Grrrr

Working 65 hours in six days is tough enough, but working 65 hours in five days is downright unpleasant, especially when we have tickets to something with a 7:00 curtain tomorrow night. Next year I'm just going to have to lay down the law with b&c: find someone else to take to the symphony/opera/theater during tax season. At least tomorrow night's the symphony, so I can either take a nap or ogle the bass section. I swear, I'd do every one of the guys who play bass. Preferably all at once, but one at a time would work, too. One or two of the cellists are pretty hot, and you know that their legs have to spread pretty easily, but I suspect that they're a little bit bitchy. There are also a few hot brass players, and you have to figure their breath control is going to come in handy. What? Am I supposed to be concentrating on the music?

I can't even remember the last time I had sex (yeah, I do realize that I could just scroll down the page and read about it, smart ass). Yesterday morning, I was feeling like I hadn't been fulfilling my conjugal duties with b&c, but I really didn't have time to fuck him, so I just rolled over and started to play with his dick while he was still asleep, then when he woke up, I worked on his nipples pretty hard while he jerked himself off and then as soon as he came, I sprinted (literally) to the shower to try to get to work before 8. Pretty soon my cock's going to be all backed up, like a bottle of lotion gets when some of the lotion dries at the tip of the dispenser, and then you have to press down hard on it and a stream shoots out and misses your hand and gets all over your pants. Fortunately, it's a lot more fun when it's a stream of cum and I'm naked. And even more fun if I happen to be shooting in some guy's mouth, but I'm not sure I'll have time for that before the weekend.

The boy I messed with last Friday has been back in touch a couple more times, but I think he's purposefully being semi-coy so that I'll be in more of a mood to punish him if and when we finally hook up again. Bitch, please. I was raised Southern Baptist: I will find something to punish you for. If nothing else, I can whip your ass for impure thoughts, and I know you got those going on. But I've learned that you can't really speak plainly with a guy who wants to call you "Daddy." Besides, I want at least two hours with him the next time (I've already put my toolbox in the trunk of the car so that I'll have everything I need to treat him the way he wants to be treated; I also figured out how to silence the shutter sound that my new phone makes when it snaps a picture), and where the fuck am I going to find two hours? Maybe Saturday, if he's still in town.

Anyway, back to the salt mines. Tax season ends soon, and then after a short vacation together, b&c is off to Mexico City for a conference. I think I'll call in sick a couple of days and fuck some of the married men who hang out on squirt during the day. Something to look forward to.

500 Miles Is a Real Long Drive Inside a Car

I'm exaggerating, of course. It's really only 462 miles from Bethesda, MD to Yellow Springs, OH, and even with a lot of stops, it takes less than eight hours to make the trip. It's still a lot of driving, though, especially when you do it there on Saturday afternoon/evening and back on Monday afternoon/evening. The things I'll do to get a day off.

There were no sexual escapades on this trip. I had sent out some feelers and had arranged a meeting with a married guy who was very eager to bottom for the first time and who, in exchange, was going to provide my introduction to 420 (yes, yes, very sheltered life here: whatever), but it turns out that your rural Midwestern married man is every bit as unreliable as your suburban Eastern married man. I was fairly disappointed about the weed, though not so much about the sex: virgins are generally more trouble than they're worth. Playing with them is the sort of thing that you do because somebody has to do it, but the benefits from your actions generally accrue to other people.

The lack of sex (unless we're counting all that very fun masturbation) notwithstanding, it was a terrific weekend. I had the opportunity to experience boredom for the first time in recent memory, and, friends, it was sweet. I got to sleep a lot, and I got to spend some time in a very nice (and extremely hippy: I saw as much tie dye walking around the streets as you'll see on the racks of the Haight-Ashbury tourist shops) small town. I got to know the school where EFU might spend the next four years and to satisfy myself that it would be a great place for her (ultimately, though, it's her decision, so I absented myself from most of the parent activities: they seemed like a lot of unnecessary marketing to me).

Most of all, I got to spend a lot of time with my daughter. She spent Sunday night in the dorms, so she was up until 3 am and slept for about half of the drive back, but we still had the drive there, and we hiked to the yellow springs (they're really more of an orange), and we talked a lot. It was a good reminder that there are things that are more important to me than sex. Like my children and... Well, there's one thing more important to me than sex, anyway.

By the way, if you ever find yourself in Springfield, Ohio on a Sunday evening and decide that you're going to check out the bar scene, do yourself a favor and stay in your room and drink instead. It's a pretty good bet that if I walk into a bar and the bartender says "Hi, kid," it's not a happening place. On the other hand, both he and the other customer there were probably old enough to be my father, so you have to give him points for accuracy.

Who's Your Daddy?

You remember how I said, just a few posts back, that nobody calls me "Daddy" except my kids?

Well, it turns out that I lied. There are (at least until I can think of some more) three possible explanations:

a. My children have started calling me "Dad" as they get older, so "Daddy" is freed up for the use of hot younger men.

b. "Daddy" is actually a Norwegian term meaning "respected bearish man of immense sexual prowess, who is, in fact, no more than ten years older than I, and who could not be my biological father, but who could conceivably have adopted me, strictly for the purposes of getting around immigration barriers, and whom I want to take me in a way that is not at all pseudo-incestuous." It's pretty cold in Norway, and the language evolved during a time when people needed to conserve energy, so they pack a lot of meaning into single words.

c. The strength of my convictions is inversely proportional to one or more of the following: my fatigue level, the hotness of the "boy," how long it's been since I've had any outside action, and how far down his throat my cock is. The exact equation is fairly complex and is left as an exercise for the reader. Please show your work for partial credit.

Anyway, I was exceedingly tired and exceedingly horny yesterday, in part because on Thursday, I'd seen the following ad on craigslist (the Maryland section, obviously):

Young boy, horny looking for older - 24

I'm young, cute and horny; looking for an older daddy. I'm straight, but been with daddys before. I love to please, am submissive. Available in Bethesda until 6PM today. Can host. I am skinny, attractive and uncut. Love to roleplay, love a masc. daddy.

Normally, I wouldn't give such an ad a second look (unless there was a picture, in which case I'd ogle a bit) because, in general, I don't much go for twenty-four year olds, straight men, or role play. Furthermore, although I have achieved my forties, I think the phrase "older daddy" applies to someone at least ten years older than I. I don't really think of myself as older (You may laugh, but do so quietly: you don't destroy my delusions, and I won't destroy yours, ok? OF COURSE you're masculine. Really.) at all, but, hell, if the guy's twenty-four, then I'm older, right? And the guy did sound kind of hot, and, well, he wanted it pretty much right then, and horny, horny, horny.

So I emailed him. His ad hadn't been up long, but it was already after 4:30 (4:37 -- I went back and checked) when I emailed, so I knew that even if I was what he was looking for, getting done by 6 was going to be a stretch. And, in fact, he didn't reply right away, and when he did (4:57, so actually it was relatively fast), he suggested the weekend. I (5:19) said I was driving to Ohio on Saturday. He (7:06) suggested Friday, and sent a picture (it's the picture at the top of the post; I have edited it slightly; can you tell where?), and I said, oh hell yes.

It was clear from our exchange that I needed to be authoritative and dominant with this guy. Dominance to me is a lot like boning a chicken¹: removing the bones from a whole chicken is not the first (or second) thing I'd choose to do in the kitchen, but I can do it well and efficiently, I certainly don't mind doing it, and I'm very pleased with what I can do with the product. So I emailed him the next (i.e., yesterday) late morning and said I wanted to play and told him he needed to be able to follow directions, and the rest was just working out the time and location.

Since he had said he wanted roleplay, and since I wanted to avoid any situation like that one that joe.my.god wrote about in his "Worst Sex Ever" entry (sorry, it's blocked at work, so I can't link to it, but you know the one I'm talking about), I set him up with a relatively simple roleplay. I told him that I'd be getting home from work, and he'd be getting dried off from the shower, and he'd come and give Daddy a hug, and then things would get hot. He wrote me back to say that he might be a little bit late and that as a result he'd deserve a spanking, so I wrote back and said that I would just come a little later and that I almost always found that my boys (apparently I have boys; who knew?) had done something that required punishment, so he could be on time and have an opportunity to get nice and clean for Daddy. (Kink? Sure. Dirty, smelly, etc? No thank you!)

As it happened, I got lost on the way to his place. It's really not that far from my office, so getting lost required some effort. He'd said he didn't have any condoms or lube, and I had the latter but not the former in the car, so I had to stop on the way, and then I couldn't find the road I was supposed to be on. I don't ever go to that part of Bethesda. But I was so incredibly horned up that I actually pulled over, rolled down the passenger window, and asked² a passer by where the road was. She told me, and ten minutes later (I had managed to get spectacularly lost in a very short amount of time. Go me!) I was pulling up to his house.


So, let's get this out of the way. I generally don't think it's polite to post a picture that a guy's sent me over email, even after some, um, subtle editing, without explicit permission. And I wouldn't have posted this one if it had been the guy's actual picture. When I first saw him, I thought, well, maybe it's just his picture from the summer of 1998, but upon further reflection, I'm pretty sure that he just sent me a picture of what he considered to be a hot twenty-four year old.

As soon as I got to the address, I knew that twenty-four was unlikely. Single family homes in Bethesda are not cheap, so unless this guy was a very highly paid escort (unlikely since he never mentioned money³) or had inherited substantial wealth, he wasn't affording this place (not palatial by any means, but still nice, and still probably $800,000 right now) at twenty-four. (There was a "for sale by owner" sign in the front yard, with a website. I'm not linking to the website because that would be invasive, but if you're looking for some Bethesda real estate, email me, and I'll give you the URL. The asking price wasn't listed, though.)

Anyway, I knocked on the door, and he opened it, wearing only a towel. Not 24. Probably 34. Thinner and less built than in the picture. Somewhat hairier, and with decidedly smaller nipples and paler skin than in the picture. Also, as I soon discovered, a considerably larger cock, though the apparent smallness of the cock (which you may not be able to see, oops) in the picture could be due to the camera angle. He was both cute and hot, though, and given that I much prefer thirty-somethings to twenty-somethings, I was very pleased.

I stepped in, and he hugged me, as per the script, and I started to kiss him and removed the towel. Then I asked him if he'd been a good boy, and he said that he had. So I asked him if he'd done anything bad, and he hung his head and said yes. So I asked him what he'd done, and he said, "I touched myself."

Now look. I want you all to understand that I had a great time with this guy and that I am in no way complaining about his behavior. And, certainly, compared to the role play that joe.my.god had to endure, our session was terrific. But listen up, submissives: it is time to exercise a little creativity! "I touched myself"? Come on. Is there any submissive anywhere who doesn't default to that confession when he's asked whether he's been bad? I know that you've touched yourself, and, given time, I'll get around to asking that question explicitly, perhaps when I'm yanking your hands away from your cock and telling you not to touch yourself while you're blowing me because I said so and that's all the reason you need, boy. Just one time, before I'm really old, I would LOVE to have the following conversation with a submissive:

Have you been bad, boy?

Yes, sir.

And what did you do, boy?

I shot a man in Reno, sir.

Why, boy?

Just to watch him die, sir.

Also, for future reference, if you want a real pounding, you could do a lot worse than putting Live from Folsom Prison in your CD player. I'm just saying.

Anyway, since he'd been touching himself, I had to spank him. I will spare you the inane Daddy-Son dialogue. You can imagine it for yourself. As it happens, as much as I love words, I am not particularly verbal during sex. If you're doing the dom-sub thing, though, you have to be verbal, so I put the dialog on auto-pilot. The subs never seem to mind, and it doesn't alter my enjoyment.

I put him on his knees and bent him over the bed. I looked around for his belt, but I didn't see it, so I pulled off my belt and administered the spankings (with requisite inane commentary). That got him really hard, and he was rubbing his cock against the bed. So I spanked him some more, and he started to moan. Then I pulled him up and told him that when he needed to be touched, he needed to come to me. Then I unbuttoned my jeans, and told him that I'd had a tough day and that he needed to make me feel better. He pulled down my jeans and briefs and started to suck my cock.

After a bit of that, I pushed him onto the bed, and we snogged for a while (nice lips, nice technique, no real hunger, but pretty good overall), then I put him back on my cock and started to play with his ass. He was very hairy from the waist down, which I find particularly hot on a slender man, and I ate his ass for a bit while he went down on me.

After a few minutes, I felt the intensity lessening, so I blindfolded him with his towel, and that made him more alert. Then I pulled his hands behind his back and wrapped my belt around them several times, and that made him really hard. Then I pushed him down on the bed and spread his cheeks with my hand and ate him more thoroughly. Lots of moaning from him.

I was on a tight schedule since b&c and I had tickets to a play later in the evening, so I had to move things along more quickly than I would have liked. I'd have eaten his ass for a half hour, but I couldn't, so I lay on top of him and sucked on his ears while I pushed my cock up near his asshole and simulated fucking him. Then I went for the lube and worked a finger and then two into his ass. I gloved up while he was still blindfolded and bound and tried to fuck him.

Some day I'll learn. Two fingers just wasn't enough. I really needed to go for the third finger and possibly the fourth before trying to stick my cock into him because he just couldn't take the girth. And, believe me, I tried and he tried, and we both wanted it. I got maybe two inches into him once, but no further. While he was bound, I tried with him on his stomach, then with him with his legs spread wider, then with him on his side. Then I pulled the rubber off and unbound him and told him to suck me some more, and I played with his ass a little more.

I told him to put another rubber on me, and he did, and I told him to sit on my cock, and he did, but, again, he couldn't get me all the way in. He tried facing me, and he tried facing the other way. No dice. Then I put him on his back and pushed his legs up and started to shove in. And, I'm sure that I could have shoved in, but, well, you know, that's just mean. He's gotta open up and accept it. After a while, I said, "You're not going to be able to take this, are you?" and he said no. Oh well. It is a thick cock, and he is a thin guy, and it was a tight hole, and there were alternatives.

So I told him to suck me off, and he did that like a champ. He had me really close for a long while, and I was loving it, but I was starting to worry about the time, and he wasn't quite pulling the trigger, so eventually I told him to back off for a minute, and I wanked a bit and then told him to finish me off. He grabbed and stroked, and tongued the side of my cockhead, and the first shot out of me flew past my shoulder. I'd expected him to swallow, but he clearly wasn't into that because shortly after I came, he ran to the bathroom to rinse his mouth out. I asked him if he wanted to jerk off with my cum (he had a really big foreskin; I'd wanted to hold it closed while he came so that the cum would make it balloon up), but he was pretty clearly done. He went instantly from being completely into it to not being able to look at me.

But I guess that's a part of straight boy submission, right? Oh, the shame, the shame! It's pointless, but it's not something you can worry that much about when you've just had a really intense ejaculation. I was totally relaxed and feeling great, so I went to the bathroom and rinsed off. I looked in the mirror, and I thought, "Damn, Teddy, you need to get some sleep." I did look pretty old right then, and I thought I finally understood what "rode hard and put away wet" really looks like. It doesn't look good, but fuck it: at the end of March, I'm supposed to look like I've been through hell. At least I felt good, and I'll look a lot better in a month.

We both got dressed, but he still wasn't looking at me. He'd put on some moss-colored cords, and I wondered whether he was trying to look like a graduate student, but I think that he's some sort of IT nerd (which I love, by the way), and that's just how he dresses.

I got a "Thank you, Daddy" email this morning, so I think there's a pretty good chance that I was sufficiently dominant and that at some point soon his hunger will again overcome his shame. If there's another session, I'm going to make sure that I have more than an hour to play, and I'm going to bring my toys, and I'm going to get all the way into that ass.

The play (The Pillowman) last night was pretty good, and I managed to stay awake through both acts. My mood is much better today, and that's hardly a surprise. I'm still exhausted, but whatever.

There probably won't be much Internet access over the weekend, so there probably won't be any more entries for a few days, but I'll be back. Also, at some point, I promise to edit more and ramble less, but, don't hold your breath on that one, ok?


¹For the love of God, please appreciate the utter brilliance of this simile and how well it works on multiple levels. Also, I'm not lying or bragging here: I really can remove all the bones from a chicken and leave it in one piece.

²This is how you know that I'm really masculine. It takes the threat of losing a fine piece of ass to make me ask for directions. To avoid this situation, I'd gotten directions from Google maps, but then I hadn't followed them, because I'm just that butch.

³In case you're wondering, no, I have never hired an escort. Not that there's anything wrong with that: I intend to start when I'm in my fifties.

Because, really, what's sexier than desperation?

Submitted for your approval, readers. Three ads, all from today's Northern Virginia¹ section of the Washington "Men Seeking Men" ads on Craigslist. Take a gander at (in reverse chronological order):

first Looking 4 Right Now-Bi-MWM lookin 4 youngerBi/Str8t FuckBud to Host - 42

42 -5'11", 170, Brn eyes, Brn hair, smooth, shaved balls and asshole. Lookin for a bud to slide some meat in my hole, and if they want some in yours all the better. I'm arried so u have to host. Hit me back, and let's get our nut off together


second Hot Bi-MWM for YOUNGER Bi-Str8t Dude to nail me/get nailed UHost NOW! - 42

Seeks bud, younger to hump and grind,rim, maybe try stuffing some meat in my tight ass. Me, W/M, 5'11", 170,32 waist, Brn Buzzcut/Brn Eyes, smooth. Prefer other str8t curious/Bi dudes,and am more than willing to stick some meat in a cute ass as well. General guy sex/fun. YOU MUST HOST. FREE NOW. PIC GETS FAST RESPONSE>

[Hey, does that look a little bit familiar to you? Hmmm.]

third Bi- Married Seeking Younger Str8/Bi F@*!! Bud For Fri. after 7am - 42

Married, goodlookin dude looking for younger brother type to put some dick in me for the first time. Reply to pics, and U MUST HOST. Me W/M 5'11" 170, 32 waist,short brown hair and eyes, ht/wt proportionate. New at this so don't ask me what I'm into. I've always banged women. I just want to fulfill my fanasy of taking thick meat up my ass from another dude. Willing to stick in a nice ass as well. Want a dude in Rte 1, Huntington, Hybla Valley, Kingstowne area. for mutual convenience.

[You know, I just can't help thinking I've seen you before. Were you a post-doc when I was an undergrad?]

I don't normally consider it my job (let alone a public service) to fisk CL ads, but I'm going to make an exception. Maybe my comments will help closeted married guys everywhere get laid a little easier.

Let's begin with the big picture (and I don't mean that one of his torso in the third ad): posting three CL ads in 8 hours is lame. I realize that your average CL reader has the attention span (and the intelligence, if some of the replies I've gotten are any indication) of a fruit fly, but even so, some people are going to notice that you've posted multiple ads. Especially when they're all on the same page. Maybe in NYC or San Francisco, the ads scurry down the page like cockroaches when the light goes on, but in NoVA, on a weekday, you can count on your ad showing up for a whole day. When someone sees three ads, they don't think, "Oh, wow, he's gotten so much action that he's lost his memory. I'm gonna answer the ad right now because amnesiacs are hot. Who didn't want to bang that guy in Memento?" No, they think, "Oh, the first two ads didn't work out, eh? Quelle surprise."You can sort of see how the ad changes over time, can't you? He's figuring that he just has to tweak a few things so that his marketing strategy will bear fruit (so to speak) and the invitations will pour in.

Now on to some of the details. I list below a few of the claims from one or more of these ads. I believe that each of these claims is to some extent at odds with either common sense or the available evidence:

1. 42 yo
2. 170 #
3. 32 waist
4. ht/wt proportionate
5. first time

Before I go on, I wish to make painfully clear the fact that I am not making fun of this guy for what he is. I have had delicious moments with men who were older, larger, or older and larger than this guy. I'm making fun of this guy for claiming to be what he's not. If you don't like who you are, then change it. If you like who you are, or it's something you can't change, then own it. Or, you know, remain silent about it. Just don't lie, and especially don't lie when you're providing contradictory photographic evidence.

Now, back to his claims. I'm providing my responses below, in no particular order. Today's Fun Pages game is to match my reply with the claim. You can draw connecting lines on the screen if you like. The answers will appear, upside down, elsewhere on the page².

A. Little known fact about mathematics: you can take any two numbers and make a ratio out of them.
B. Right, because all m2m virgins shave their assholes.
C. Maybe in 2002.
D. Maybe in 1997.
E. So it's true that they make male girdles.

Married dudes: it's just not that hard, ok? You want to get fucked, and we want to fuck you. We don't care that you can't host. We know that we'll never hear from you again and that you won't be dramatic or clingy, and we like that. But be straight (ahem) with us, and be realistic. If there's some smoking twenty-five year old straight boy out there looking to plow a furrow for the first time, he can do better than you. And, really, that guy isn't out there. If you're looking for someone to bump your uglies, your best bet is someone who likes having sex with men and, more importantly, knows what he's doing. Think about how eminently sensible that last sentence was, and I'm sure you'll see the error of your ways. Or, hell, keep doing what you're doing, and perhaps after forty-five additional ads, you'll find some really horny straight guy who won't understand the concept of lube and will invite you over and then kick you out while you're still to sore to walk, that is if he doesn't suddenly realize that he's just fucked a man for the first time and go postal on you.

Because, you know, no jury who's read your ad would convict him.

¹Ok, look, y'all. I realize this is a bitchy post, and normally I hate bitchy, but I'm in a mood, ok? I also don't normally cruise the NoVA ads, but I was salivating over the naked pics of the hotties perusing the Maryland ads, and I came across a couple that made me laugh, so I thought that I'd look for some really bad ones, and if you're looking for utter tools in the DC area, you look to NoVA. I love Virginia. Really. I was born in Richmond. But I would never, ever live there again. Not because of the abysmal traffic, but because they hate the gays there. Also, this set of ads was not (necessarily) the worst example there: it was just the first ad on the page when I surfed on over.

²Does anyone know the html code that would allow me to write "Made you look" upside down?

Road Trip!

Somebody who I don't know died, so I have to drive to Yellow Springs, Ohio this weekend.

Don't panic: Dave Chappelle is not dead; neither am I stalking him.

You might have guessed that this is not the best time for me to be taking off work, but it can't be avoided. To minimize the damage, I'll be working until 2 or 3 pm on Saturday, then driving to Ohio. I'll be driving back Monday evening, and hopefully I'll be back home by 2 or 3 am Tuesday morning.

Upper management took the news pretty well. He keeps a defibrillator in his office, behind a sign that says "In case of an employee having a life, break glass," he picked up the hammer while I was telling him, but I didn't actually hear the glass break until I'd run away. That was kind of him.

Anyway. A roadtrip can't help but be awesome, right? You got your Kerouac-call-of-the-open-roadtrip or your fratboys-trying-to-bag-chicks-and-avoiding-their-obvious-desire-to-bang-each-other-in-the-middle-of-the-roadtrip models to choose from. To be honest, though, I never saw Road Trip. And I tried to read Kerouac, but after a few pages, cleaning the oven seemed like a more fun time.

Still, there's a road, there's a trip: how hard can it be? There must be fifty rest stops between here and Western Ohio. That means fifty potential blowjobs. Each way. But I can't help wondering: a) is that going to increase my travel time (google maps doesn't have a radio button for "recalculate without blowjobs"), and b) is wearing my "Pitcher" t-shirt too obvious?

Couple of problems, though. First, I'll be traveling with EFU, and "Dad, didn't you stop at the rest stop twenty miles back? And why are you looking so flushed?" are questions that I don't want to answer more than three or four times in any given eight hours.

And worse, I'm just not that good at sex in public places. It is, no doubt, very kind of perfect strangers to want to sap my precious bodily fluids give me pleasure before we've been properly introduced, and the idea is extremely exciting, but in practice, I'm too nervous to whip it out and let them have to. There are other things I'd be happier to do, but in my experience, when a guy taps his foot in the stall next to yours, he very rarely wants to make out. Or even let you chew on his nipples for a while.

Everyone's in such a hurry these days. Here's a thought: since you know who now objects to the term McJob, let's give that up. In exchange, we'll call the rest area quickie the McBlowjob. Brilliant, right? Imagine the drive-thru possibilities! Billions and billions served! Hang on a sec while I call my intellectual property lawyer, will ya?

Anyway, at least EFU has some pretty good music in her iPod, and despite the fact that she's eighteen now, she still hasn't figured out that she's supposed to hate me during her teen years. And since, starting this September, she'll be living far away from home (possibly even in Western Ohio), she'll have to hate me via email, or only during summer vacation. In less than two years, she'll be twenty, and after that, if she wants to hate me, I'll be all "as if, beeatch! You had your chance when you were a teenager! Get over your wicked young adult self!" Or, you know, words to that effect. I feel bad that she might miss her chance, but I am comforted by the knowledge that at least she hates her mother.

So the drive (if I don't fall asleep and end up starring in one of those drivers' ed movies) will be pleasant. And I'll have a day and a half to kill while EFU does whatever it is she's doing there. I'm beginning to wonder about that whole I-don't-want-or-need-a-laptop stance I've been taking: if I had one, I could probably hunt up men on the Internet. But I don't, so I'll probably spend all of Sunday and most of Monday hanging around the Holiday Inn, sleeping and jerking off.

Sweet.

Today's Moment of Introspection

I only worked until 10:30 last night, but when I got home, I was so tired that I walked right past the dinner b&c had left for me, grunted at him, and fell on the bed. At some point I kicked my shoes off, but I never went to the trouble of undressing or getting under the covers. B&c cracked a window for me and left me alone. I forgot to set the alarm, so I didn't wake up until after 6 this morning, and my first thought was to wonder whether I could just put on some shoes and go into the office without changing clothes, which would have saved me a lot of time. But my morning wood was harder even than usual, so I pulled off my pants and reached into my briefs and started to stroke.

I was thinking about my friend D., who really wants to be fucked by a string of guys but who's usually too uptight (and tight, but you just need lube and patience to fix that, and I have plenty of both) to be fucked by more than the skinniest of dildos. He's the strong, silent type, and he calls himself a cowboy, and when I jokingly asked him whether he smokes Marlboros, he told me he does. I was thinking that when b&c goes out of the country for a month later this spring, I might be able to have a bunch of my top and vers buddies over to have a go at him. I spent a while wondering about the practicality, advisability, and morality of that scene, but then I got caught up in the image of him tied to the bed with one of my friends fucking his face while I pound his ass, and I stopped thinking about much of anything and let a very healthy load shoot into my boxer briefs.

Truth is, D.'s not much of a cocksucker, and while I've played with and/or fucked most of my friends at one time or another, I'm not sure that I really want to have sex with a bunch of them at the same time. But I'm not sure that I don't, either. I think there's a compromise: there are two or three who I'm pretty sure would be into that sort of scene and who are generally very low-drama guys. I can invite two of them, and D., over for cocktails and sex and see how it goes.

I'm going to need a lot of gin. Not for me, but D. says that getting drunk really loosens him up, and the other two guys drink like fishes anyway.

I was thinking about all of this as I got into the shower, and it got me pretty stiff again, but I really didn't have time to wank out a second load, and I was still pretty tired, so I did what I usually do in the shower during busy season: I turned the water all the way hot for a few seconds and then I turned it all the way cold for a while, and then I repeated the cycle another two times. This always wakes me up and dissipates any remaining wood.

And I know that you really don't want to know this, but when I do the hot/cold water cure, I invariably time the cycles by singing La Vie en Rose. In the original French, of course. I realize that seems irredeemably faggy, but you will just have to trust that because I have a deep voice and immaculate intonation, it is totally butch.

Out of Uniform

I feel like I spend a lot of time here whining about how much time I'm spending at work these days, but, well, I do spend an awful lot of time at work these days, and it affects all the other areas of my life. Including, apparently, my ability to concentrate on and manage my schedule. I am pretty sure, for example, that I knew some time back that Saturday evening, b&c and one of his girlfriends were going to Baltimore to the opera. (The silver lining of busy season is the iron clad excuse for missing the opera. "Oh, Die Walkyrie? Really? Six whole hours of Wagner? Wow. And it's when? Oh, the end of March. On a Thursday. Oh, gosh darn it. Tax season you know. I just can't. Sorry. What do you mean you can hear the sarcasm even over the phone? Hey, I think this line's about to go...." And then, "What do you mean did I just hang up on you? I've been having a lot of problems with this phone. I think maybe it knows when I've got so much work to do that I can't be having long conversations about why I don't have six hours to sit through Wagner during tax season. Did I just say that out loud? I think you have a wrong number, sir." And then the battery on the cell phone dies. No, really.) And EFU (elder filial unit) insists that she had told me that she was going on a church retreat. And I'm sure that I did know that YFU (younger filial unit) had a ballet recital and that her mother was taking her, and that I wasn't going because I was going on Sunday. Sadly, I didn't realize any of these things until about 5:00 Saturday afternoon, at work, when it very suddenly hit me that I had a free evening.

If I'm at work, I can't get on Manhunt or any of the hook-up services that are even more sordid than Manhunt and that I may or may not know about and have used on occasion. That leaves me with gay.com and craigslist. But unless there's someone I already know on gay.com, it usually takes me a little while to find someone appropriate. And craigslist is in general a pretty slow proposition. And I really, really wanted to be out of the office by 6. And I was still trying to get some work done, so I had pretty much given up on anything less solitary than going home and spending a long time jerking off. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Especially when I haven't had much opportunity to do it lately.

But then (at about 5:40) I saw an ad on craigslist:

in need of a deep tissue massage here

need to unwind from stress
can u help out?
clean cut guy here

So I shot the guy an email, and thus began the craigslist shuffle. I emailed him, and he emailed me, and I emailed him, and he emailed me, and after just four eight twelve brief emails, I was on my way out of the office headed in the general direction of my new friend, to whom I'd given my number so that he could call with his address because he "[had] to be discrete." Normally, I would think twice about playing with someone who doesn't know the difference between "discreet" and "discrete," but, oh hell, who am I kidding? Some of the hottest sex I ever had was with a landscape architect whose vocabulary was, apparently, limited to "harder."

Anyway, he called me, and I put on my butchest voice (I'm a bass, so it's not much of a stretch; I just say less: real men grunt) and he told me that he'd already started on a glass of wine (which he'd recommended) and that he'd found the oil, turned up the heat, and darkened the room (all of which I'd recommended). And then he told me where he was and that he really appreciated my discretion because he was in the military, and he didn't normally do this sort of thing, but that he was just so very, very tense because he'd had the worst week ever. And I said "Anything I can do to support our troops." My exact words. And then I got off the phone because I'd had to pull off the road to write down the directions, and I wanted to get going again.

It is important to me that you understand that I am not making this shit up. I have, out of respect for Jim (not his real name) changed numerous details about him and about the particulars of the setting to ensure anonymity (not that I actually know his real last name or anything), but if I were making this shit up, it would a) be a lot steamier and b) end differently. I am, however, making up this next part, but only because it's easier to dramatize this way than to write out in tedious narrative. With that in mind, I invite you to imagine me driving down the highway, with a man on each shoulder.

Good Teddy (stylishly attired in a brilliantly white jockstrap and sporting a halo, tastefully covered in white feathers): You are so going to hell.

Evil Teddy (looking verrrrrry butch in a black jockstrap and carrying a riding crop): Oh god. Who invited angelboy?

GT: Dude. You are messing with a straight, military guy. Does this not set off any alarms?

ET: Alarms? Come on, this is how half of the entries in The Great Cock Hunt start, and it always works out just fine for Alex.

GT: I hate to be the one to burst your little bubble of decadence, but "Alex" makes that shit up.

ET: No way. The Great Cock Hunt is an honest look at sex among late twenty-something white men in New York City.

GT: Is not.

ET: Is too.

Real Teddy: Boys...

GT: Did you hear yourself? "Anything I can do to support our troops." You said that without evident irony!

ET: Oh, leave him alone. He does support our troops. You know that he almost cries every time they play a profile of a dead soldier on NPR.

GT: Fine. But a straight man?

ET: If he's straight, why's he on craigslist advertising for massage in the men seeking men?

GT: He didn't even know what "massage with release" is.

ET: Yeah, and I am Marie of Romania.

GT: I am not interested in your drag career. If he's straight -- and he sounded straight, Marie -- he'll be all nervous, and you'll be low-key and understanding, then he'll want the massage, and then you'll get him all relaxed, and then you'll flip him over, and he'll have wood, and then you'll engineer the happy ending, and then he'll freak out.

ET: So he's going to rub down a naked straight man and jerk a load out of him and then be home early. Where's the downside?

GT: He'll feel awful about it afterwards. Besides, he'll probably never get his on clothes -- let alone his own rocks -- off. And no kissing. He hates that.

ET: Listen, he's doing this guy a favor. He's introducing him to the fabulous world of m2m.

GT: In other words, sex with someone who has no skills and won't reciprocate. Besides, he doesn't want to be this guy's first man. He'll ruin him for everyone else.

ET: Oh yeah, because he's sooooooo great in bed.

RT: Hello! You're talking about me, and I'm right here!

ET: Whatever.

RT: And it looks like we've arrived. Listen, boys, I appreciate your input, but I did tell this guy I was going to show up, and not showing up would be rude. You hate it when I'm rude. Besides, look at this neighborhood. And there's his car.

GT: Oooooh, an Infiniti! He must be an officer!

ET: Slut.

GT: It's just as easy to fuck with the mind of a rich straight man as it is to fuck with the mind of a poor straight man. That's all I'm saying.

RT: You guys stay in the car, ok?

Jim opened his front door when I was halfway up the walk and said hello. I went in and scored some quick points by rubbing his cat the right way. He was holding on to a glass of white wine as if it were a life preserver and offered me a drink and a seat on the sofa. I sat down and asked for a glass of water, and when he came back, his cat was happily purring in my lap.

This seemed to convince him that I was an okay guy, and that was a good thing because he was extremely nervous. He looked very stiff (though I suppose that could have been his military carriage; he was just a few months shy of twenty years of service in the Air Force) and he kept talking about how nervous he was and how stressed he was. He also kept telling me what I nice guy I seemed like: he obviously needed to convince himself that this whole scene was okay. I mostly listened, stroked the kitty, asked simple questions, and gave simple replies to his questions. I was all about the non-threatening. (Which, again, is not much of a stretch. I find it much more of an effort to be threatening in situations where that will be helpful.) Eventually, he got up to get another glass of wine (his third, he said, and he was a man of slight build), and the cat jumped out of my lap. Then when he came back and sat down again, I told him to turn the other way, and I started to talk about tension and where it typically manifests itself in different parts of the body, demonstrating by lightly touching his neck, shoulders, and back.

He seemed okay with that, and he told me that it felt really good to be touched, so I kneaded his shoulders and neck for a bit longer, and he talked more about how difficult his job had been lately, and I murmured sympathetically, and he said "And they're saying I might have to go to Iraq."

Right about here I was thinking that I should have listened to Good Teddy because I was suddenly very sad and very much wanted to be somewhere else, but I wasn't raised that way, so I just said, "That's terrible. I'm so sorry." I guess that was the right thing to say because he relaxed a little bit, and after another minute or two, I asked him whether he wanted to go in the other room, and he said yes.

Truthfully, I was a little hesitant about getting him horizontal, but we'd been sitting in the living room, and it was cold in there, and he'd said the room for the massage was much warmer, and while I had some qualms about how he was going to react, my general preference for men without their clothing won out.

We went into a spare bedroom, where he had lit some candles. There was still a lot of light coming in from outside, so I drew the curtains. He asked whether everything was okay, and I told him it was. I asked him to get undressed while I went to the kitchen to get the oil, which he'd warmed slightly in the microwave. I took some time to run my hands under hot water and warmed the oil a little more so that he could get reasonably comfortable on the bed, and then I came back in.

He still had his glasses on, and I asked him if I could take them. He hesitated, but then he put them on the windowsill. He was still up on his forearms a bit, so I pushed gently on his shoulders so he would lie down, then I turned his head to the side so that it was flat on the pillow.

Then I oiled up my hands and started to work.

Considering how nervous and stressed he was, his back was really not all that tight. It was easy for me to get him physically relaxed within a couple of minutes. Mental relaxation was more elusive. He did, eventually, talk less, but the nervous chatter never entirely abated. If nothing else, he seemed to feel the need to tell me every thirty seconds how good I was making him feel. At first I just tossed it back to him with a "Good. That's how I want you to feel" or something similar, but then I just gave up. In another situation, I likely would have gotten impatient and told him to be quiet, but there is something about applying long, firm strokes to a guy's muscles that saps the impatience and tension out of me. And the more he talked me, the harder it was not to feel sorry for him. While I was still working his back I learned

• that he had had three serious girlfriends, none of whom had worked out, and the last of whom ("she was in love with my credit card") he'd finished with about six years ago
• that he had stopped going to family gatherings because he was tired of being asked when he was going to get married
• that hetero sex had never done all that much for him
• that on a couple of occasions, his married Air Force buddies had come on to him when they were drunk
• that he jerked off "all the time"
• that "all the time" meant twice a day
• that he hadn't been touched by anyone in years
• that he loved being touched

I am still not entirely sure what to make of Jim. When I was massaging him, I looked around the room, and I figured that he must have graduated from law school, and when I asked him, he confirmed that but said that what he did now was mainly administrative. I mention that only because it's hard for me to imagine that someone so well educated could be so naive about all matters sexual. I suppose that back when I was married and thought I was straight, I was somewhat naive, but I don't believe I ever achieved his level of cluelessness.

As an example, when I was just about done with his back, he told me that he needed "to go to the bathroom and urinate," and when I told him to go ahead, he got up and apologized for having an erection. And then he apologized for having very recently trimmed his pubic hair very short. He explained that I was the first guy who'd ever seen him with an erection or who'd seen him with trimmed pubes, and that he was worried that I would think it was gay. I explained to him, as gently as I could, that I was really not afraid of erect penises, trimmed pubes, or gay men, and that while I might very well be the first man to see him with wood, his was definitely not the first erection I'd seen. "But it is a very nice one," I added.

It was nice, too. Very average in terms of length and thickness, but it pointed straight up towards his face so that there was a straight line from his cockhead all the way down to his scrotum, which made it seem more substantial, especially against his very smooth body.

He seemed pleased, embarrassed, and somewhat incredulous that I thought he had a nice cock, but he came back and lay back down, and I got to work on his legs. He had thighs of steel. He told me that he used to run all the time, but that he'd gotten a herniated disk and that now his exercise was all on a bicycle. He was depressed about not being able to run, and he told me that as a result he'd started drinking a bit in the evening, and I suggested that drinking was not likely to help his depression, and he told me again what a nice guy I was.

I asked him to turn over, and I started to work on his temples. He had very soft hair, and I told him so: it seemed to make him happy. Then I started to massage his nipples and he told me that they were very sensitive. I had already figured that out from how perky they got when I rubbed them and from the little thread of precum that was leaking down onto his abdomen.

I poured a little pool of warm oil into his bellybutton and used that oil up and down his chest, working his nipples especially, and then running my hands down over his upper thighs. I sat behind his head and started to massage his arms and hands. Every so often, I would tell him something I noticed about his body, and he would be amazed. When I asked him whether he played an instrument, he asked me why, and I told him that he had musician's hands, and he told me that his grandmother used to say the same thing to him. When I told him that he was obviously right-handed, he was astounded: "You know so much about me!" He was facing away from me, so he couldn't see me roll my eyes, and I knew better than to say, "Dude. Even if one arm wasn't significantly bigger than the other, I could have said that to anyone and I'd be right ninety percent of the time."

Jim kept telling me how much he liked what I was doing to him and kept wondering what I was getting out of it -- and hoping that I was getting something out of it. I told him that I very much enjoyed massaging naked men. That's certainly true, but he said it so often that I started to wonder what I was getting out of it. But that's really never the right question when you're on the bed with a naked man. The right question is "Do I want to be here right now?" and in this case, the answer was clearly "Yes." Do my motives matter? Perhaps, but I'm pretty sure they weren't in any way malicious. I was definitely feeling sorry for him, and I was feeling needed, but I was also aroused.

There was something about massaging his hands that he found very intimate, and he started to talk more about how he felt abused by his job and isolated from his friends and, basically, that he was alone and lonely. I started to stroke his hair a little, and he told me that he had started to wonder who he would have to leave things to and how he had hoped to have children but that it seemed unlikely now. I turned him on his side and stretched out beside/behind him and wrapped my arms around him and held him very tightly and said, "You can still have children if you want. You can still do whatever you want: you just have to figure out what that is. You will be okay." I'm not sure any of that was really true, but it might be, and I mostly wanted to comfort him. Anyway, he seemed to believed me: I can be very convincing.

We stayed that way for a while, and he was quieter than he'd been, but he's definitely not the kind to just lie back and enjoy a moment. He kept telling me about how he'd been worried that this was gay, but that he didn't care any more because it felt good and how he hadn't been this relaxed in months or maybe years and so on and so forth. And I was able to just lie there and absorb it all because he felt pretty good in my arms, but then he told me that being held like this was kind of like regressing and being held by a parent, and I was all dude, you may look like a thirty-year-old twink who's spent a little too much time in the sun and got a few premature wrinkles, but you are only a couple years younger than I am, and the only people who are allowed to call me "Daddy" are my children. I didn't say any of that out loud, of course. Instead, I turned him on his back and started to play with his nipple with my left hand while my right hand stroked his cock. Regressing, indeed.

He pretty quickly grew the hell back up at that point and started talking about how much he loved what I was doing with his cock, along with how no man had ever seen him masturbate let alone jerk him off, along with how his buddies would be shocked if they could see this, along with "you won't tell them, will you?" I tugged on his balls some, and that really made him happy. It didn't shut him up, but I had stopped minding. Underneath all the insecurity and the pressure, he was a pretty decent guy, and I suppose that four decades of repression doesn't crumble without some noise.

Anyway, he was telling me (again) how good he felt, and I told him that I just hoped that he still felt this good after he'd shot his load, and he said, "Wow, you really do know me, don't you?" (Yeah, sweetie, you and every other soon-to-be-ex-straight guy in the world.) At some point, I got between his legs so that I could tug his nuts with one hand and stroke his cock with the other, and I was about to go down on him, when he asked me not to because "that would freak me out." So I didn't, but I did start to lick one of his nipples instead, and that produced an extra shot of precum.

I put him back on the side and wrapped one arm under him to play with the far nipple while the other hand stroked his cock, and I started to suck on the tops of his ears. That didn't freak him out, but it didn't do a whole lot for him, either, so I nuzzled the back of his neck, and he seemed to like that. I knew that kissing him was right out.

I had expected him to cum pretty quickly, but after a while he said that he always masturbated with Vaseline, and I asked him if he wanted some, and he leapt right out of bed to get it, handed me the container, and put his glasses on. I slicked him up well and when I started to twist my fist around his cockhead, his body got stiff and his legs spread out wide. His nuts had pulled up close to his body, and I thought that ejaculation was imminent, but while he was telling me more and more how "horny" he was, I wasn't quite able to pull his trigger. Not that we didn't both have a great time trying.

Finally, he took over, and I played with his nipples, while he stroked another half minute and pumped a huge load all over his chest and abdomen. I was pretty hard at that point, but I'd never taken off my pants, and every time his ass would press back against my cock, he'd scoot forward a little.

I had expected him to jump up and towel off and get that deer-in-the-headlights look, but he just lay there and told me that his heart was beating very hard, so I put my hand down in a puddle of semen and felt it. He finally seemed (relatively) relaxed, and we stayed in that position -- me on my side with my arms around him and my legs wrapped around his -- and talked for a good while. He asked a number of questions, and when I told him that most guys mostly wanted me to fuck them, he seemed so incredulous about the concept of anal sex generally, that I started to wonder a bit whether the whole thing was an act, but I eventually realized that he really was just that sheltered and clueless. And, kind of, sweet.

After I'd been there about 2.5 hours, in total, I mentioned that I probably did need to get going since YFU would be needing to be picked up in the next hour or so, and then he did leap right out of bed. He started apologizing and hoping he hadn't made me late, and I told him that I had my phone with me, and that I'd get a call before I needed to pick her up and that he really, really, really needed to stop worrying so much. He allowed that I was probably right.

He cleaned himself off, thanked me profusely, repeated yet again what a terrific a guy I was, hugged me a few times and saw me to the door. I got back in the car.

ET: Dude, you are so lame. Two and a half hours, and you didn't even fuck him.

RT: Some people would just say "hello."

GT: Don't listen to him. That wasn't lame; it was sweet. And he didn't want to be fucked.

ET: Oh please. Did you see his legs fly out? At least tell me that you're going to fuck him soon. Give that boy two years, and he'll be the biggest bottom in the uniformed services.

RT: Very likely, but I won't be the one to take him there.

GT: Because you have morals!

ET: Because you are lame.

RT: Maybe you're both right. Maybe it seems like it's more effort than it's worth. Maybe it's just that when that guy gives it up, it's going to rock his world, and I don't want to be the one to pick up the pieces.

GT: Maybe that's a mixed metaphor.

RT: Maybe.

ET: And kind of trite.

RT: Undoubtedly so.

GT: So are we happy or are we sad?

RT: We are happy that he had a good time and that we made someone feel better. We are sad that he might be going to Iraq. We are happy that we met a good person. We are sad that he is very fucked up. We are happy that he came like a geyser and that when we get home we will likely do the same.

ET: We are not amused by your use of the first person plural. And why you gotta think so much?

RT: Birds gotta swim, fish gotta fly, baby.

ET: Anyway, happy, sad, blah, blah, blah, the only question that really matters is, "Are we getting a cheeseburger?"

Oh, hell yes.