With this essay, I know there is no middle ground – a reader will find this experience I describe as soulless and sad, or else a sexy, dark gem. Which is accurate? You decide.
It was the early 2000’s. I was on gay.com when a guy messaged me. He had one picture, just his flank showing off a cool tribal tattoo. He said he was straight, and wanted to get blown, pure and simple. But without a face pic, I declined and that was the end of that. Fast forward a year later. I get a message from the same guy, and he has the same picture. But this time he asks to send me a face pic by email. I give him my email and get a face pic in my inbox. A blond stud in a ball cap, late twenties, kind of rough, a hard-working guy. I say yes and he gives me his address, saying the door will be open. He lives not far from me and I hopped in the cab to get there.
I buzz him and he buzzes me in without saying anything on the apartment intercom. As is the norm for me with regard to a hook up, my heart is in my throat. I know I will soon have a dick in my mouth, but will that dick be connected to a psycho? How will it start? Will he chicken out at the last minute, being, as he says, straight? I approach the door, and can’t bring myself to knock. I hear the TV on inside, and nothing else. Crossing myself, I remember he said the door would be open. This is even more terrifying, to simply open the door to a stranger’s home. But I do.
I get inside and he is sitting, fully clothed on the couch watching the TV, on a low volume. He is in that ball cap, a flannel shirt and jeans and he’s got a beer in his hand. I say hello and he barely seems to register my arrival in his home – he keeps looking at the TV. I remove my boots and wander over to the couch, where, almost as an afterthought, he unzips and pulls out a tremendously beautiful cock and balls. Needing no further instructions, I kneel in front of him and take his cock in my mouth. The thing about it was that he smelled like – nothing at all. Very clean, well trimmed. I watch him alternately watch me and watch the TV. Out of the corners of my eyes, I take in the apartment. Somewhat messy, but with a great, tribal looking piece of artwork above the TV. He takes repeated swigs from the can of beer, and proceeds to unbutton his shirt. And I see the tattoo that I witnessed for the first time a year before on gay.com. And me? I’m in heaven, devouring his cock to the base, wanting to give him the time of his life. Emboldened, I ask if he’d like to fuck my face, and without a word, he moves off the couch to let me lay on it. He straddles my face and begins facefucking me, but I can tell that he doesn’t really want to do any work. And he wants to watch the TV. So we go back to him sitting on the couch and I kneeling between his legs. Being so quiet, he also fails to tell me that he is going to cum. In those days, I didn’t swallow, so at the first shot of cum in my mouth, I relax my mouth on his dick to let the cum dribble back down his cock. My instincts tell me that he wanted me to swallow, but this is just the way I rolled back then. Spent, he grabs some paper towel and wipes off his dick, still saying nothing. And he keeps watching the TV. He doesn’t say to leave, he doesn’t say to stay, just watches the TV. There’s not much more to do now than to put my boots on and go, and as I grab the door handle, I turn back for one last glimpse of this silent guy. He doesn’t look my way, still staring at the TV, so I quietly let myself out, relieved that I wasn’t hacked into pieces or sold into white slavery.
So what happened here? I am not interested in reading my own essay. I know what was going on in my head. For me, this was a bizarre, illicit, on-the-down-low experience. Whether he was straight or not, his claiming so was an aphrodisiac and a challenge. His trust at letting a stranger into his space was wild to me, as wild as it was to open the door to a stranger’s home. His crude level of social skills, I’m afraid to admit, lent him an air of mystery. He seemed unattached from what was happening, and that mystified me. So no, I’m not interested in reading my own essay. What I want to read is his essay about the same experience. His dick stayed uniformly hard the whole time, so on that level, he was aroused. But if he was going to be that seemingly uninvolved in his own experience, why not just jerk off? Could it be as simple as liking a mouth on his cock, and women proving too hard to get it from? Could it be that he was gay, but disliked the idea of being gay so much that he nearly disassociated from the experience? Finally, I wonder if I didn’t turn him on, in the end. I messaged him once after to say thanks for letting me over, but he did not respond, nor do I recall seeing him online again.
I have trouble remembering what he looked like, but the memory of his tattoo is clear as if it was yesterday. I wonder what that tattoo on his slim flank meant, just like I wonder what the meaning of the tribal artwork above his TV meant. I wonder if it would provide a clue into the mind and heart of this man. The two of us, completely of different universes, met and had an extremely close physical moment. But mentally, he was miles away. I did not feel slighted by this, but rather intrigued, marvelling at the many ways people seek sexual release, for a myriad of reasons. And like an anthropologist coming up short, I have no answers, just questions.