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...

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.

Talk Dirty to Me

When I log on to a porn search engine, I love to enter the word “verbal” and then click the search button.  If I am watching a guy in Alabama jacking off, I want him to talk to the camera and tell me to “suck it, ya fuckin’ whore”.  Guys who are good at dirty talk are gold.  But there have been times during sex that fear has clamped my jaw closed wire-tight.  Am I good at dirty talk?  Do I have the voice for it?  Does it seem authentic coming from me, or studied?

Not long ago, shortly before starting this blog, I posted a video of myself jerking off on Xtube.  (It’s a piss-drenched, cum-play jack off, with good old Rob Zombie playing in the background.  One commentator called it a masterpiece, thank you very much). On the video, I talk dirty.  But I was very self-conscious about it.  Thankfully, one commentator said that hearing me talk was hot.  I’m not so sure.  I have had well-meaning friends tell me that I have a lisp, while other friends have said that that was incorrect.  A lisp cuts to the heart of a gay man, since it makes him question the authenticity of his masculinity.  But what makes a man a man?

I have a dear, straight-laced friend named Kenny, and when we are talking about sex and he uses words like “cock” or “dick”, he says them in a funny voice, as if to put imaginary quotations about the words.  He seems uncomfortable verbalizing dirty words.  The polar opposite scenario played itself out in the movie “Sophie’s Choice”.  In the movie, the character Stingo meets a hot girl with a real filthy mouth.  She has no trouble verbalizing – fuck me, fuck you, fuck fuck fuck.  But when Stingo attempts to do what she verbalizes so well, she balks.  Nearly in a panic, she explains that her therapist has helped her with her fear of sex by teaching her to verbalize.  She can now say “fuck”, but she can’t actually do it.

As a society, we become completely tongue-tied when it comes to sex.  Sex is something we all do, but we are loathe to admit that we want – hell, need – it.  My colleague Jennifer was recently dumped by her girlfriend of a year.  She told me that friends and family had comforted her for losing a companion, but because she knows I write a sex blog, admitted that she could share only with me that she was deeply upset about losing their sex life (apparently so intense, they would weep afterwards.  I should be so lucky).  She felt that her friends and family would find such an admission as trite.  Jennifer felt the sex was so good, that it made the relationship worth fighting for in spite of their differences.  Whether that’s true or not is beside the point.  The point is that if we can’t verbalize how important sex is to us, how can we even begin to say a word like “cock” with conviction?

The path to successful dirty talk is the same as the path to Carnegie Hall – practice practice practice.  You don’t need me to tell you that the best way to try something new with a partner is to try it alone during masturbation first.  Nothing is hotter that saying the words “nut sac” while grabbing your own.

I recently decided to take this practicing of mine a step further by attending a workshop last week entitled “Talking Dirty: From Mild to Wild...and Beyond”.  Picture it: me and four straight women in a room at an upscale meeting spot downtown, a spot so upscale that we were advised to wear business casual.  Our host was the amazing Katrina McKay, the founder of Ohhh Canada (check out Katrina's website here).  At first, I felt horribly out of place, the lone gay man amongst four very beautiful women.  Part of the workshop would entail actually talking dirty and my throat began to clench tight.

But as the evening unfolded, I developed a rapport with Katrina and those beautiful women.  Having a gay man in the mix actually seemed to add a twist to the evening that wouldn’t have been there had I not come.  I shared my feelings that while it’s pretty acceptable these days in Canada to be gay, god forbid you should be gay and sexual.  It’s fine if you want to get married, buy a house in the suburbs and adopt a foreign baby.  Some gay men may see me as a throwback to the 70’s where sex was a central feature to being gay.  In these politically correct times, I’m an outlier.  But one of the women said she could relate.  She was a mom now, and she said that people tended to de-sexualize her, which she resented.  It was as if having a baby had rendered her sexless to some.  I told the group how I love to be called a whore during sex.  I wondered if they, as women, resented that term, but to my great surprise, they quickly shooed that concern away as they too loved the word in a role-play scenario.

These women began to dispel my notions about women not being as animalistic as men.  One type of sex talk could be referred to as “Exclamations”, and one woman offered “I want you to blow your load inside me!” as an example.  Other types of sex talk could include “The Tease” (sending a sexy text hours before the scheduled play time), or “Instructional” sex talk (“I love it when you suck both my balls at the same time”).  We talked about having prepared catch phrases.  Preparing for sex talk is actually the only way you can feel free to improvise when actually in the moment with a partner.  We talked about a whispered command sometimes being more powerful that the full-throated command.  We even learned that nervousness about talking dirty can be endearing (“You are so hot, I can’t even speak!”). 

 It bothers me that we call them “dirty” words, when in fact they are fucking beautiful words.  And yet the sense of the forbidden gives them a power that both tantalizes us and at times paralyzes us.  But the late, great comedian Lenny Bruce taught us that words are just...words.  He laced his act with strings of profanity to reveal that words only hold power when we endow them with it.  So tonight, when I masturbate, I’m going to talk dirty to myself, loud and proud.  I will own the word “cock” and “cum” and “suck”.  I’m proud that I have the mouth of a trucker when I masturbate and have sex.  Where’s the parade for that?