Look Ma, No Tongue!

My buddy B. came by for a massage last night. For the record, "buddy" only means "friend," nothing else is implied by the term. A buddy could be a FWP or a FWOP, but it is not another way of saying FB. An FB, by my definition anyway, is not really a friend; he's more someone whom you wouldn't recognize if you ran into on the street because he has his clothes on.

Relationship terms, of course, are of vital importance in the gay community. If we presume some ideal future where gay marriage is universally available (for those who want it, that is, not for me), and we further presume a gay married couple, Steven and Bryan, then at various points in Steven's and Bryan's interaction/relationship, they'd call each other most if not all of the following:

Some guy I met
Some guy I hooked up with
Some guy I have a date with
Some guy I had a date with
A guy I've gone out with a few times
A guy I might be dating
A guy I'm dating
The guy I'm dating
My boyfriend*
My live-in boyfriend
My significant other
My partner
My domestic partner
My husband

The asterisk indicates the point at which it is safe to speak of "a relationship" between two people. Woe betide any gay man who prematurely uses the R-word or who expresses his belief that he's further down the list than the guy whose ass he regularly uses. There are very strict rules here. You can recover -- with difficulty -- from a one-level difference. If, for example, you refer to the guy who regularly uses your ass as "the guy I'm dating," when he's thinking of you as "a guy I'm dating," and you correct yourself soon after you see his raised eyebrow and look of abject panic mild discomfort, then there's (some) hope. But if you and the guy who has made you his ass monkey are two or more levels apart, the split is immediate and irrevocable. The same is true if one of you uses the R-word before the other is ready, even if you're only one level apart.

Protestations about the dictionary meaning of "relationship" are of no avail here, so just don't risk it. These days, most prudent gays who are interested in (eventually) getting into a relationship use a Qualified Relationship Intermediary. The QRI is someone who regularly polls both parties as to where on the list they think they are. Then, when a suitable amount of time has elapsed so that each party can pretend that he wasn't the first one to reach that level, the QRI announces to both gentlemen: "Congratulations. You both have reached the 'a guy I might be dating' level, and I must say that I have rarely seen such unanimity between two men as to exactly where the are in their interaction." The QRI will, of course, say this even if there is a broad disparity. For example, Steven may have said, "I would die for Bryan. In childbirth." Bryan, on the other hand, may have said, "Yeah, I'll probably keep seeing him. He's got a nice ass."

You can see why having a good QRI is very important. In urban areas with large gay populations, QRIs are typically civil servants, and this can lead to some problems. Some men feel that the QRI to whom they've been assigned pesters them needlessly during periods when they're irredeemably single. Others feel that when they're seeing one or more men, the QRIs don't keep up. The situation is exacerbated by the fact that in most cases the two dating/possibly dating/whatever parties are represented by two different QRIs who may have trouble sharing information in a timely manner. In one particularly notorious case, two DC QRIs still had two men listed as "possibly dating" the day after they'd run off to Montreal to get married. This prompted a blistering editorial in the Washington Post. The Post suggested that the QRI function would be better served if it were privatized. A later study funded by HRC, however, compared areas where QRIs are civil servants with areas with private QRIs and found no significant difference in terms of accuracy or client satisfaction. The finding was dutifully reported in the Post, but the editorial board apparently took no notice. Some have posited that this is but one of many issues where the Post's editorial board has its head up its ass. I don't judge here, people, I only report.

I haven't included on the list all of the terms that get used in the, um, rockier relationships. Some relationships have their ups and downs on the way to the altar; fortunately, in these cases, disparity is not really the central issue. So if Steven is referring to Bryan as "the guy who makes me die a little each time I see him at the gym" while Bryan thinks of Steven as "that slut who wouldn't even pay for the Rid when he gave me crabs," they probably have bigger problems to deal with than terminology. All in all, though, premature use of the R-word is more likely to be fatal to a relationship than are crabs. I don't judge here, people, I only report.

Anyway, none of this has anything to do with my buddy B., who is, in fact, a FWOP, aka someone who wants to have sex with me as little as I want to have sex with him (but who is otherwise a thoroughly charming individual). Until last night, I'd never massaged a FWOP. I'd massaged people I hadn't previously met, and I'd massaged guys I'd hooked up with (or was in the process of hooking up with), but none of my friends without privileges really knew that I liked giving massages. B., as it happens, is on the same e-mail list that I'm on, and when he saw one of my postings, he e-mailed me to say that it was he (it's not his primary e-mail, which I normally contact him via) and asked me how the weekend was going. I gave him some details, and we exchanged a few messages, and then he asked me whether I ever gave massages to friends or would that make me uncomfortable.

It is to laugh.

I explained that I was pretty much comfortable with anything, and that if he wanted a massage, I'd be happy to give him one, and he should just let me know if either prostate massage or release would make him uncomfortable. He replied that neither would bother him, and we arranged a time.

B. was a bit late. In addition to his day job, he does some consulting in the evening, and he got caught up in a task and called me at 9 to say he'd be about 9:30. I hadn't planned anything else for the evening (except laundry and reading), so I told him no problem. When he arrived, I showed him to the table, and he stripped down (B.'s quite the nudist, so he has no problem at all being naked in front of friends) and hopped on the table.

I started the music and began rubbing him down. He said that he probably wouldn't talk much, and that was fine with me. The massage was pretty much routine. He had a lot of problems in his shoulders, but so do most guys, and it's not unusual for me to spend most of the first Bach unaccompanied cello suite on the shoulders, as I did last night. After working his shoulders, upper back, lower back, butt, thighs, calves, and feet, I hadn't heard anything from him except for sighs of utter contentment, but when I came back to his ass and started to dribble more oil down the crack, he said that he didn't mind my proceeding, but he wasn't sure how clean he was. I told him that I could always wash my hands, but as it happened, he was very clean indeed. High fiber diet, I reckon. Anyway, I gave him a very gentle prostate massage, and he seemed to like that a lot. Not in the getting-excited-and-dripping-precum** way that some men do, but just quiet enjoyment. I worked some more on his shoulders, and I told him to flip over while I went to reheat the oil. He told me that I was doing a first-rate job.

B. is extremely tall, and I was a bit worried that when he was on his back, he wouldn't fit easily on the table, but he just bent his knees a bit, and he was fine. Perhaps because of his height and his shaved head, I'd always figured that he was a bit skinny and probably smooth, but he actually has a nicely filled out and fit body that's fairly hairy. Not that it matters, really. I wasn't even remotely turned on. Nor was he. He remained steadfastly soft up until the point where I actually grabbed his cock. But I think I've heard him talk about body issues in the past, and seeing him naked, it was hard to see why he'd have any. Not that having a good body stops any gay man from thinking his body has big problems, of course.

Anyway, I started on the front side with a fairly extended face and scalp massage. It's really cool to work on a guy with a shaved head because you don't have to worry about getting oil in his hair. The head massage made him very happy, and his smile only got wider when I worked on his shoulders, arms, and hands. I did his pecs and abs and the fronts of his legs, and then I went to work on his nipples. His smile got even bigger, and his sighs got a little louder, but his cock didn't get any harder. I considered ignoring his cock altogether, but he'd said that he was happy to get release, and I generally figure that when there's a choice between cumming and not cumming, cumming usually comes out on top.

I took his cock in my right hand and poured some warm oil on it with my left, and he made happy noises. I switched hands and stroked with my left while my right worked his shoulders, pecs, and nipples, and he got harder.

It was about here that I figured out why sometimes massage is a quasi-sexual activity and other times it isn't. I'm a very oral guy, and I don't really feel like I'm having sex unless my mouth is somewhere on the other guy. Often this involves extended rimming sessions or gentle or rough nipple play, but it almost always involves kissing. And often, shortly before I go for release, I'll make out briefly with the guy on the table, and that's usually enough to get me somewhat aroused. Not fully aroused because I'm still concentrated on the massage, but there's no doubt that there's a strong connection between my lips and tongue and my cock.

Anyway, I wasn't using my mouth at all on B., so while it was undeniably fun, it really wasn't sexual at all. For either of us, apparently. B. later told me that despite the very nice orgasm (he was especially complimentary, and he has a great body to work on, so hopefully he'll be on the table again), it just felt like a great massage to him.

Still, it was a pretty cool orgasm. I worked on his cock a lot more slowly and methodically than I usually do. He certainly was in no hurry to cum, but his excitement, though it built slowly, built steadily. Eventually, I took his cock in my left hand, added more oil, and continued to stroke slowly while my right index finger engaged with his ass. That made him more excited still, and after a couple of minutes of that, his writhing got less and less understated, his voice got louder and louder, and he pumped out a nice hot load. As I wiped him up, he told me what a great feeling that had been.

I told him to get back on his stomach, and I spent the last three tracks of the disc working his back and shoulders some more. I finished up on the last note, and he lay there for a bit and then got up and started to get dressed. We chatted for a while about stuff (sex mostly), and then he went home.

While he was getting dressed, he told me that the prostate massage had not been exciting but calming. "It relaxed me from the core out," he said. I had never heard it put that way before. It's certainly a thought that (along with the technique) I will carry to future massages.

**UPDATE: While looking through my (really pathetic) reader statistics (always a dangerous activity) this evening, I was checking referral links and happened to learn that if you google "dripping pre-cum from prostate massage," (I have very mixed feelings about that hyphen, but let's leave that aside for a moment) I'm the eighth most common result. I suppose I could be disappointed not to make the top spot, but, really, it's just such an honor to be nominated. I am the winner if you google "neighbor's perky nipples," which just goes to prove that the Internet is in no way a meritocracy.

Playing the Cello

After the fairly intense sexual experiences of Friday night and Saturday morning, I was ready for something a little more relaxed and methodical. Which was good because I had scheduled an afternoon full of massages. If I weren't having sex on a regular basis, I would probably find doing massage frustrating. But as a successor or antecedent to sex, it can be a good way to extend the afterglow or foreplay, respectively. For me, when massage is a wind down from sex it has a very different energy from when it's an appetizer, but the guys on the table seem to enjoy it pretty well either way.

I was motoring homeward Saturday morning when my noon appointment called to say that he was having some trouble with his car. That may have been an I-have-to-pick-my-friend-up-at-the-airport excuse, but probably not, since he expressed a willingness to have me pick him up at the Metro station on my way home. But I had another guy coming at 1:30, and I knew that I wouldn't be able to get this guy back to the Metro and still make it home on time. Ninety minutes is about the minimum amount of time you need between the start of one massage and the next: some massages can be comfortably completed in an hour, but others can't, and in any case, you need to change the sheets and take care of other minutiae.

Anyway, I took advantage of the cancellation to get home at a more leisurely rate and to cut the grass in the front yard. Then I showered and was more than ready when my 1:30 showed up at 1:15.

[Let me just stop here to give you an overview of the rest of the weekend:

The first massage went from 1:15 to 2:30. Then I changed the sheets, started a load of laundry, looked all over the place for my car keys, found my car keys, and got in the car to drive to the Metro to pick up my 3:00. We went back to the house and did the massage, then I drove him back to the Metro and hauled ass to make it back to the house before my 5:00.

At 5:05, my 5:00 called to say he had been delayed but hoped I could still do a massage. I had purposefully left the evening free to loaf and take care of a few chores, and he was my last guy, so I told him to come on. At 6:00, he called to say that he was still stuck in traffic, but that he was going to take an alternate route if I could still do the massage. I was just puttering at that point, so I told him to come on. At 6:30, he arrived, and we started the massage, and then he left at midnight. He was on the table for an hour of that, and we spent some time chatting, but mostly we had about four hours of epic sex. (I was going to say "marathon sex," but top marathoners only have to go for a little over two hours.) I'm going to have to put that story in its own post, however: it was wild and not a little mind bending, and I'm still processing.

Sunday morning, I was up at 8 to be at church at 9:15 to sing with the choir. It was the annual bridging service, where we celebrate the graduating seniors and their march towards adulthood. Since EFU is a senior, she had to give a two-minute homily, and she totally rocked. I was simultaneously immensely proud and a blubbering mess, but I hear that kids will do that to you. I came home and called my Mom and got her machine. I had called her on Friday, though, because on Thursday, I'd gone online to send her some flowers for Mother's Day, and only after I finished the transaction did I realize that I'd asked for delivery on Friday, May 18, instead of Friday, May 11, so I had to call her to make sure she and my Dad were still going to be in Florida on the eighteenth. They usually come north to their summer place sometime just before Memorial Day. Anyway, we talked for a while, and then we talked briefly on Sunday late afternoon when she called back when YFU and I were at Costco, but I meant to call her back again later, and I didn't. So: insufficient phoneage, and the flowers will be a week late; I am officially the Worst Son Ever.

Sunday afternoon, I was supposed to give a massage to another guy that I've been emailing back and forth for a while. I figured he'd bail at the last minute, and he did, so I cut the rest of the grass and worked in the garden. Another buddy of mine who'd said he might want a massage did want a massage, but his email came too late. I was supposed to pick up YFU at 4, but she called and asked whether I could pick her up at 3 instead, so I did. We hung out and watched some TV, and I finished up the yard work. Then I made her her first fried bologna sandwich. Another milestone.]

I always have some music playing when I'm giving a massage. Occasionally, it'll be some light pop (the Mamas and Papas are a good choice), but given the approach I take to massage and what I intend to get out of a massage, the much more common choice is classical music. Specifically, baroque music. Specifically, Bach. Specifically, the unaccompanied cello suites. Specifically, the Yo-Yo Ma recording of the unaccompanied cello suites. Specifically, disc one, though I'm willing to entertain the possibility that after another dozen or so massages, I might give disc two a test drive.

I'm not up to the task of explaining to you why the Bach unaccompanied cello suites are great music in a general sense. You can listen to it yourself, and if you don't like them, well, I'm afraid there isn't much hope for you, though I'm sure that aside from that whole thing where you have no soul, you're probably a wonderful human being, and you likely have a bright future ahead of you in marketing or politics.

Part of why it's such great massage music is that it's great music generally. But more than that, the music is simultaneously simple and deep. It's a single instrument whose frequencies resonate well with the male body. Additionally, there are a variety of tempi, and that's good for accompanying a variety of massage techniques. Plus, it's just over an hour long, so it's about the length of a single massage, and there are eighteen tracks, so it's easy to be sure that you're not getting too far ahead or behind by watching the track numbers. And each track has a satisfying ending note, so you can finish up after track 13 or 16 as well as after track 18.

Mostly, though, it's the energy thing. It promotes calmness and allows you to feel like you're channeling energy directly from the music into the body of the guy on the table. Or channeling energy directly from the body of the guy on the table into the music: giving a massage is a lot like playing an instrument.

The first two guys I had on the table on Saturday had little in common, except that they were both about 5'8. The first was gay and single; the second was bi (I'm guessing) and married. The first was slender and smooth; the second was compact, muscular, and hairy (he was, in fact, built a lot like a cello). The first was talkative; the second was nearly silent. The first was generally loose with tough knots in his shoulders; the second was generally tight with few knots anywhere. The first had thin lips and was nervous about using them; the second had full lips and was a pretty decent kisser. The first had extremely sensitive nipples and an average, straight cock; the second had moderately sensitive nipples, and a short, bent cock.

There is, nonetheless, a universality about the massage experience. Both arrived with a lot of stress, and both left minus some tension and a load. Both responded well to Bach and to my hands. Both say that they want to come again.

I'm not sure where the massage thing goes from here. I did drop about $200 on the table and another c-note on supplies, so I reckon that I should give at least a hundred massages so that the per-use cost is less than a trip to Starbucks. And God knows I love doing it. I suspect that it will become a steady hobby, and I hope that I get a regular group of people for the table. I'm certainly open to the possibility of it becoming a supplemental source of income, but that would probably happen a while in the future, if ever. I think this weekend showed me that, with some training and practice, I could probably give twenty massages a week and have it be a pleasure rather than a chore.

And, hey, if every once in a while an hour on the table turns into four hours in the sack, it's just one of those avocational hazards that I'll have to deal with.

8 1/2

I know that my (few) regular readers are waiting with 'bated breath to know about my weekend activities, so I'll get right to the point: yes, I did get the grass cut. No, I didn't find a hottie on CL to do it for me. That might be because I didn't post an ad, but I prefer to think that it's a fundamental flaw in the design of Craigslist. After all, what kind of website doesn't anticipate its readers needs? Aside from this one, I mean.

(Really, someday I am going to post that ad, just to see whether anyone replies. You know that somewhere out there is a guy who pines to play the teenager in the teenage-neighbor-cutting-grass roleplay, even if he's a forty-five year old orthodontist. And, hey, I'm perfectly willing to leave my glasses off and see the forty-five year old orthodontist as a hunky teenager if it means my grass gets cut. I worry, though, that I'll get some sub who'll purposefully cut the grass wrong so that I'll have a reason to punish him. Men.)

Anyway, I didn't cut the grass until Sunday afternoon. Friday night has already been covered. Saturday morning, I got up fairly early, checked my email to make sure my afternoon massages were all set, grabbed a breakfast of champions (an Egg McMuffin and a large Diet Coke) from the McDonald's drive-through window, and headed off into The Land That Time Forgot (Northern Virginia) to visit my once and future fuckbuddy R.

R. said that it had been two years since we've played. I'm not sure that it's been that long, but it's certainly been at least a year, and that was a sobering thought because it meant that I'd gone more than a year without visiting the most agreeable pair of nipples I know. It also just made me think about that whole tempus fugit thing, but y'all know how I feel about introspection, so I concentrated on the nips.

I was a little bit early for our rendez-vous, and I was surprised to find R.'s door locked. In the past, he's always left the door to his condo open, and I've walked in, locked it, and gone to his bedroom where he'd been waiting for me, naked. It was weird having to knock, but I knocked, and he came to the door in his clothes. I seemed taken aback by this, which made him laugh. Anyway, since he was standing there, I grabbed him and started to kiss him and held him tightly against me, and he made appreciative noises (He's a very appreciative guy: it's one of his best qualities. Well, that and the nipples that never say die and an ass that's so clean that you wonder whether he ever eats.), and I pushed him toward the bedroom.

While we were getting undressed, he mentioned that a chat buddy of his wanted to watch us on his cam and asked whether I minded. I was a bit nonplussed, and I had a brief image of myself showing up on YouTube. I don't generally think of myself as an exhibitionist, but I could see where the cam was pointed, and it looked like it was going to be easy for me to keep my face out of the frame, so I decided just to go for it. It didn't really turn me on to have an audience, but it wasn't inhibiting, either, though I checked the cam feed fairly frequently throughout the session to make sure my face wasn't showing up.

Sex with R. is always somewhat (or more) athletic, because I get carried away with his nipples and he gets carried away with my cock, and each of our enthusiasm further fuels the other's. I knew that before long, the hard fucking would start, and we only had a limited time (I'd arrived at 9:30, and I had to be back out the door at 11), but I was determined to sample all of him, so I pinned him down and started kissing him. R.'s a great kisser. I think he's probably the first man who ever sucked and tugged on my lower lip in a way that was all wow and no ugh. But his body is an embarrassment of riches, and the pull of the nips was too strong to resist for long, so after an intense but perhaps neither thorough nor long enough round of kissing, I went for the nips. Intensely and thoroughly.

I could probably have done that for the whole ninety minutes we had, but R. had other ideas, and he pushed me over on my back and dove (not so much a figure of speech where R. is involved) for my cock. He is a truly talented cocksucker, and on another occasion, it might have been nice simply to lie back and enjoy that for a half hour or so, but I was pretty worked up, so I pulled his body around, put his knees on either side of my head, spread his cheeks, and shoved my tongue in.

God only knows how any man can have such a clean ass. I half suspect that he autoclaves it, but I can see how there would be logistical problems. In any case, it's as sensitive as it is clean, and my tongue in his ass always makes him pull off my cock, gasp, and dive back down on my cock, taking it deeper.

I'm not sure how long that went on. There's a sort of time dilation effect when I have sex with R. I do remember looking up at one point later in the session to make sure that my face wasn't in the screen and seeing that it was almost 10:30 and that we'd been having sex for an hour and feeling like we'd only just gotten started. Of course, at that point we were actively fucking, so it should have been obvious that we'd been at it for a while, but it seemed like no time at all.

Anyway, what R. always really wants is my cock up his ass, and he likes to ride me. That works for me because I can pull hard on his nips or sit up and bite them while he's bouncing up and down on my rod. Also, he's doing most of the work that way, and while I am really not a lazy fuck, I'm a lazy fuck. R. had been actively and with audible and frequent appreciation riding me for fifteen minutes or so when I decided to change the pace up and go for the X position.

I reckon that everyone already knows the X position, so telling you about it is something like saying, "and if you really want to make a guy feel good, put his cock in your mouth," but on the off chance that somebody doesn't know (and because I enjoy writing about it): to get to the X position, you start out in the riding position, where the bottom is astride the top, with the top's penis (since we're being semi-clinical, but if you don't like semi-clinical, ignore "penis" and substitute "hot throbbing manmeat") firmly inside the bottom's bottom. Then the top (after grabbing the bottom's hips and stopping him from moving, if necessary, and it's always necessary) takes the bottoms hands in his own and slowly lowers the bottom backwards until the bottom is lying on his back. At this point both the bottom and the top are on their backs with their heads pointing in opposite directions. (Really, it looks more like an asterisk than an X, I suppose, but whatever. Mostly it just looks like a couple of happy guys.) The top maintains his grip on the bottom's hands. The bottom's position forces the top's hot throbbing manmeat to exert a pleasurable pressure against the bottom's prostate. The pleasure can be maintained and intensified by some understated writhing on the part of either or both partners. The hand grip makes the motion easier and keeps the penis deeper inside and the two bodies firmly engaged.

R. acted like this was something new (and wonderful) to him, even though I'm sure that I've done this move with him on multiple occasions in the past. Still, I'm not one to question appreciation or enthusiasm, so I just lay there, understatedly writhing, for a while.

Then I pulled him up, pushed him down on his stomach, and entered him from behind. Then I flipped him over on his back and pushed his legs up towards his chest. And so on and so forth: the point is, protracted pounding in multiple positions. At some point we were interrupted by an urgent call from R.'s office, but it was probably good for me to get a two-minute breather. You couldn't call R. high maintenance, but he's certainly high effort.

As much fun as all that fucking was (And it was great fun, believe me; the intense pounding was hot, but so were the times when he was riding me and he slowed down and we talked about whatever; at one point he jumped off me and started to suck me again and he said that the first time we'd fucked, he'd done that and I'd said "ew." It's hard for me to imagine that I'd done that, even though sucking on a condom never strikes me as very appetizing. But he's probably right. The first time we got together might have been as long as seven or eight years ago (right after I got separated, whenever that was), and fin de siècle Teddy was quite the naif.), I was feeling pretty soon into it that I probably wasn't going to shoot while fucking him. To do that, I usually have to have the guy flat on his stomach, and for some reason that position wasn't working as well for us as the him-riding-me, X, missionary, doggie, or spooning positions were working. No matter, really. When I saw that I was really pushing hard up against our deadline, I took matters into my own hand, and he watched closely. When I was right at the tipping point, I grabbed his hand and put it on my cock, and he pumped and swallowed the head and, shortly thereafter, my load. I had told R. about the previous evening's threeway, and he was impressed that I had pumped out such a voluminous load twelve hours later. I'll take his word for it. It was certainly an intense orgasm, but I didn't actually see what my volume was.

R. never ejaculates unless I specifically ask him to, and since he seems equally ecstatic whether or not he cums, I didn't ask. It was almost eleven, and he had a lunch date with his mother at noon. I had a massage coming at noon, and I knew that I'd need a shower when I got home. Even on a Saturday morning, it's more than a half-hour drive home around the beltway from TLTTF, and I needed to stop on the way for some supplies.

Anyway, I've officially upgraded R.'s nipple tolerance from an 8 to an 8.5. I don't generally approve of half-point ratings, but I reckon he's earned it, and we can always pass it off as an homage to Fellini.

I need to ensure that he and I don't wait another year to play again. I'm sure he's game for another go or fifty. He said that for the next few days, every time he sits down or his shirt touches his nipples, he'll remember me and smile. I think he gives me a lot more credit than I deserve, but it would be foolish of me not to at least attempt to earn it.

Starting the Weekend Right

I had plans to hang out with my friend C. last night. With C., hanging out on a Friday night generally means a martini, some sex, some dinner, and some more sex. He's almost the perfect FWP: he loves to kiss and he's fun in the sack; he likes a wide range of cuisines and we converse easily at dinner; and he's a Democrat. He's not quite perfect because he's also a top, but if you can't make the two-top thing work from time to time, then you really need an adjustment to either your attitude or your imagination. And it's a good thing to have some top FWPs for those inevitable times when a bottom wants you to find someone else so that he can get it from both ends at once.

I'd had a mildly frustrating day at work. One of the bosses was out and at the last minute I had to fill in and talk to a group of accounting students from one of the state colleges. I'd had to figure out what to say, and then I was kept waiting for a long time while other people went long (And, really, how can you have that much to say about what you do? Do you really think they care, especially if you've been in the profession for fifteen years and they're in colleg?), and then when I finally got in, they were all male, young (obviously), and cute. With short hair.

Still, with great effort, I didn't salivate, and none of them fell asleep, so it was a success. When I was done, it was almost 5. I wasn't planning to leave until 5:30, but I didn't feel like working, so I hopped on gay.com, and I saw A.

I hooked up with A. about two years ago. He's a pleasant and uncomplicated 28-year old who's bisexual but loves to kiss (a rare combination). I have nothing against bisexuals (unless they won't kiss), but many of them seem to require some sexual activity that they won't do so that they can feel certain that they're not gay. You would think that this wouldn't be so much of an issue with A., given that he actually sleeps with women, but whatever. What A. won't do is anal. Which is too bad, but it's his loss, right? And it's a lot better than refusing to kiss. Besides, he's an especially eager cocksucker, and if he's not particularly gifted, he's not bad at it, and who doesn't a decent blowjob? Anyway, we had (two years back) a terrific hook up with about an hour of very enthusiastic sex with especially exuberant ejaculations, and then I gave him a massage, which he really got into.

But after that I saw him only rarely online, and he never seemed interested in hooking up again, so I just forgot about him. When I saw him last night, though, I suspected that the prospect of two cocks to suck might tempt him.

One of the good things about C. is that I know he's pretty much up for anything, as long as it doesn't include him getting fucked or anything that's more than borderline kinky. So I knew that I didn't have to bother checking with him. I started a conversation with A. and mentioned the two-cock thing, which, as I'd expected, intrigued him. I described C. and then forwarded his Yahoo! profile to A., and A. gave me his phone number and told me to call him when I was sure when C. would be over.

So I got home. I was starving, never having eaten lunch, and it's a bad idea to play when you're starving. You need some energy if the sex might be athletic. I grabbed about three ounces of turkey and one ounce of dark chocolate (whir them together in a blender and you have a cocktail: Instant Sex; no, not really), ate them, drank a large glass of water (athletic sex requires proper hydration) and was headed toward the shower when C. called (we hadn't made specific plans, just definite plans to hang out, and I was going to call him after my shower) and asked what the plan was. I told him that there was a young man who might be coming over to suck both of us off, and he allowed how that would work for him. So I told him to come over when he was ready and that I'd check with A. to see whether he was going to follow through.

I called A. and got his voicemail, left a message, and jumped in the shower. I was all soapy when the phone rang, but I jumped out and got it. I was expecting C. at about 7:10, so I told A. that C. would be here around 7:15, and A. said he'd show up at 7:30.

I'm afraid all of this detail might lead to some disappointment if you're expecting a blow-by-blow recap of the threeway. Threeways, if they're good, are hard to write about, because basically they look and feel like a pile of puppies writhing around together. Only harder.

Anyway. C. arrived on time, and we made out a little while he was standing in the foyer, then I made each of us a martini, then we sat on the couch, then we made out some more, then I worked on his neck and upper back, and then we made out some more, and then I explained to him what A. would and wouldn't do, and then A. showed up. A. looked good enough to eat with a spoon. He'd put on maybe fifteen pounds since we'd hooked up before, and it looked really good on him with his broad frame. A. declined a martini, but he had a couple of sips of C.'s, and then I suggested that we all go upstairs.

Upstaris, while C. was putting down his martini, I grabbed A. and started kissing him, then threw him down on the bed and climbed on top and kissed him some more. He really loves it when you push him around. Then C. climbed on the bed and started to kiss A. while I started to suck and chew on A.'s nipple.

And then, seventy-five minutes of puppies writhing on the bed. It was amazing. Lots of kissing, including some three-way kisses that worked better than those usually do. Lots of cocksucking. On at least a couple occasions, each of us had the other two guys working on his junk. I especially enjoyed sucking on C.'s nuts while A. was sucking on his rod, then moving up the line so that A. and I could kiss with C.'s cock between us. C. liked that a lot, too.

A. can say what he likes about not liking anal, and there was no penetration beyond a fingertip, but he certainly went wild when I started eating his ass. (Later, over dinner, C. thought that from A.'s reaction, I was going to get a go at his ass, but that wasn't going to happen, at least last night. C. is a charming and intelligent man, but he can't read guys.) When we were nearing the end and A. was on his back and C. was kissing him, I'd eaten A.'s ass and and had stroked him right to the edge with one hand while my other index finger, played with his asshole and sunk in just a bit. He came so hard that most of the shots hit his face and one went over his head. And I wasn't even holding his cock at a forty-five degree angle.

Then C. and I got side by side on our backs and made out and jerked ourselves off while A. knelt at the foot of the bed and played with our nuts. We both came intensely. A. jumped in the shower, and C. and I lay in bed and chatted, then A. came out and got dressed and stood next to us and we all talked for a while. Then C. and I got dressed and we all went downstairs and talked for a while more before A. took off.

C. and I went off to dinner at my favorite local restaurant. C.'s lived half a mile from me for four years but had never eaten there. I suspect they have a new loyal customer now. Over dinner, C. said that A. was indeed hot and that the sex had been great but that he'd liked A. a lot more before he started to talk. I'm not sure that I quite share that sentiment, but I know exactly where C.'s coming from.

During our post-coital three-way conversation, A. mentioned that the neighborhood and the house looked more familiar than would be the case from just the one earlier hook up that we'd had. I told him that given his taste for older men (I'm about fifteen years older than him, and apparently that's not quite good enough), I'd be surprised if he had never hooked up with b&c. He told me what sites he usually hangs out on, and I said, yeah, b&c's on there. But he wasn't sure, so I found a recent picture, and A. confirmed. I said, "Cool, maybe you can come by some time and play with both of us." He seemed very interested. I'll mention it to b&c, but I won't hold my breath. A. is the kind of guy where you're better off remembering the really great sex you had once or twice than pursuing having it again.

After dinner, C. and I came back here and went upstairs. I was undressed first, and I lay across the bed on my stomach and C. was standing next to the bed in his boxers, so I pulled his cock through his fly and started to go down on him. He has a cock that's very easy to suck on, but after twenty minutes or so in various positions, it got too sensitive, so we made out and cuddled and, eventually, fell asleep. It was really nice. We slept for a while, intertwined some more, played some more, fell back asleep, etc., until about 2, when C. got up to go home. We both had early appointments this morning, he for work and me for play.

All in all, I couldn't have asked for a better Friday night.

More Fun at the Expense of Missed Connections

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F F

I know what you're thinking, and don't worry: this post isn't about that. I don't do that. Well, okay, I have done that in the past, but only once, so that I could say that I'd done that. Well, okay, maybe more than once, but definitely no more than three times. And not recently. Not that there's anything wrong with that, you understand. In fact, that is pretty intense, especially if a guy's going down on you at the same time, and he starts to cum, and you feel him clamping down hard on your wrist while you're shooting down his throat. But that is, I think, the sort of thing that you have to seek out, and I'm not really interested in doing that, though I suppose I would do that again if asked nicely.

But I digress. The title in this case refers not to "f fuck," but to "fuck F." You'll note that I have no trouble slinging around what most people call the F-word. "Fuck" falls from my lips like water from the heavens during a monsoon. I do have my own personal F-word though. A word that should not be used in polite company and that is difficult for me to utter: "fabu...", "fabulo...", well, I just can't bring myself. No, wait: "fabulous." Whew. I only pray that no children are reading.

Anyway. The second F refers to F., who is just some guy who I have allowed to take up space in my consciousness for far too long just because he's got nice brown skin and a South American accent and an ass that is absolutely [f-word]. I mean it's bubbly and brown and smooth and when I stick my tongue in it, the very annoying person who's attached to it just goes wild and begs me to fuck him. Which I do.

Or did, rather.

I'm not entirely sure, but I think that I first met F. when he replied to an old Yahoo personals ad. In any case, he emailed me, and we went back and forth a few times, and then we talked on the phone, and I told him that I really wanted to fuck him, and he got very excited and invited me over. F. lives in Northwest DC, in an un-air conditioned apartment building, and he doesn't have a window unit, and it was a hot day, so I went over pretty late. I think it was 10 when I knocked on his door and he let me in. After minimal pleasantries, we sat down on his couch, and I grabbed him and we started to make out. There's no doubt that F. is a great kisser and an eager bottom. We were quickly out of our clothes and into his bedroom, and I put him on his back and climbed on top of him, and grabbed his wrists and pinned them down over his head while we made out more. I was all over his nipples for a while, and then after some more kissing, he went down on me. Very ably. Credit where it's due.

After lying back and enjoying for a while, I pulled him around and slid my head between his legs so that I could eat his ass. That was always the trigger. He went from a capable cocksucker to a devouring dickhound as soon as my tongue hit his hole. It was pretty intense, but after a few minutes of that, he was begging me to fuck him.

It's pretty hot when a guy cums while you're fucking him, but it's a mixed blessing because his ass loosens a bit, and he loses some of his interest in keeping on keeping on so that you get off, too. F. was always kind of like that. Once he shot, he'd go through the motions, but you could tell that he was wondering whether he'd set the Tivo correctly. Still, it was a hot ass, and I was usually relatively close by the time he came, so it was fine to finish myself off by hand and shoot a big and forceful load (as I always shoot when I'm really worked up) all over his chest.

After that, when F. wanted to play, he'd tell me to call him when I was parking, and then he'd leave his front door open and be waiting for me: in bed, naked, ass up. The sex was always great, though sometimes when we'd talk on the phone, he'd complain that I wasn't using him enough: that when he seemed to lose interest after cumming, I should just keep fucking him harder. He also would say that he'd like it if I'd fuck him a second time before leaving. Except that whenever I came over and fucked him, as soon as I came, he'd always say that he was going out in half an hour and he needed to jump in the shower right then and I'll see you next time, ok?

So even though he'd also say that he wanted us to be friends, all he ever really wanted -- and asked for -- was a fuckbuddy. I, of course, am perfectly happy with being a fuckbuddy. I don't even mind, much, listening to you say that you want to be friends and then rolling my eyes when I'm jumping your bones because it's clear that that's all you want. As long as the bone jumping is hot.

After a while, though, F. began to be unreliable. Instead of saying, "sure, come over Friday night and fuck me," he said, "Well, I might be doing something Friday night, but I'm probably free, so call me Friday and then come fuck me," and then on Friday, he'd send a text message saying that he was busy. It happened twice.

I'll let a guy do that once to me (but only if we've had really good sex multiple times), but if you try to pull that shit a second time, I take you off my dance card. I just didn't call him again, and I consigned him to the large heap of former fuckbuddies (the FFB heap is quite large; I'm not sure how I feel about that, but I probably just think it is what it is; which it is, isn't it?) and forgot about him.

Then maybe a couple of months later, I got another text message from him.

Now please: will somebody explain the text messaging concept to me? I'd think that it was a generational thing, but F. is only four or five (and maybe fewer) years younger than me. All I know is that kids these days seem to text each other constantly. I cannot ever remember getting a text message that I was happy to get. Obviously, I can afford the dime that Cingular charges me for each text message I receive, but why does somebody want to sit there and push all those phone buttons (I do not, and will not, have a Blackberry; every summer I go and pick a couple of gallons of wild blackberries, but that's as close as I'm getting; in any case, when I get something from a Blackberry, it's in my e-mail inbox, so I don't mind) when they could make a phone call or send an e-mail? Using a real keyboard that has one character for each key! F. always said he didn't like using e-mail, but he never said why. Texting someone an address IF they're lost and they've asked for the address might be a good idea, but texting someone just to say something is passive aggressive. It's like you want to tell the other person something but you don't want to take the huge risk that they'll actually have something to say back.

Anyway, I started getting all of these "I hope u r having a good day hugs F." text messages, and I'd get out my phone and hit the little keys to say "How are you? When can we fuck?" That happened a few times, so I finally broke down and called him, and he told me that he thought I didn't like him any more because I never called him, and he wanted us to be friends, and so on and so forth, and I rolled my eyes and made nice noises at him and then he invited me over, and it was hot, as usual, and he had somewhere else to be after the fuck, as usual, and I rolled my eyes some more. As usual.

I did actually invite F. to our holiday party last year, and he seemed touched to have been asked, but he told me he was going to be out of the country, and then every time he texted me to offer me another e-hug, I'd ask if he was free to fuck, and he'd say no. So after a few tries, I gave up, and there were no more text messages, and then it was 2007 and there was busy season, and I forgot about F. entirely.

But then, last week, I got a text message. When I bought the Razr, I only moved a few of my numbers over to the new phone. I probably should have just moved the tiny little card over, but I didn't, so I put in the numbers that I know I call regularly, and then when I needed another number, I'd go to the old phone, retrieve it, and put it in the Razr. So when I got the text, it didn't say who it was from. It only said the number, but I knew it had to be from F. It was sort of vague, so I sent a vague message back to him. (I was going to quote it, but it's gone. I must have deleted it.)

Then, this week:

From F.: I send u morning hugs! Hope u'll have a gr8 wk!

From Teddy: Are you free tomorrow night?

From F.: Don't know yet, why?

From Teddy: Because I want to fuck you.

From F.: Wow!

From Teddy: You are such a tease.

And he really is. I mean, you can pretend all you want that you texted me after five months of silence because you wanted to be friends, but you know and I know (and you know that I know that you know) that you're hard up for the thick piece of meat. And there's nothing wrong with that at all, but, as the youngsters say: own it.

Apparently "tease" set him off because he called me right afterwards to complain about my having called him a tease. He went into this long spiel about how he was trying to be friends and I had shocked him by saying that I wanted to fuck him and how he was just responding to that. "But you love it when I fuck you," I told him. He allowed that he indeed did, so I asked him whether he was free the next night. He said that he thought he was, but that he wasn't sure. So I asked if Friday was better. He asked how long I'd have on Friday, and I said I could give him all night if he wanted it. He sounded excited, and we rang off.

So when I got out of work the next evening, I called him and left a message asking whether he wanted to get together. I went off to do some shopping, and he called back, and the conversation went something like this:

F.: I still have a lot of work to do tonight, so I cannot play tonight. I will think of some times that I'm free and call you and see when we can get together.

T.: Do you have plans Friday?

F.: No, that is not how I want it to be. You don't ask me. I want to tell you when I am free.

T.: I am really not interested in that.[hangs up]

The really annoying thing about cell phones is that you can't dramatically hang up on someone. There is no receiver to bang down. When F. gave me that shit about how it was going to be (which was delivered in a tone simultaneously petulant and condescending), I was pissed off. But I don't say extremely rude things on the phone, so while I may have let a bit of annoyance creep into my voice, I really just said what I said and flipped the phone shut, put it down on the passenger seat and muttered "douchebag" and went home.

Verily, I say unto you: if you don't want to have sex with me, I'm fine with that. And if you don't want to hang out with me, I'm fine with that. But don't text message me out of the blue after months of silence and act all chummy and interested just because you want to annoy me.

And while I'm ranting, there are a few other things that guys shouldn't do. If we've had sex and you obviously liked it, don't get all pissy with me when I ask you to have sex again and then tell me that you just wanted to be friends. If you want to be friends, then here's an idea: ask me to do something friendly. Or here's an even better idea: act like somebody that I would actually want as a friend, not like a douchebag.

And when someone asks you to do something, have the decency to say yes or no. Don't say that you will if you're free. Don't say, in effect, "Yeah, I'll do something with you unless I get a better offer." Of course, I blame myself partly for that one because I don't usually put up with that. If a guy says he isn't sure, I usually just tell him that I'll make other plans.

Anyway, despite modern technology's theft of a dramatic hang up, the whole interaction was empowering. There's always a bit of a rush associated with telling someone (however politely) to fuck off. It feels good to reclaim from that person the ability to annoy you. And it always feels good to have things settled, to know that there won't be any more text messages leading nowhere.

On the drive home, it occurred to me that to some extent I walked into the whole situation willingly. I mean, sure, there was a hot ass at the end of the tunnel, but I knew that the tunnel often gets blocked and leads to frustration. I am old enough to have learned (multiple times) that it doesn't pay to pursue people who really aren't interested. I knew that F. had probably texted me in a moment of horniness and that, for whatever reason, he would probably only ever put out if I was willing to be far more coy than I am ever willing to be. When I want to have sex, I say that I want to have sex. I don't ask whether you'd like to see a movie and then say that I'll stop by and we'll see what's playing and then expect you to be in your bed, naked, when I arrive. If I say I want to see a movie, I want to see a movie.

An e-bud of mine posits that for most of us sex with (relative) strangers really isn't about sex: it's about validation. It's a way of demonstrating to yourself your own worth in the marketplace. This, ultimately, is a self-defeating behavior, but I have certainly engaged in it from time to time, and I think that F. probably falls at least partly in that category.

And maybe I'm a slow learner for making that mistake again, but even a slow learner learns eventually. I had emailed one of my FWPs to see if he was free this weekend, and he'd emailed me back to say that Saturday and Sunday were out, but that Friday was free. I got his response after F. had said he might want to play Friday, so I didn't temporize with C. (i.e., I didn't reply at all, but if things had still been up in the air with F. twenty-four hours after getting C.'s email, I'd regretfully have written him to say I had other plans) because, as I've just finished ranting about, that would be very rude, and C.'s a nice guy (for a top, anyway), and while no one is deserving of rudeness, nice guys are especially undeserving. But the email was still less than a day old when F. pissed me off, so I picked up the phone and called C. He'd been having a tough day, so we chatted for a while, and then I said that Friday was good for me if it was still good for him, and just like that, I had plans with somebody nice who actually enjoys my company. It might be mostly that he enjoys my kissing and my [F-word] martinis, but he's clearly not after my cock, so I think it's mostly the companionship he likes. We'll still get naked and off, of course, but it'll be very friendly, too.

Then, for something a little more, um, athletic, I got online and found my old buddy R., the man who's an 8 on my nipple scale. He's hell in the sack, but he's around the beltway, so I haven't played with him in some time. Sexually, he thinks that I'm the greatest thing since, well, the greatest thing ever, really. I certainly don't think I'm all that, but it would be rude for me to disagree with him on this particular topic. Anyway, he and I are lined up for Saturday morning, and we're both salivating at the prospect. (I really have to find a way to include him in more threesomes with me and b&c.) And Saturday and Sunday afternoon, I have a few massages scheduled. A whole weekend of having a great time with guys who aren't douchebags.

Now if only I can find a hot sub with a lawn mowing fetish to come over and cut the grass, life would be perfect. Craigslist, here I come!

Things I Won't Do

I was home alone after midnight last night, and I was horny (again), so I figured I'd go for some phone sex. Phone sex is one of those things that I'm very good at (the bass voice is the key), but I'm in the mood for only rarely, so usually I just ring up a guy in Jersey City who likes being woken up after midnight if I say dirty things to him.

But I got his voicemail, so I hopped on the old gay.com, where I never have to wait long because -- in the phone room, anyway -- bottoms outnumber tops by about fifteen to one. And I was all set to get going on some overly staged but potentially amusing roleplay scene, when the guy said that he wanted to be just getting home from work and wearing, among other things, "tassel loafers."

(First of all, why is it "tassel loafers" instead of "tasseled loafers"? I'd also accept "tasselled loafers," because I'm that generous a man. But, ok, I recognize that the fashion industry likes to fuck with the language, and, well, it is customary not to debate matters of usage when one is negotiating phone sex.)

Then the conversation went something like:

Teddy: It's just a roleplay, right? I mean, you don't really wear tassel [sic; ugh] loafers to work, do you?
Mystery Guy: Yes, I do.
T: Oh. So you're in sales?
MG: No. I'm a govt wonk.

And then I clicked off and went to watch some porn. I mean, I'll do fat guys from time to time, but I won't go near fatuous.

(Apologies to any of you who wear tasseled loafers, but come on. Cut the tassels off and burn them or donate them to the Earrings for Lesbians foundation. Some day you'll thank me.)