The bathhouse was old and decrepit. And I seemed to be the only one there, except for the cute door guy who let me in. And so I wandered past the door guy while he was mopping a TV room, hoping that maybe he’d take a break from work, but he seemed very into that damn mop. Continuing on, I ran into one man, an older man, and smiled. He was not my type, but I was glad to see a sign of life. I’d never been to this bathhouse before as it’s outside the Village. I had wanted to get away from the Village crowd and see what a bathhouse on the outskirts had to offer. I began to wish I’d stayed in the Village. Heading into the XXX video room, I sat on a decrepit, cloth couch. I was terrified I’d get fleas. Nevertheless, I looked at the porn on the screen, opened my towel and started stroking my cock.
Just as the porn star on the screen was begging for more fucking, in walked an absolute angel. In shyness, I covered my hard cock with my towel. This man, a bit younger than me, had the body of an Adonis – a silky-smooth perfectly-formed hairless chest and washboard abs. He came over to me, and then moved behind the couch where he grabbed my chest from behind. Bending forward, he worked his way down to my dick, which was already standing at attention. His mouth near my ear, he said “Come back to my room.”
In his room, we kissed and frotted and grabbed and licked and rimmed and sucked. At one point he lubed up his hole, climbed on top of me, grabbed my dick and put the tip of it against his hole. When he applied pressure with the weight of his gorgeous body, I wriggled away a bit, smiled and said “Do you have a condom?” He said he didn’t. “Damn,” I said and laughed at the irony of the moment. “I have some in my room, I can go get one or five.” “It’s ok,” he replied, not looking me in the eye, and began again to try to insert my cock in his ass. Again, being under him, I had to wriggle my cock away. “Sorry man, but I have to use a condom to fuck,” I said. He seductively drew himself down so that his mouth was against my ear, just like the first time he had spoken to me. He whispered, “Just don’t think about it.”
When someone tells you not to think about something, it becomes the only thing you can think about. I lost my hard-on and jokingly said that my cock needed a break. I politely excused myself, went to my room, dressed and set down the stairs to leave. I passed my Adonis in the stairwell. I looked at him, ready to smile and say something jokey like “Looks like my cock is done for the day,” but he made no eye contact, as if I was a ghost.
I got to thinking about the responsibility we men have towards each other. This Adonis wasn’t going to negotiate anything with me. He wasn’t going to ask me to fuck him bareback, he was going to assume I’d be fine with it and put the wheels in motion. As I walked home from the bathhouse, his line – Just don’t think about it – began to infuriate me. This angel began to represent to me the devil in disguise, a man so completely insensitive to my health. In an earlier post, I shared how I happily became a poz-friendly guy, but this situation didn’t afford me any concern or real communication. How many times had Adonis said to other men “just don’t think about it,” and against their better inclinations, tried not to think about it because he was just so damn hot?
When I first moved to this city’s Village, I hit the bar near my building and was approached by a cute bearded guy around my age. “I think we live in the same building,” he said. I hadn’t found a job in this dirty, sexy city yet, and it was only a Wednesday night, so the bar was quite empty. The bearded guy introduced himself as Pete. Many beers later, we left to our shared building and ended up at his apartment. I had drunk a lot. I was flat out a messy drunk by time we got through his door. And you know what I did? I asked if he had any beer. He did and opened me one. Right there by his fridge, we peeled off our clothes and began to make out. Somehow or other, he grabbed me from behind, and I could feel him pressing his cock against my ass. “I’m a top,” I laughed. “Sorry buddy.” He asked me if I wanted to fuck him. “Do you have a condom?” I asked. “No, I only fuck bareback.”
There was no fucking that night. I turned down the offer of fucking, but we continued to play, getting into his tub to piss on each other. I don’t remember getting out of there, I don’t remember getting to my apartment, I don’t remember much at all. But I remember that he had said he only fucked bareback.
He would have fucked me. I don’t think he intended to ask if I was poz or neg. Why? Did he not care? He’s a super friendly guy, and on occasion we run into each other in the lobby or in the laundry room. One time, while in the elevator, the doors opened and he got on. We exchanged pleasantries, joked and lamented that the pool in the building was closed for repairs. The doors opened on my floor and as I exited, he said “see you soon sexy.” I turned back and smiled and he winked at me. I turned again and began walking down the hall. As I listened to the elevator doors closing shut behind me, I wondered at how pleasant this all was. Should I not be angry that a gay brother was willing to play Russian roulette with my health? He must have seen how drunk I was that night. What if I’d not had my wits about me at all? Should I be furious? I understand that barebacking is a choice that many men make, and should be able to make. I’ve done it a handful of times. There are times where it’s appropriate for the partners involved. But without communication, by assuming I’m fine with it, I feel violated. But unable to express it. And so now, when I run into Pete, we act like the night didn’t even happen. He calls me “sexy” and I smile back at him. With him, I feel muzzled. With you, Dear Reader, I do not.