny.)

Maybe it would be easier if I'd just pick up the phone once and say, "Dude. What the fuck? Stop calling me," but he almost always calls when I'm at work (partly because I'm almost always at work, but he tends to call around the same time every day, and I suspect that's when he's on the way home from his job to his wife and/or partner and/or dungeon full of phone sex operators) or when someone else is around, and I just don't feel like dealing with it. Besides, he really does know how to work the twang, and if I talk to him, I might end up giving him what he wants, and then I'd have to change my phone number to get rid of him.

Or continue to have phone sex with him on a regular basis. And that way lies madness. Before you know it, he'd want a phone-commitment, and I wouldn't be able to phone-fuck other men. Then he'd want us to be phone-partners, or, worse, phone-married. And while I certainly support equal phone-marriage rights for all people, I just don't know the etiquette. I presume that you send out an evite, but where do you register?

Modern life, eh?

Papa Was a Porn Writer

I was checking my stats the other day. This is a new blog, and while I get the occasional comment (yay!), I wonder whether anyone's wasting his precious time reading my prattle. Anyway, I noticed a number of visitors who were coming here from Cooper, so I surfed over to his site (which I do twice a day, anyway, to see whether he's updated and to drool over appreciate his pictures: shaved heads, yum), and I saw that he'd put up a link to me. In his pornography links. My initial thought (where "initial" means following close upon "Mmmmm, Cooper"; "Hey, you can post links to other blogs! I should post links to other blogs. I read blogs. How do I post links? What the hell is a sidebar, anyway? Ooooh, shiny objects. What was I thinking about?"; and "Mmmmmm, Cooper") was "Holy Falcon Studios, Batman! After all these years, I am finally NSFW! Go me!"

[By the way, I'm afraid there's not going to be a lot of writing about actual sex in this entry. I spent most of the weekend (the part that didn't involve me working or having friends over for dinner, that is) in a sleep-deprived haze after I was kept up all Saturday night by an intense but short-lived illness of mysterious origin, the further details of which are the opposite of sexy. Long story short(er): my already tenuous relationship with sticking to the point is undergoing a (hopefully temporary) separation. In case you're wondering, while I was unable to sleep Saturday night, I watched the John Cameron Mitchell DVDs that I ordered last week. They were great and helped distract me, but it does seem a shame to watch Shortbus when you're in too much pain to jerk off. So I watched it again Sunday, and jerked off.]

For a brief, shining moment perhaps eight or ten years ago, I was a real, honest-to-God pornographer. I had a story published in Torso. It was about having sex in the laundry room of an apartment building. It was called "Spin Cycle," and my nom de plume was Dakota North. I still think that "Dakota North" was the best name ever made up to write porn under, and part of me wishes that I'd been more persistent in following up my, um, maiden effort. I did get a letter from Guys (I think I have that right, but I'm not 100% sure) saying they were going to buy a different story, but I never saw it in print, and I certainly never got a check for it, so I think that they changed their mind.

I got such a trifling sum ($100) for "Spin Cycle," that I just didn't see the point in writing more, especially after my third effort got its first rejection. The editor said that it "failed to convince" (though, really, I suspect that maybe he'd just had one too many to drink before attempting to jack off to it). It's likely that if I'd been a bit more savvy about the business, I could have gotten more money for my work. I subsequently hooked up with a part-time pornographer (his other job was writing history textbooks) in the Baltimore suburbs, and he told me that if I'd had an agent, I'd have gotten a lot more. He said that he would write up our encounter (I suspect he would change the details. He shot his load after I'd been chewing on his nipples and yanking his nuts for less than ten minutes, and then he spent the rest of the time apologizing to me and offering me donuts. I declined: God only knows where those donuts had been.) and that he'd probably net about $800 for it. He told me that he wanted to play another time and that he'd give me some more info about agents and such, but then he never returned my calls. I don't know whether he was afraid that I'd want a cut of the money from his next article or he was just offended by my refusing his donuts. (It is important to me that you understand that when I say I refused his donuts, I mean that he had actual, literal donuts [assorted varieties] in his apartment and that I declined to eat them. I am not talking about some weird anal sex scene that I declined. I am all about the euphemisms, but I am not using one just now.)

Anyway. Before my glorious porno career was cut short by the combined cheapness of publishers and fickleness of submissives, I spent a fair amount of time thinking about gay porn, in ways both general and specific. I purchased a number of relevant publications and analyzed the stories for form and content. It was apparent to me from the outset that with porn, you were dealing not with art but with product, and the best way to succeed commercially was to determine and follow the formula. Thus, I spent a lot of time counting words, paragraphs, and sex scenes to figure out how they worked. I developed a list of synonyms for various acts and pieces of male anatomy. It was tedious and mechanical in the same way that a lot of actual porn is tedious and mechanical. And, for that matter, in the same way that sex can be tedious and mechanical if you have the misfortune to be having it with someone who fucks by formula.

I have more to say on this topic, but it will have to wait for a time when I'm less fatigued and when I can say it in a way that doesn't bore myself. It really does please me to be called a pornographer, as long as I can remain anonymous. I don't think my kids would be especially pleased to find out. Though, now that I think about it, my older daughter (almost all of her male friends are gay) did once ask me whether I'd be willing to buy some porn for her underage gay friends who were too shy to get it for themselves. When I started shrieking "OH MY GOD YOU DID NOT JUST ASK ME THAT!!! TELL THEM TO GET IT OFF THE INTERNET LIKE EVERYONE ELSE," she just rolled her eyes and said, "Geez, Dad. You could have just said 'no'."

Fortunately, it's is a secret that's easily buried. Unlike arcane baseball statistics, pornography disappears after a few years. You can't find the particular Dakota North who was I by Googling. Somebody probably still has a copy in a basement somewhere, but the only solid evidence that he and I are the same person is probably buried within the mountain of documents that were filed during my divorce proceedings. From the distance of this many years, the memory of my ex-wife's attorney asking me about my second career during the deposition is mostly funny. He couldn't quite bring himself to use the word "pornography," so I had to say it for him.

Maybe I should buy him a subscription to Torso. And have it sent to his office.

Sleet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slicker

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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