Solosexuality

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Sex and Disability

After two pot brownies, my friend Alex was in fine form at the party we were at.  Minus the pot brownies, this was a pretty staid group of people, but once Alex got a little high, all bets were off.  “You’re so attractive.  You make me moist!” he bellowed at some mortified straight man.  My head spun only to find Alex talking to said straight man and his girlfriend.  Alex was propositioning them for a threesome but qualified it to the girl by saying it was only to get into her boyfriend’s pants.  I decided the straight couple needed to be rescued from Alex and went over.  “You’ll have to excuse Alex, he’s had a stroke, and he’s had two brownies.”  “The stroke didn’t take away my sight and I know an attractive man when I see one,”  Alex said, taking one more glance at the straight man as I pulled him away.  “Do you want to sniff my diaper?”

Alex was indeed wearing a diaper, and was just the kind of man who let everybody know it.  It was a badge of honor for all that he had been through.  He’d already been living with HIV since the early 80’s, since before HIV had a name.  His bowels and bladder didn’t always give him much warning.  I remember the day I received a call from our mutual friend David in September, telling me that Alex had had a stroke and was in the emergency room at the General.

I got to the hospital and found Alex.  The right side of his body was paralyzed, including his face.  His mouth drooped on the right side and his speech was slurred.  He looked up at me as I knelt to kiss his forehead.   “They say I might not ever walk again,” he said, enunciating as best he could.  “We’ll get through this Alex.  You’ll walk again, I know it, “ I countered.  “Damn right I’ll walk again.  There are still men to fuck.”

Alex didn’t see the inside of his apartment again for four long months.  After being in the emergency room for a torturous week until they could find him a room, and then two weeks in that hospital room, he was transferred to a rehabilitation centre.  While I watered the plants in Alex’s apartment and collected his mail, Alex engaged in the arduous task of learning to use the right side of his body.  His doctors warned that another stroke was not an impossibility.  He battled through and was released from the rehab center just before Christmas.  And that’s when he completely broke down.

Alex was henceforth differently-abled, if you will.  He required a brace to walk, to walk ever so carefully.  His right arm was still immobile.  We had dinner together every Saturday night once he returned home.  We would order pizza and I would read the latest essay I’d written for this blog to him.  He was the one person to hear my essays before I posted them, and my short essay would launch us into an examination of our sex lives.  Alex never allowed for bitterness, but I remember the Saturday night that he looked at me and asked, with tears in his eyes,  “Will a man ever want to be with me again?”

I remembered, long ago, in my mid-twenties, being at the New York City Pride Parade.  I recall only two moments from that parade, and both of them left a deep impression on the young gay man that I was.  The first moment was when the float passed by on which there were men who had fought at Stonewall  on that fateful night in ’69, when our history changed forever.  These men were old, with canes and in wheelchairs.  They had been there, and they were here with us now.  As they floated down the street, I realized I’d just witnessed history.  My history.  The whooping from the crowd told me that everyone around me was sharing the exact same feeling.

The second moment that I recall was when a gay group in wheelchairs passed by.  Young and old, of every race, their presence hit me.  It became all too clear, all at once, that our society neglects to recognize the disabled as sexual.  And here they were, claiming their orientation, refusing to be left in the shadows or on the sidelines.  As with the men who had fought at Stonewell, I knew I was witnessing something that I did not feel much of within my own belly:  I was witnessing what looked like courage, and I found it beautiful.

After Alex had his stroke, I did some research – on Xtube.  I found an instructional video for sex workers on how to best cater to the needs of their disabled clientele.  And then I found a video by a man who suffered from some type of palsy.  He was jacking off and I so wanted to be there with him.  His pits, his cock, his absolute engagement were hot – his palsy did not matter.  I wrote him a message telling him how amazing his vid was and posted a comment on his profile.  I didn’t hear back from him.

Alex is improving.  He’s walking without a brace, and he’s getting movement back in his right arm and hand.  He’s even venturing forth to the Eagle again.  More than that, he got picked up recently and took the man back to his place.  But he called me to tell me that it didn’t work.  His body did not want to cooperate with his desire.  He was momentarily bereft.  He is not supposed to take Viagra, but to hell with it – he ordered some online and his doctor is turning a blind eye for him.  Alex is a force to be reckoned with.

Last night, I hit the streets of the village to go get a pack of cancer-causing smokes.  I began to think about the ways we are all disabled.  For some of us, it is visible to others.  But for many, it’s invisible.  It’s the disease that’s eating us from the inside.  It’s the mental anguish that we mask so as to appear normal.  Among the many casualties of illness or disability is our sexuality.  Always, we are fighting to reclaim it, from external forces, or internal.

As I walked down the steps from the tobacco shop, I noticed a young man in a motorized wheelchair.  He couldn’t have been more than twenty-four.  He, like the man in the Xtube video I had watched, appeared to suffer from a palsy.  He was alone on the street, in this Gay Village, and he looked bewildered, lost.  He did not see me see him.  And he was gorgeous.  My instinct was to reach out to him.  I wanted to make love to him.  I wanted to let him know that if he was in the Village seeking comfort from the men who walked by, he would find it.  I wanted to take his cock in my mouth.  I wanted to enter him and fill him with light so that he shone like a nuclear reactor.  I wanted to believe that my feelings were not born of pity or fear that by the grace of god, that could be me.  I wanted to apologize to him if these thoughts were in any way construed as condescending or patronizing.  I wanted to tell him that even though I am so-called able-bodied, that I have struggled since childhood with an illness that I rarely discuss, an illness that constantly thwarts my sexuality, an illness that no one can see, but that I experience so profoundly.  I wanted......But instead, seeing him carry on down the sidewalk, I too continued on my way.  But oh how I wanted....

When Alex first got home from rehab, he was sternly warned against walking too far from home.  And to walk, especially in the beginning, was laborious for Alex.  But secretly, one day, Alex walked from his apartment to the nearest tattoo parlour.  The next Saturday night, he surprised with me his tattoo.  On the inside of his left forearm, he’d had the word “Courage” inscribed in glorious script.  I wondered, like the Cowardly Lion from the Wizard of Oz, if I would ever have the courage to both come back from an illness, or to even get and stay sick, and still reclaim myself and my sexuality.  In my twenties, I thought that the perfect man was the one with the six-pack abs.  But Alex’s courage to face disability and still move forward changed that.  I think that having just turned forty, I am maybe, just maybe, growing up.

Threesomes

“Why don’t you jerk us both off until we cum in your face?”

This is what Keith told me he told The Guy.  My buddy Keith and I were at the bar, and I couldn’t believe what Keith was telling me – that he had propositioned The Guy and included me in as part of the bargain.  As Keith told me this, two things went through my head:  first, I’d never been part of a threesome before.  Second, Keith was my friend.  Was I now about to be in a sexual situation with him?  Keith went back to The Guy and a deal was struck.  The Guy didn’t want to be seen leaving all together (why?) and said he would get in his jeep and pick us up on the street corner outside the bar, like a couple of hookers.  The Guy was hot and I was in.  Keith and I left the bar seconds after The Guy did, and true to his word, The Guy was waiting for us at the corner and we hopped in his vehicle.

He drove us to his place, and led us to the basement, to an unfurnished, unfinished room with just a bare mattress on the floor.  We all began to make out, but something became clear right away – The Guy was more into me than Keith, and from the start, Keith was already taking second billing.  Clothes off, we ended up a trio on the mattress, the only light coming from a bare bulb in the hallway outside the room.

This would be a night of firsts for me:  my first threesome, my first time being sexual with a person who was previously simply a buddy, and the first time I would try poppers.  “Do you want a hit?”  The Guy asked me.  “What are those?” I asked.  “Poppers,” he told me.  “What do I do with them?” I asked.  He answered by demonstrating, and then passed them to me.  I did my first hit, and waited.  For the first second or two, I felt nothing.  But then....oh then....a rush through my whole body unlike anything I’d ever felt.  I was immediately on fire and instinctually offered up my ass.  Who invented poppers?  And could I thank him personally?  The poppers turned my sexuality into sharp relief.  I was so horny, I felt like one big giant cock.  The Guy took my invitation, rolled on a condom, lubed me up and entered me and it was bliss.  Keith offered his cock to The Guy to suck, but The Guy was concentrating on fucking me and Keith was on the sidelines once more.

When The Guy pulled out to go and piss, it gave me and Keith a moment to touch and caress and give each other “I can’t believe we’re doing this!” looks to each other.  I wanted to make Keith feel secure.  When The Guy came back, he resumed fucking me, and Keith took charge and started fucking The Guy.

I don’t remember how it ended – this was some years ago – but I do remember Keith and I leaving and tumbling into the street, laughing and half running, as if we’d just robbed a bank, not believing that we’d had our first threesome, as apparently it was Keith’s first time too.  I wondered if this was true.  After all, Keith had been so brazen at the bar, propositioning The Guy as he had.  What we did say was that we were so glad that we had experienced this together.

Threesomes are a blast.  The more the merrier.  And ironically, it feels like less pressure than a one-on-one sexual experience.  In a one-on-one experience, I feel I have to be all things to my partner, while in a threesome (and later, foursomes, fivesomes, and so on), one can hand over the reins to another person and be a voyeur for a moment and still not feel you’re letting anyone down or ruining the momentum.

The issue often becomes one of:  Do I like one guy more than the other?  How can I make it appear not so in order to satisfy all egos?  Because I haven’t been in a relationship since the Stone Age, I usually have been the third party to a coupled pair.  Therefore, in those situations, I get to be the centre of attention, around which the fun revolves.  But what is the experience like for the couple, especially if they intuit that I’m hornier for one than the other?  Does it show?  Or am I a good enough play partner that I make all feel equally attractive and desired?

When I look back at that first threesome, I think first and foremost of that bare mattress in that unfinished room in that dank basement.  It was a decidedly sordid environment.

How wonderful...

Craigslist

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The Ethical Slut

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Poz Friendly

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Cock Sucking

Who doesn’t love cock sucking!  Evidently, some people don’t.  Even some gay men.  But I love it.   There are those that make it an Olympic sport.  I played with one guy who claimed to have sucked a guy’s cock for ten hours straight, with breaks only for meals and the bathroom.  In another essay of mine about an orgy in Berlin, I recounted seeing two hot men, each on a podium, with a line-up of men in front of them all waiting their short turn to suck the cocks of the exalted studs.  And what’s better than one in your mouth but two or more!  It’s a challenge, so you have to roll up your proverbial sleeves and hunker down.

But it’s not always so simple.  I’ve sucked a few dicks that smelled downright bad.  I don’t mean the hot, musky odor of a hard-workin’ man.  I’m talking stench.  However!  There are some men out there looking for that perfect unwashed dick.  (I remember blowing a guy in New York City once who didn’t have any discernible scent at all, which is very rare, isn’t it?).

I think cocks are like snowflakes – they all look alike and yet are vastly individual.  Big, small, cut, uncut, they’re all wonders.  Now, I do like to suck a cock that’s hairy, but if you’re shaved or trimmed, I’m not going to kick you out of bed at all.

Deep throating is going to be a challenge if you have a gag-reflex.  Sometimes I’m fine, and can get the cock all the way down and hold it there.  I usually want to shout at these moments “Look at me go!”, but all that comes out is “oo a e o”.  However, once, and only once, I did something we who love getting face-fucked fear happening.  I threw up on the dick.  It wasn’t a lot, just a little bit of puke – just enough to look up at my partner and say “My bad.”  But even this has been fetishized by some.  I had a Master who told me that he liked hearing me gag - it meant I was working hard.  I learned from him not to fear the gag so much.

“If I could suck my own dick, I’d never leave the house!”  How many times have we heard this joke?   I, with my inflexible body, have managed this just a handful of times.  I would flip my legs over my head and just get the tip in, licking just beyond the head.  But on Xtube, there are men that are so gifted at this that they deserve a special place in porn, whether professional or amateur.  Your ability to do this should not be left off of your online dating profile fellas!

Do I like getting sucked?  Oh yes, but would you concur with me when I say that not all men are that great at it?  (We have to keep this a secret because straight women depend on our advice in this matter and we have a reputation to protect.  On further reflection, if we keep teaching women how to do it right, how are we going to continue bagging the straight men that turn to us in desperation?)   Now, I dated one man who had this tremendous trick with his tongue.  While sucking me, he would flick his tongue on the underside of my cock head.  His mouth would be going in one direction, his tongue in another.  But I’ve also been with men who scraped me with their teeth, which causes one to flinch.  And it’s more than just about the physical act of moving a mouth up and down a cock.  It’s the attitude behind it.  There’s nothing better to me than an aggressive cock sucker, who tells me how it’s going to be: “I’m gonna suck you off so hard you’re fucking head is going to spin, get me?” Or, “Face-fuck me until I gag on it.”  These men must be appreciated and kept on speed dial. 

A Master I played with (the same one who liked to hear me gag) liked to hear me try to speak while sucking him.  To him, this represented total dedication on my part.  Our dick-sucking sessions took an hour at least.  He would begin by letting me just look at his dick, right up close near my face.  He would stroke, I would visually and verbally worship.  Finally, agonizingly, he would let me kiss the head of his cock.  There were times when this was all I got, and for an hour, I’d be aching with such desire that I would experience a type of body orgasm just from the anticipation of what I would be allowed to do next.  When I was deserving, and he was feeling generous, I would be allowed to take it in my mouth, maybe just for a moment.  Then I would go back to staring at it an inch from my mouth.  At this point, I was fit to be tied.  The times he let me suck him for a long while, I took advantage of this privilege and was a greedy pig.  He would face-fuck me and I would concentrate on his pleasure which was my pleasure.  He was a feeder, and I would happily get a load at the end down my throat.

The Master took the most common act of cock sucking and turned it into an art.  So, tell me, how do you like it?

 

 

 

Berlin Leather Sex Party

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On Broadway

Finally, my trick returned to release me from his bedroom, which had become my hiding spot.  “Okay, the coast is clear,” he whispered.  He lead me to the apartment door (fortuitously positioned near the bedroom), opened it for me, and whispered a quick “thanks”. Whether he was thanking me for the fun we’d had, or for leaving so quietly and quickly, I’m not sure.   I turned back to say thanks as well, but as I did, the door closed quietly in my face before I could utter a word.  And so I did another about-face and turned to leave the building.  It was an unexpected ending to an unexpected hook up.

Rewind by forty-five minutes.  The first character is this story is me at age twenty-seven.  The place:  New York City.  It’s a bright, mid-week afternoon and I’m heading down Broadway towards Citibank.  As I approach the Citibank doors, out comes a handsome stranger, about my age, with sandy-colored and curly hair.  We notice each other and The Cruise begins:  Our pace slows and we make eye contact.  We pass each other and I head for the bank’s doors, but turn to look back.  He has cleverly headed to a pay phone and picked up the phone as if to make a call.  But he is not making a call.   Our eyes lock once more and his grin at me tells me that he will wait for me at the pay phone until I finish my business in the bank and return to him.  This non-verbal interaction took eight seconds.  God, we’re good.

When I exit Citibank, I see that he is still holding the phone.  As I pass, we lock eyes and he hangs up.  We fall into step with each other and now shyly smile at each other. “ Hey” I say, and he responds with “Hey”.  “What you up to?” he asks.  “Not too much,” I reply.  And with that, we are headed to his place which he tells me is nearby.

Once inside his apartment, we head to the bedroom, and he is on his knees.  My cock is released from my jeans and he goes to town on it.  My fingers comb through the gorgeous curls on his head and he expertly gives me head.  He’s working it as if my cock owes him money.  He hasn’t released his own cock from his pants and I ask him if I can give him a hand too – fair is fair.  But he looks up at me and smiles and says he’s doing just fine.  So I relax and let myself be served.  I’m a man in my prime, and a beautiful man whom I’ve just met wants to take me in his mouth.  I don’t yet know his name, but who’s paying attention to details at this point?

I’m ready to cum, and I tell him so.  Will he take it in his mouth, or let the cum fall to the floor?  I don’t remember which option he chose, I just remember the flood of pleasure mixed with guilt, since he’s done all the work, and I’ve just lain there and been served.  Is this how he likes it though?

When I return to earth after the orgasm, we look at each other and smile.  He is really beautiful and we sort of laugh, partly because we’ve been so daring, and partly because we are thinking “what now?”  And that’s when we hear the lock to the apartment door click and the door open. 

“Hey Paul, I’m hooooome!” a female voice sings.  “Are you here?”  My trick (so his name is Paul, is it?) drops his smile and a look of terror takes its place.  I know instinctively not to say a word.  “I’m in my room, just changing, be right out!” he bellows.  He pleadingly looks at me and places a finger to his lips, but I don’t need to be told to keep quiet.  He leaves me in the bedroom, closing the door behind him, and I hear “Hey Claudette, what are you doing home so early?” 

With an overly dramatic flair, I decide that this is how Anne Frank felt hiding in the attic and wait until Paul eventually finds some way to release me.  He returns shortly.  “The coast is clear.”  His friend Claudette (roommate? wife? sister?) is chattering from another room as a frazzled Paul fumbles me to the door, opens it and with a quick “thanks”, gently pushes me out.  A narrow escape, but I’m out.  Dear Lord, I hope I didn’t drop my wallet inside.  I check and see that I have everything I came with and turn to go.  When I get back onto the street, the sun is still out, and New Yorkers are still scurrying everywhere.  Nothing stopped while I was playing Anne Frank.  And so I blend in with the crowd on the street and continue on my path uptown on Broadway.

Tattoo

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.