Barebacking

Part 1

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?

Part 2

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.

To Be Or Not To Be....Slutty(er)

Am I the best slut I can be?  That is the question...

When you’re a sex blog writer, and your blog depends to a degree on your identification as a proud slut, these are the types of questions you ask yourself.  Even with all my constant self-analysis, I still, on some deep level, harbor some crazy notions.  Here’s one crazy notion:

I might meet the man of my dreams at a sex club or bar or bath house.  But if I act too slutty, he won’t think I’m relationship material.  So there I am, in a sexual environment, and I’m holding back, especially if I think a certain guy in particular is amazing.  What do I mean by acting too slutty?  How do you act too slutty at a bath house, for god’s sake?  Is jacking it in the XXX room too slutty?  I’ve gone to bath houses and acted almost demure, as if I accidentally wandered in and don’t really know where I am, because I’m such a good boy.  Almost as if I was above it all.  At sex parties I frequented in Montreal, I would never be the first to unleash my dick and start jacking it, or be the first to go down on someone, because what would people think?  Instead, I’d wait for those men with no social decorum to start the night off and I’d join in since I’m there already, so I guess I’ll try....

Just who the hell do I think I’m fooling?  Would anyone believe that because I hold back and am not the first one to whip my dick out at a sex party that I am somehow better relationship material?   There is no logic here.   This is extra super insane since I don’t think I’m necessarily looking for a relationship anyway?  So what is holding me back from my slutdom?

What’s holding me back is Josh.  And Brokeback Mountain.

Josh was my first love, at sixteen.  He was straight, a year ahead of me in high school, a distant friend, but treated me like gold when our paths did cross.  It was unrequited love, but it opened my flood gates, a true watershed moment, with my tears over him shed at a rapid rate.  In spite of everything, I’ve searched for Josh in every man I’ve met since, to no avail.  I don’t know if he exists.  I don’t even know if the Josh I put on a pedestal exists.  In my mind, he was perfect.  Perhaps he’s not.  I did not know him well enough to ever find out for sure.

Brokeback Mountain did to me what I think Titanic and Harlequin romances do to girls.  They all create a mystique around finding “the one”.  I wanted to find a Jack or an Ennis while herding sheep.  I saw the movie seven times, each time alone, to revel in the fantasy of true love.  But after seeing the movie for that seventh time, I had a dream one night in which I saw the faces of Jack and Ennis.  The two faces merged into one, and then transformed into my own face staring back at me.  And I realized that possibly, just possibly, the greatest relationship I may have is the one I’m having with myself.

My true self wants to free my inner slut.  Does my need at times for hardcore sexual degradation stamp out the possibility that love could be found there as well?  What if my dream man (if such an animal exists) is a slut aficionado?  Because whether you are the type who is the first to brazenly pull your cock out at a sex party, or the shy last one, it won’t make a shred of difference as to whether you are this so-called relationship-material type person. 

I realize that I am both a victim of and a perpetrator of slut shaming.  I have avoided men who seem to be having “too much fun” at the baths, making all kinds of assumptions about them (“too easy” “probably doesn’t play safe” “probably this” “probably that”).  Conversely, I envied the freedom of those men with every pore in my body.  I could offer a course in hypocrisy 101.

Men who have moved past shame are my heroes, because of the courage is takes.  For some reason, I’m afraid to let other men see my unbridled sexual desire, even in environments where it is damn well expected!  I hereby declare that I am taking the shackles off.  I need to amputate that shame so that I can be open to the joys such sexual openness might bring.  After all, who the hell is being served when I shackle myself?

Am I An Addict?

My interest in sex and sexuality is so acute that it was just a matter of time before I asked myself that dreaded question:  Am I a sex addict?  And since I like to throw back some beer while being sexual, am I an alcoholic on top of it?

Here’s what my sex life is like:  I like to masturbate every single day, and usually for at least 3 hours at a pop (pardon the pun).  This has been my pattern for years.  As for sex with others, for a long time it centered around internet or bar hook ups, just on weekends.  I had no desire for a relationship, lived alone and liked it (still do).  Interestingly, now that I live in a city where sex is easily accessible, I’m less compelled to hook up.  There are more enticing ways to be with men, such as the monthly orgies that I have been attending.  The more the merrier! 

So if masturbation is my most regular form of sex play, could I be addicted to it and its accoutrements (porn and booze)?  One could be, yes.  One definition of sex addiction I read was that sex becomes a problem if you are using it to avoid issues in your life that need to be dealt with, or if you are trying to mask pain you’re feeling through sex.  It reminds me of the movie Shame, in which the main character uses sex in this way.  But I conversely can’t be sexual if I have an outstanding issue in my life that needs resolution.

Here’s how it works:  I get home from a job where I give my best, and come home and deal with laundry, dishes, grocery shopping and making calls to loved ones.  On a weeknight, I try to have this all accomplished by 7 PM.  Then I unapologetically turn off the phone, turn on some music and allow myself to get turned on.  It’s Jason time.

Tell me something:  Should this be pathologized?  Is it because it’s about the oh-so-scary topic of sex that we pathologize it?  Is it not pathological to watch a movie every night?  To read a book in bed for hours at a time?  Why is your hobby ok and mine a sickness?  Are we pathologizing our behavior based on cultural norms and cultural fears only?

I researched further and found that some types of sexual addiction include:  compulsive fixation on an unattainable partner, compulsive love relationships, even compulsive sexuality within a relationship.  Well, this is everyone I know except for Sister Helen at the local parish.  Behavior that signals sex addiction is usually of the sort that goes against your values.  In one article I read, it said that many clients seeking help for an addiction to masturbation "report that their internal beliefs about masturbation are that the act itself is dirty, shameful, or sinful".  But as you can tell from my writing, I value my sexuality.  I had to fight hard to get here.  To get to my current worldview of sexuality, I had to unravel all the things I was taught (explicitly and implicitly) around sexuality.  Do I feel distressed about my sexual behavior?  No.  I feel distressed, though, by the opinions others might have about it.

Is it not possible perhaps that at least some of those who seek treatment for so-called sexual addiction are simply those who unnecessarily feel guilty about sex, masturbation and porn, and would benefit more from learning to accept that they are highly sexual and see it as a gift?

I am not at all disregarding the fact that sexual behavior can in many instances interfere with a healthy life.  As in the movie Shame, if sex is the recourse taken to avoid dealing with personal issues, then “Houston, we have a problem”.  At the same time, what if your edging sessions are done after you’ve attended to your emotional and literal responsibilities?  What if the three hours you would spend to go out to the movies is replaced by going online for some sex chat?  There are a lot of bad movies out there, folks.

The sexual addict often must lie or sneak in order to act out sexually.  I lie and sneak a bit too because as open as I am, I’m not open enough to say what I really want to say to friends and family: “Listen, I’m going to be self-pleasuring between the hours of 7 and 10.  The phone will be off.  But I will get back to you first thing in the morning.”

So I had to ask myself, am I in denial?  A few months ago, I tried a little experiment:  I decided I would try for two weeks to not drink during masturbation during the weekdays.  I would only drink on a Friday or a Saturday night bate session.  The first night, without booze to fuel my bate, I just couldn’t be bothered.  I bated for two minutes and gave up.  Instead, I transferred my desire and went to McDonald’s.  Not good.

The next night I tried masturbating again, without booze, and it was pretty terrific.  But porn fueled the event.  I wondered if I now needed to try bating without porn because maybe I was a porn addict.  Sigh.  How far would I go with this thinking?  Would I no longer be able to bate in front of the mirror because maybe I was a narcissist? How much would I have to take away, how short would my bate session have to be to not consider myself addicted.  There is a saying that a slut is anyone who has more sex than you do.  How would I ever know when too much was too much?

When Friday and Saturday hit, I let myself do my usual thing – I poured myself some whisky and bated away.  It felt odd to be under the hypnotic trance of booze combined with horniness again after a few days of sober jacking.  I felt that with booze, it was almost as if another force was driving my sexual car rather than I.

Then it unraveled.  Sunday night I was not intending to drink while bating, but I did.  On Monday, feeling guilty (there’s that word again) for drinking while jacking on Sunday, I didn’t jack or drink at all, but was oh so productive.  I read in bed, but had that feeling of “isn’t there something I should be doing?”

Since I wasn’t drinking as much, my liquor supply was stretching.  I began to worry that the cashiers at the liquor store would start wondering if I was ok or had been in a terrible accident.  I wasn’t buying as much liquor and began to worry about the economy.  I questioned myself:  Had I ever been arrested for public intoxication?  No.  Had I ever pissed the bed because I drank too much the night before?  Yes, but I’m a watersports lover, so I’m not sure that this is such a bad thing, especially when you have a fantastic mattress cover that you bought online from Fort Troff.  Had I drunkenly phoned anyone late at night and started the conversation with “...And you know what your fuckin’ problem is?”  No.

Suffice to say I threw the whole experiment out the window, continuing though to wonder if I had a problem.  I had read an article on sex and masturbation addiction and it was there that I’d gotten the idea to at least scale back my edging.  The article had suggested that one try to abstain from sex and masturbation for a month and to note the feelings one had had.  I couldn’t carry out this experiment for a week.  But fast forward to my present situation...

As of this writing, I have been living in Toronto for two weeks, having moved from Montreal.  And I am not living alone.  My sister and I have temporarily moved in together, to split costs, and I am sleeping in the living room.  I am living the movie Shame wherein the protagonist’s sister comes to stay and interrupts his sex habits.  I have no privacy whatsoever.  Now, her work often takes her travelling, and I’m longing for that work of hers to begin, but in the meantime, there is no jacking.  Why don’t I quickly rub one out in the shower you ask?  It’s just not my style.  If I can’t edge for a minimum of three hours, I won’t bother.  I’m just not satisfied with a quickie.  Sometimes me and my sister will share a bottle of wine, but that’s a far as the drinking goes.  My feeling is “Why drink?” if it’s not going to be accompanied by my hand (or someone else’s hand) on my dick.  The move was costly, so I can’t just hit the bars or bathhouses to pick up a trick.  I have to make do.

So how am I doing with this abstaining from lack of sexual activity?  I’m a bit grouchy but try not to let it show;  otherwise, I’m holding out until my sister starts travelling for work.  I’m getting more writing done and working out more, which admittedly makes me happy.  Today I’m going to sort through receipts since it’s tax time.  How exciting!  I’m more caught up with emails than ever before.  My friends have no idea why.

And so it goes. In the future, I will continue to keep one eye open for signs that I’m taking it too far with my sexual behavior.  On the other hand, perhaps a sense of humor about it all would be a nice change from the constant self-analyzing.  I did the online research for this essay on sex addiction hours before going out the door to the above-mentioned orgy! 

So for now, this is my message to You:  It’s 6:30 PM.  So if You want to chat on the phone, best call me now.  You’ve got until 7.  Then I’m going to have to excuse myself to spend a little time with myself.  I’ve spent all day attending to others, attending to the necessities of life.  But now Jason needs a little attention.  I’m not going to get all high and mighty on myself about this.  I’m the kind of guy who likes to throw back a beer and get naked – sue me.  One man on Xtube writes in his profile “I am a cock worshipping sex addict and fucking happy to be one.”  I laughed so hard in recognition and thought to myself that if I and he are sex addicts, oh well...forgive us.

Death, and Rebirth

The plane to my new home of Montreal couldn’t fly fast enough.

A year and a half before that flight to Montreal, I had visited Montreal and Toronto on vacation.  But it wasn’t really a vacation – I was scouting out the two cities in an effort to decide which one I wanted to move to.  I was living in a small city in Western Canada, and I was dying from the sense of isolation I felt there.  Isolation from men like me, isolation from the creativity that is borne of shared sexuality.  Yes, I had gay male friends in the West, but the dating (fucking?) pool was small and incestuous.  The two small gay bars were emptied out, ravaged by the internet.  Online, on Manhunt or Squirt, there were hardly any men in my city online.  The city had two bathhouses, and this presented a problem.  Which one will have the most men?  I always assumed that the one I chose for the night was the wrong one, since I often was the only man there, wondering lost and alone in a towel and a bad mood.

It was not a city for a slut like me.

But what is a slut?  A slut to me is a person who needs to connect with more than just one person, and on multiple levels, and that connection is borne through the conduit of sexuality.  It’s a polyamorous notion.  It’s not negative in the least, and neither does it negate the fact that I may choose monogamy at some point.  I’ll leave it at that, since I don’t wish to defend myself any longer on the issue of sluthood.

And so after visiting Montreal, I headed to Toronto, and sat in a Starbucks in Toronto’s Village, and made a list of pros and cons regarding the two major centers.  Almost all the pros favored moving to Toronto, because ultimately, Montreal is a French-speaking city.  I speak French (as one person put it) like a third grader with head trauma.  But Montreal is also a dirty, sexy city light years ahead of the rest of North America in its openness to sex.  I was intrigued.  I was ignorant.  I was naive.  Most of all, I was hopeful.  I chose to move to Montreal.

A year and a half later, I landed in my new city and in the cab, I wept at the first sight of Montreal’s downtown skyline.

It is now three years later, and I have just left Montreal.  Guess where I moved to yesterday?

Toronto.

My job paid shit in Montreal, and layoffs were being announced.  I never did master the French language.  A job offer presented itself in Toronto and I took it.  Last Sunday, I stood in my emptied-out apartment in the Montreal Village, and I sobbed.  The sobs echoed in the empty space.  I sobbed because in spite of the fact that I, an Anglophone, had no business living in Montreal, Montreal had opened its arms to me and healed me.  That healing began on the stages of comedy clubs.

At work one day, a co-worker laughed at my impromptu jokes and said I was funny.  Then, she dared me to write my jokes down and create an act for a comedy club.  I took the bait.  What was born was an act that centered around being a horny, thirty-something man living in Montreal’s Gay Village.  I would hit the stage, telling the audience that “I never remember a face unless I’ve sat on it” and close with this:

“I’m a horny guy, as you can tell, but the strangest things happened to me this week:  I lost my sex drive.  But you see, when you lose your sex drive, that passion doesn’t just disappear, oh no, it just finds a new way to flow.  And for me, it flows right to the fridge.  When I lose my sex drive, I want to EAT everything in sight.  Like, have you ever had the experience where you’re being gangbanged by four guys, and all you can think is “Gee, I’d love a jelly donut...”

I won a few contests and some money.  My friends and family who came to watch my act gently suggested that I might want to broaden my comedy horizons and write jokes about something other than gay dating and sex.  I adamantly refused.  I couldn’t make a political joke for the life of me, and didn’t want to.  There are two great moments in one’s life:  The moment you are born, and the moment you know what you were born for.  I felt that I was born to communicate my experiences as a gay, sexual being.

Less than a year ago, I gave birth to this blog.  When I was doing my comedy act, my sister would listen and say “It’s good Jason, but go deeper.”  I never could figure out how to fully flesh out the difficult parts of my sexual journey and still be funny.  But with this blog, I didn’t have to worry about getting immediate laughter from a crowd.  I didn’t have to be a dancing monkey on a stage.  I let the comedy act go and focused on this blog.

Men - men like You reading this - began to write to me or comment right on the blog, and it cracked me wide open.  There was this frank, honest dialogue about our respective sexual journeys.  I felt nothing less than honored and humbled by the messages I received.

Last Saturday, my dear friend Alex threw me a going away party.  Alex had recently had a stroke and had fought his way back, regaining his ability to speak and walk after much arduous therapy.  He’s a slut too, and he said he had to get better – “There are men still to fuck!”  After the ordeal of being in a rehabilitation center for four months, he was able to return home, and upon doing so, slowly walked himself to a tattoo parlour and had the word “Courage” tattooed on his forearm.  Courage is, to me, the hottest thing about a person. 

At this going away party, Alex’s many neighbours showed up.  I drank myself silly and necked with two of the guests before stumbling home.  In the morning, my mattress was wet with piss.  No biggie, the mattress was going in the trash, and truthfully, that was an appropriate ending for this piss pig.  After my aforementioned sob in the empty apartment, I moved my luggage out into the hallway, and looked at that apartment one last time.  I breathed in the beginnings that had occurred while living within those four walls.  I silently thanked Montreal for the gift of life, for the men I had known in its wonderful Village, for the return of a creative life.  I said thank you, and then closed the door.

And so, tonight, my first night living in Toronto’s Gay Village, I am back where I started, writing this at the Starbucks where I had once made my list of pros and cons about whether to live in Montreal or Toronto.  We are not born once, nor do we die once.  Life is a series of births followed by deaths followed by rebirths.  What sexual journeys will I encounter here in Toronto?  Will you, Dear Reader, continue to share with me your sexual journey so that I may learn from you?  Toronto, will you welcome me as I, a gypsy at heart, start anew?  Men of Toronto, will the encounters I have with you illuminate our sexual lives, will we connect?  Sexual attraction can bring together disparate people who might never otherwise have met.  Who will I meet and how?  Most importantly, will I meet myself more fully in the process?  Hello Toronto.  My name is Jason Armstrong.

Amsterdam

Amsterdam.   The city famous for its red light district.  However, one lane over, and you are in the blue light district – the gay section.  Picture it – Summer of 2002.  I was wrapping up a three month run in a production of “Singin’ in the Rain” at a theatre in Western Canada.  Just the chorus, nothing to get excited about.  I decided that I was long overdue to have a Summer (or at least three weeks) in Europe.  (My last time in Europe was at age 16 as an exchange student in France.  This time, I would be seeing and experiencing it through adult lenses).   Being the slut that I am, I was going to hit two of the biggest gay meccas Europe had to offer – Amsterdam and Berlin.  From the tour guides that I read, it seemed that every bar in those two cities had backrooms, and I intended to get to know each one.  So I packed my sexiest clothes, my leather, and those tour guides, and flew across the Atlantic.

In Amsterdam, I had booked a bed and breakfast, The Golden Bear (men only).  I was staying on the top floor, and like you see only in Europe, I had to ascend up the narrowest staircase I had ever seen.  After freshening up, I headed out on to the street to get acclimatized to my new neighbourhood, where I would be staying for a week.  I found a quaint cafe nearby and had dinner on the patio.  Next to me sat a gentleman of Arab descent, and seeing the tour guide in my hand, asked me where I was travelling from.  He himself was a student in London and said that every now and again he took the short flight to Amsterdam to have a good time.  Did he have any advice on where to have a good time? I asked.  He pointed across the street at a bath house, saying he’d had many a good time there.  And so I thought about it:  I was really keen to hit the blue light district’s bars and backrooms and dungeons, but evening was upon me.  I hadn’t yet figured out how to get to the blue light district, and so, even though a bath house wasn’t new for me, it seemed right for tonight, at least, to stay close to the B&B.  I thanked my first of many angels on this trip for his advice and excitedly went back to the B&B to get ready.

As I headed to the bathhouse, I felt like Dorothy in Oz, and I knew that this was the beginning of some type of sexual adventure.  Who would I meet, both tonight but also throughout this European vacation?  What would happen?  Would it all be sunshine and lollipops, or was trouble lurking?  There is no walk longer than the walk to a bath house.  You are filled with a mixture of excitement, embarrassment, dread, and again excitement.  By time you reach the door, you are often whacked out with panic and a racing heart.  If I can just get myself through the door, I’ll be ok, you tell yourself.  And once you’re in the door, you feel as if you’ve reached Everest.  And to reference Oz again, I felt like the cowardly lion approaching the door to the bathhouse.  I had come to Europe to experience sexual freedom.  Was I going to abandon that goal due to nerves and just visit museums?  No.  (Well, I did visit the torture museum, so there).

Once safely inside the bathhouse, I noticed that it was A-1 quality – modern and big, with at least three levels.  But unlike any bathhouse I’d been to before, there were no rooms to rent, just lockers.  I soon understood why.  Instead of rooms, there were loads of cabins, with beds that didn’t have sheets, just vinyl coverings.   The cabins had no ceilings, and the walls were so low that by standing on the bed, you could look directly into your neighbour’s cabin and watch them – an exhibitionist’s paradise!  This worked for me, but I wondered about those for whom privacy is a must while having sex.  I assumed that those folks would just not choose to frequent this particular establishment.

After showering and cruising a bit, I met a guy named Marco – a cute blond Italian who had once been to my home city in Canada.  And into a cabin we went.  A great guy, Marco and I talked as much as we had sex.  I topped him, using a condom.  He came, but I didn’t.  I wasn’t ready for the night to end – I wanted more.  Marco seemed disappointed that I didn’t come with him, and I had a hard time explaining that I wanted to stay longer.  I still wasn’t owning up to my sluttiness and couldn’t just be forthright and say I wanted to cruise around some more.  We left the cabin, said our goodbyes, and I showered and carried on.

I headed into the movie theatre, and upon entering, encountered a hot guy with dark, curly locks.  When he saw me, our eyes met and he straightened up, and I knew he was the one.  I sat near him, with just one theatre seat between us, and had one eye on the porn playing on the screen, and him in my peripheral vision.  Ladies and Gentlemen, what comes next is an age-old mating ritual between two men at a bathhouse.  It goes like this:  I inch my foot casually closer in his direction, so casual that it’s almost imperceptible.  Then he does the same.  That is my cue to move my foot a bit closer to his.  And he does the same.  Finally our feet touch.  Then what?  Well, someone has to do something.  And what he did was get up and leave.  I instinctually followed, and hoping he would, he turned back to check if I was following.  Wordlessly, he lead me to a cabin and in we went.

I found this Dutchman incredibly gorgeous, and his soft, curly dark locks in my hands made me crazy.  We rolled around on the bed, kissing, touching, exploring.  And then he turned me onto my stomach and got on top of me.  He began to thrust, but it was simulated fucking – he never entered me.  Really, he just rubbed his cock against my ass.  After we both eventually came, we lay there and talked, stroking each other all the while.  I decided that I loved Amsterdam.

However, do you recall that I said the walls of these cabins were so short that people could watch what you were doing?  Since I was on my stomach with my Dutchman grinding against my ass, I hadn’t noticed that we had a silent audience. Nor did I realize that Marco was a part of the audience.  The trouble with exhibitionism comes when you can’t control who’s doing the watching.  The Dutchman and I left the cabin, and there was a naked man sitting by the door of the neighbouring cabin, and he looked at me as I passed and said “you should use protection”.  Dumbfounded, I carried on, only to be accosted by Marco, who grabbed my arm and berated me for fucking him and then apparently having unprotected sex with someone else, saying that he’d have never allowed me to fuck him if he’d known I have unsafe sex.  I said that he had it wrong, I hadn’t been fucked, it just looked like that.  But he was having none of it and stormed off.

I was due to meet the curly-haired Dutchman on the street to get his phone number, so showered again, dressed and left the bathhouse.  Once on the street, still reeling from Marco and his accusation, I took the Dutchman’s business card.  “Do you really want me to call you at work?  Wouldn’t it be best if I called you at home?” I asked.  But no, I couldn’t call him at home – because his boyfriend might answer.

I went back up the street to the B&B and instantly threw the Dutchman’s business card in the trash.  Was my whole trip destined to be full of this melodrama?  Would this fun frolic through Europe devolve into something negative and difficult?

Three weeks later, after touring Europe, I was back in Amsterdam, just for a night, to catch my return flight back to Canada.  Terribly heartsick over a guy I had met in Berlin, I wandered to a bar for one last taste of European nightlife before I had to say goodbye to the Continent.  And there, at the bar, was the Dutchman, standing with whom I assumed was the boyfriend.  The Dutchman and I awkwardly exchanged hellos and goodbyes. With a plane to catch in the morning, I didn’t stick around to hear him explain me to the boyfriend. 

That's Life!

1)      You’re sitting back in the tub and a hot guy is standing above you, trying to piss.  He’s a bit piss shy, but you’re an expert at this.  You talk dirty to him, goading him to release his golden shower on you because you want it oh so bad.  “Mark your territory, man.....I need it....right on my fuckin’ face.....fuck man, I can’t wait to see that piss shoot outta that hot dick....”  And on it goes.  But there comes a point when you just run out of things to say.  You’re spent.  Even you can only manage “I’m your cum eating whore” so many times with feeling.   So you fall silent.  And lo and behold, he pisses!  Eureka!  That’s when a troubling thought hits you – he was probably just too polite of a fellow to tell you what he was thinking – to shut the hell up.

 

2)      Speaking of piss:  You get a text message from a guy asking if you’re free tonight for a hook-up.  You have no idea who this person is, and ask for his name.  He texts it and still, you are stumped.  You text back, saying sorry, the name isn’t ringing a bell.  He texts back with “You pissed on me and then fucked me.”  You’re still stumped because, hell, that could be anybody...

 

3)      Speaking of piss some more:  Carter and you have played and gone to bed (you’re letting him stay the night because he had too much to drink and he lives far).  In the middle of the night, he stirs and gets up and wobbles.  “Carter, are you ok?” you ask, but he doesn’t respond.  He lurches forward and winds up on the couch, which faces the bed.  He is looking in my general direction, but not really at me, and I realize he is sleepwalking.  He stands again, and I know very well not to startle a sleep walker, so I say gently, “It’s ok Carter, come back to bed, come this way...”  He gets off the couch clumsily and stumbles near the bed and then stops.  And pisses, all over the carpet.  I just watch with resignation – there is nothing I can do.  When he goes in the morning, I will be on my knees scrubbing.

 

4)      Speaking of my carpet some more...Ok, so you have a cold.  Is that going to keep you from an edging session?  Hell no!  Because tonight is special.  You’ve saved up a week’s worth of loads in a pill bottle and you’re going to play with it.  A strange fetish?  Not on Xtube!  You’re hard, you’ve had a drink, and this is the moment.  You open the pill bottle and take a whiff of the cum.  The smell is both that of bleach and manhood, and it smells divine.  The trouble is, the smell prompts a sneeze, during which you lose control of the pill bottle and the contents go flying onto the carpet.  My poor, beleaguered carpet – how much more can it take?  There is nothing hotter than watching a grown man with a hard on sniffling and scrubbing cum out of a carpet.

 

5)      You’re at the bathhouse, feeling like a million bucks.  You walk the halls and you know everyone there wants you.  Even the hot guy you just passed who didn’t make eye contact with you at all – he’s just shy, poor thing.  You ponder how he was probably intimidated by your sexual energy.  Thinking this, you suddenly feel your footing lose itself, and you realize minutes too late that you didn’t notice a step that was in front of you, and you trip.  Alpha male becomes bottom bitch in two seconds flat!

 

6)      You know you live in a gay village when you move into a new apartment block find out that your neighbour is a past trick.  A trick that called you for more and whom you never responded to.  A few nights later while out at the bar, you meet a hot guy who asks to take you home.  You discover that he lives in your block, and not only that, in the suite above you.  So you’re the guy who flushes at 3 AM on the dot each night!  You hesitate about going to his apartment for fun, because, after all, you shouldn’t shit where you eat, right?  But then you consider that the walk of shame home will be very short so what the hell....

 

This Is Horniness

This is horniness.

At the gym, a tall, dark and handsome drink of water is doing bench presses, and every time he pushes up, his dark, hairy pits are on display – over and over and over again.  He’s in shorts, and his legs are hairy too.  You wonder about his bush, and quickly grab hold of yourself before someone catches you gawking.

This is horniness.

You’re at the leather bar, drunk, and pissing into a urinal.  Even though there are lots of urinals, another guy pulls up at the urinal right next to yours and whips it out.  You are two men displaying your manhood and checking out the equipment.  You look up at him and smile, because you are both horny pigs, you “get it”, and you respect it.

This is horniness.

You started a night of edging by stripping and dancing in front of your mirror – just mildly drunk.  By the fifth hour of watching porn, you’re wasted and hunched over the computer, a sad sack of a man beating it like it owes you money.  You edge it really close and then stop.   You think you are amazing and all powerful, even though you are a hot mess.

This is horniness.

You walk by a bathhouse on your way to meet a buddy at a coffeeshop.  The smell of towels being laundered drives you crazy and you know that talking about anything other than sex is going to bore the hell out of you.  Luckily your friend is also a slut. 

This is horniness.

You’ve met a Master, who starts off by only letting you get your face close to his dick and looking at it.  When he thinks you deserve it, you get to kiss it.  The lights are low, and the punk rock music he loves plays.  You start to quiver.  It’s a half hour before he lets you take his dick in your mouth.  When he does, you have a strange sort of body orgasm and beg for more.  After another half hour, he feeds you his cum because you are deserving and he is generous.

This is horniness.

You are chatting online with a guy you once hooked up with years ago.  You are talking about yet another guy that you’ve both slept with separately.  He tells you that he watched that guy get gangbanged bare in the back of a pick-up truck.  Half your brain asks why he took the risk of unsafe sex.  The other part of your brain is jealous.

This is horniness.

You meet a guy online who wants to come over at 4 in the morning.  You know he could be a killer, could try to rob you blind.  But you will risk it to be naked with a man.  So you hide your wallet and wait for him, half hoping he doesn’t show up.

This is horniness.

Nervous as hell, on a trip to Amsterdam, you enter a popular bar with a backroom.  After a couple drinks, you take off your tank top, hook it into your belt, and head to the backroom and proceed to blow a crowd of four men facing you.  Nearly simultaneously, they blow on your chest, each turned on by the sight of the others cumming.  You all say thanks, smile, and you put the tank top back on over the fresh cum and sally on down back to the bar and order up a whisky.  For these few minutes, you are the cock of the block.

This is horniness.

You are dancing in a sea of shirtless sweaty men, lights flashing and music pulsing.  You are on another planet, shirtless yourself, and you instinctively grab hold of your crotch and fall in love with every man on the dance floor.  Yet you wonder if you’ll be going home alone.  You remind yourself to just enjoy the moment, to enjoy the horniness.  You would like to make love to everyone in the club, but doubt that would satiate you.  What would?