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Sex Club & Leather Bar Fail

I had never been to a strip bar that had backrooms for the patrons to play – with each other.  But this strip club that I went to doubled as a sex club.  I got there before midnight, before the cover charge doubled.  Greeting two shirtless bartenders on the main floor, I grabbed a beer and wandered as the club began to fill.  On the main floor, I found there were backrooms meant just for the strippers and their clients.  On the second floor was another bar, impromptu go-go dancing stages, and a backroom for the patrons to get it on together.

Upstairs, a stripper was working a small, raised area, barely a stage at all.  He was a college type, but unremarkable looking, and he worked the stage unremarkably.  He eventually dropped his pants, revealing a flaccid, unamused cock.  After his song was over, another dancer took his place.  This man was in his mid-twenties, hot, and very hairy – a major plus for me.  You so rarely see a hairy stripper.  His bubble butt was very furry and I wondered if he realized that he was very appealing to an underserved market (hirsute lovers).

The club began to fill up, both upstairs and down.  But not a single soul ventured into the backrooms.  I know this because I did venture forth and found them empty.  I watched as men furtively watched the strippers, as if they weren’t supposed to enjoy it or appreciate it too openly.  There was a reticence in the air, a holding back.  A conservatism that felt dangerously contagious.

I stayed for about an hour, but the place began to thin of people before last call was even anywhere near.  And so I swallowed the remainder of my beer and went next door to a leather bar.

Being a Saturday night, the place was busy, on both floors.  I bought a beer and bypassing the backroom, I headed upstairs where I discovered that an S&M show was in progress.  Shackled to and facing the far wall was Mr. Leather.  He was being flogged by a stout woman in glasses.  She and he were trading jokes as she flogged him, light banter that had nothing to do with the flogging per se.  After she was through with Mr. Leather, she looked out at those paying attention in the crowd and invited someone to have a go at being flogged.  A young guy waved his hand to have a shot at it.  He removed his shirt and giggled while his friends encouraged him.  The mistress joked around with him while flogging him and they had a grand old time.  When it was over, the young man jumped up and down, clapping his hands and saying that S&M was really neat.

The display of sadomasochism was missing two vital elements – a sadist and a masochist.  What I saw was a pastiche of S&M, not the real thing.  It was akin to buying a jacket in a bargain-basement store, knowing that it descended from high fashion but watered down many times over.  I wanted to see and sense danger, not the recreation of danger.  I saw the Disneyland version of what should have been transgressive.

I went downstairs, hunting for men who wanted the real deal.  I headed into the back room.  But before I had made three or four steps in, the smell of shit hit me like a brick.  Someone back there had had an accident while presumably being fucked.  Bracing myself against the smell, I noticed that the pervasive scent of excrement was not stopping the full crowd back there.  The place was jammed.  Overpowered by the smell, though, I had to leave.  I left the bar entirely, feeling that tonight I’d been abandoned by the sex gods.  Not every night is going to be a winner.  The trick is to accept this and know when it’s time to go.  But you know that you’ll return, and that when you do, the sex gods might be on your side and give you the transcendent gay bar experience that you seek.  You will return to the hunt, you will return to the night, and it will be resplendent.

Fetishes: PITS

If you’re a pig like me, you know that smelling soapy just-out-of-the-shower fresh can be very overrated.  I think it’s fair to say that most of us were raised to “wash the stink off” after getting sweaty.  Much money is made by selling us colognes that supposedly make us smell like men.  Newsflash:  Men do smell like men.  In my twenties, before these notions were even kernels of thought in my head, I wore deodorant and cologne, covering up my pheromones.  It’s amazing how our tastes change.  I remember a conversation with my sister when I was only in my teens, she in her twenties.  We humorously asked each other what we thought the grossest body part was.  I immediately blurted “armpits!”  She paused, tilted her head thoughtfully and said “I think they’re kind of hot.”

Well men, now, in my late thirties, I think they’re fucking out-of-this world hot.

I love Winter, I love cold weather, I’m the kind of guy who would like to visit a northern country rather than a tropical paradise.  But the one saving grace about Summer is this:  men wearing tank tops.  You get to see so much free pit.  Sweaty pit, where the hair curls due to the wetness.  (OK folks, this is an all out paean to pits.  It’s going to be graphic and if this isn’t your fetish, you might want to flip over to a different essay).

In Summer, I sweat too, and I have to say, I love my own sweaty pits.  Even in a t-shirt, seeing the sweat stains is enough to make me animalistic.  How do your pits smell Jason?  Thank you for asking!  But the answer is complicated.

In some eastern religions, many gods exist.  I think some of those gods are sex gods, and I do not say that sacrilegiously.  Not in the slightest.  Rather I mean it as a Thank You.  Some days, the pit gods are on my side, and my pits have the perfect level of hot, male pheromones giving off a male scent that can make a 6 foot, 180lb man like myself buckle at the knees.

I was chatting with an xtube buddy who says he never wears deodorant, as he loves his own smell too.  I do wear deodorant to work, but never to the Eagle, natch.  But I’m on a short holiday from work as I write this, so I’m experimenting with not wearing deodorant, and more to the point, not washing the pits when in the shower at all.  And you know what?  Yesterday, my pits smelled of suntan lotion.  What the hell did I eat that my pits would smell of suntan lotion in December?  There was a time I remember in my twenties when for about a month, my pits smelled of salted sunflower seeds.  It’s as if my pits have multiple personalities.  Today, thankfully, my pits don’t smell of suntan lotion, but I’m quite disappointed as they smell, well, clean.  And I worked out this morning and everything!  The pit gods have some explaining to do.

While I love a ripe-smelling pit, I feel differently about the smell of other parts of the body.  I like a clean ass whether that ass is my own or another man’s.  I like a clean smelling cock, but lord almighty, I have a lot of friends who like the musky, odorous ones. 

At the gym, some of the true bodybuilders shave everything, including their pits.  I understand that this is to reveal the muscles.  For me, it lessens my attraction to them, as if they’ve cut off a part of their manhood.

So Jason, what do you like to do sexually with pits?  Oh, what great questions you’re asking!  Here’s a laundry list:  bury your face or cock in them; eat them out, have yours eaten out and then kiss; spit in them; piss in them; cum in them, and leave it there to dry until morning.  There is an added bonus when a man has his arm up waiting for your eager mouth:  His shoulder muscles and biceps are perfectly flexed and displayed.  It’s heaven on a platter.  I might even go so far to say that the sight of a man with his arm up and his pits on display is a greater turn on for me than the sight of his cock.  Well, it’s a close draw in any case.

However, not all pit scents are created equal.  Some men have a naturally wonderful aroma, and yet we’ve all smelled men that were too funky for us (but maybe not for another?).  I have one friend who says that one day of sweat on man is good but no more.  I have other friends who seek out men who haven’t bathed in a week.  At a bar I frequent, there is a hot hot hot bartender who is hairy and always shirtless.  You know he’s working the moment you walk in the small bar because his scent is that pervasive.  And I can’t really tell you if I like his pungent aroma or not.  Is it “clean” sweat (whatever that means), or is it too much?

Someone once asked me if writing so in depth about my sexuality took away some of the mystery for me.  Au contraire.  I could write and read about sexuality until my dying day and I will never quite get past the mystery and wonder of it all.  If I had this all figured out, if the mystery was gone, I wouldn’t put pen to paper about it.

At the time of this writing, there are not a lot of public comments on my blog, but I do get the most wonderful emails from readers who privately share their own stories and opinions with me.  Every time I get an email from one of you, it’s like Christmas morning.  And what you and my friends here in town show me is that there is a vast array of preferences, opinions, feelings and perceptions.  My truths are just one version of the truth – how exciting!  And my fetishes may not be yours.  But the one common thread is that we are a brotherhood of men who respect the gift of sexuality – even when it leaves us feeling bewitched, bothered and bewildered.

So tell me – what’s your fetish?

 

 

What's Your Type?

What kind of man do you lust over?  Is it a smooth, buff gym bunny, or a hairy bear?  Do you like twinks or daddies?  Or does your type not fit easily into any one box?  You like a hairy twink?  Well, I think those are called otters.  So what would you call a smooth, hairless daddy?  When I hit the bars, I tend to go to the leather bars, under the (usually true) assumption that these men will be kinky.  But what of the college jock who likes to be tied up?  So often I judge a man’s sexual tendencies by his outward appearance.  But, perhaps that’s a fox in sheep’s clothing that you’re looking at.

I’m finding that my so-called type has more to do with what’s in a man’s head than the body that head is on.  Meaning, are we on the same page sexually.  But when I watch porn, it’s so often of the thirtyish year old muscle bear variety.  Coincidentally or not, that is the type that I would fall into.  And yet...

Today I took my sister to a theater production celebrating International Woman’s Day.  I wouldn’t have thought that there I would find myself sitting behind a startling attractive man, sitting alone.  He was not a muscle bear.  He was a clean cut jockish type who frighteningly reminded me of my first love.  In high school I’d fallen for Jack.  Jack was straight, voted MVP on any sports team he was on.  He was also extraordinarily nice, and we developed a slight friendship, though he was a grade ahead.  The man in the audience today threw me back to high school with a velocity that bit me like a snake.  I felt lust mixed with two other emotions: a need for love and a sense that I would never have it because I was somehow unworthy.  I felt both propelled toward him and away from him at the same time, because my heart sensed danger.  In that moment, I wanted the pure lust of my pornographic muscle bears where sexually I was free and emotionally I was safe.

I began to wonder how I would behave sexually with a man like the one I saw today.  I began to wonder if I could fuck the one I love, or are the two notions divided for me in much the same way some straight men suffer from the Madonna/Whore syndrome (ie. they want the mother of their children to be pure and chaste, and to have a hardcore slut secretly on the side whom they would never marry).

The trouble for me is that when love begins to enter this heart of mine, I begin right away to fear its loss, leaving me feeling ungrounded.  How then, could I play the dom and sexually assert myself with a beloved when it would appear that he holds all the cards due to my ingrained insecurities?   And at my age, without a true relationship already under my belt, just a few short affairs, has the chance for love passed me by?  I tend to see myself as a lone wolf, but that house of cards comes tumbling down when I see a man like the one I did today.  But let’s be real:  I don’t know the man.  Perhaps he is a jerk, perhaps he has kinks that would never click with mine.  What I felt today was what our culture refers endearingly to as love at first sight.  How is it that the molecules that make up that person can cause my own body’s molecules to frantically start rearranging themselves?  How do we develop a type in the first place?  I try to ape the type of guy that attracts me (again, the muscle bears).  What of the men who are interested in types directly in opposition to their own?

“He’s not my type.” “What’s your type?”  Statements and questions such as these are short.  The answers are not.

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?

 

 

 

Masturbation

They say that for a drug addict, it's never as good as the first time.  Try being addicted to masturbation - it's always like the first time.

Everyone has a hobby.  I have a buddy, who, after a hard day of work, loves to come home to a bowl of popcorn and hours of taped TV shows.  Another friend takes her dog three times a week to the agility barn to watch Buster jump through hoops.  All very socially acceptable.  When I am asked what my hobbies are, it’s easy to spout out the usual – “I love to read!  I go to museums!  I play scrabble!”  But you, dear, lucky Reader, get to hear the truth.

I can out-masturbate anyone anytime anywhere.  I’ve got it down to an art, and Dear Reader, at present I’m finding that sex with another can’t compare.  My jack-off sessions are so fulfilling, that another person in the room would just be in my way.  And I need minimum three hours or else I won’t bother.  During sex with myself, I have no inhibitions, no qualms about what someone will think of me, I can be a total freak, I can be completely unselfconscious.  I can dance in the mirror for hours with my hands down my pants.  I can look in the mirror, one hand holding a Jack and Coke, the other a cigarette, and call myself a fuckin’ cum-lickin’ whore.  You know that pill bottle full of saved cum in the fridge?  Pour it on yourself.  Drink a glass of piss.  Sniff your pits. Spit on your chest.  Love the fact you’ve got a full bush when gay magazines say to trim it.  Be the cock of the block and do things you’re not sure you could really pull off with someone else watching.  Consume major amounts of porn.  All the while amazed at the gift that sexuality is.  There is a narcissistic element to this kind of self-love, but it makes up for all the times I doubted myself or felt inferior (or...does it stem from that?).  And it’s not a substitute for the “real thing”.  This is real. It always feels like the first time. It’s a date with myself, wherein I shower first, turn on the music, dim the lighting, set up any sex toys I might want to play with.  To me, it’s a valid as any other date I’ve ever been on.  Except I never get stood up this way.

Why can’t I just do this in private and shut up about it?  Why do I have to write about it for god’s sake? Why write this blog at all?  The answer is simple: Anger.  I’m angry that as a religious teenager, I used to masturbate for 10 minutes and then pray for forgiveness for half an hour afterwards.  The fear I had about sexuality in my youth was abominable.  Masturbation is not self-abuse, the needless guilt is.

I’m angry that some people would think a three-hour jack off is time wasted.  Is self-love a waste of time?  I think it beats Scrabble any day.

I’m angry that we all masturbate and can’t talk about it except through jokes.  But why must I share the dirty details?  Because we need to know that we’re not alone in our kinks.  Secrets lead to shame.  This blog is an attempt to shatter the hypocrisy around something that is a gift to be celebrated.  I’m also just plain curious – I like to know what gets other people off.  If it’s safe and sane and between consenting adults, how did it come to be that we can’t talk about it?  Why, after eating the apple in the garden of eden did Adam and Eve clothe themselves for shame?  I was not explicitly taught that masturbation was wrong, but as a teenager, I inferred it.  How did that happen, I wonder, just as I wonder where our fear of spiders, most of which are harmless, comes from?  And look at what repression does:  My adolescent guilt has spawned an adult that writes a sex blog.

But I would be a hypocrite if I didn’t admit that, after I cum, a touch of the old-brain guilt slips in.  And then I wonder if three hours jerking off isn’t excessive.  Am I addicted to jacking?  I’m a responsible person, working and caring for friends and family.  Can’t I have this without guilt?

Writing this blog entry is the last task of a long day for me.  It’s almost time to reward myself with my nightly jack-off ritual.  But a worrisome thought nags at me:  Why do I seem to believe that I can’t be as uninhibited sexually with another person as I am with myself?  What would it take to be that free with a man?  The joy with masturbating alone is that my happiness, fulfillment and self-esteem doesn’t depend on another.

After I post this, I will, in four hours, be a puddle of sweat, piss and cum.  What are YOU doing tonight?  Playing Scrabble?

New York Nights

I don’t know if it’s still there, but just before the turn of the millennium, there was a leather bar in New York called The Lure.  On Wednesday nights, usually a slow night for a bar, The Lure had the smarts to make that night their Pig Night.  You would see the ad in the gay magazines of a pig in fetish gear, underscored by the tagline “Men Are Pigs”.  Enough said.  Wednesday night is the new Saturday night.

Entering the Lure was like entering another universe – one filled with the smell of poppers and sweat, the sounds of thumping music, the feel of hot air, the sight of gorgeous leather men, and if you stayed a while, a taste of them too.  You could check all the clothes you wanted to check at the coatcheck (where do I put the coatcheck tag when I’m half naked?).  With all the bartenders dressed in leather and/or fetish gear, I decided to order from the one with huge muscles and nipple clamps.  Not intimidating in the slightest, he proved to be sweet and smiley. 

Two drinks later, I’m still not ready for a trip to the backroom, so I cruise the place.  So many dark corners.  In one, I chat with a guy who eventually moves behind me, wrapping his arms around my chest.  We keep talking and his hands slide slowly to my pants, and then in them.  And this is how I know that part of being a homophobic straight male comes down to jealousy, since this welcomed groping could never happen in a straight bar between a man and a woman (or could it? does it?).

This groper was the opening act, and now, I think I’m ready for the main act – the backroom.  An area of the bar is partitioned off, and almost dark, with just a few dim red lights to cast an appropriately sleazy glow.   What time is it?  It must be late, because the backroom is at its peak, packed shoulder to shoulder, cock to cock, with men touching each other as they squeeze by.  Along the walls, men are on their knees, servicing others, some of them being fucked.  I watched two men playing and they notice me and beckon me to join them.  They are standing, and I fall to my knees to worship both their cocks at once. When I glance up, they are either smiling at me, or kissing each other, both beautiful sights to behold.  This communion makes me cum.  I’m not sure if the two guys I’m servicing even know I have.  I release their cocks and smile and say thanks, and lead my dizzy self out of the darkroom towards the light of the bar, itself still so dim.  I’ve cum, I can still taste two men on my lips and am ordering another drink from the same nipple-clamped bartender.  He knows I’ve been around the world and back in the backroom.  He smiles knowingly at me.  Is he at that stage in his career as a bartender where he thinks this is heaven, this den of lust, or is he at that place where he’s seen it all before and longs to leave the bar and find romance rather than pigs?  I know both feelings are possible, and valid.  I too have been a bartender in a gay bar.

I get back what clothes I’ve left in the coat check and ready myself to leave the bar and enter the real world.  It’s dark still, and I leave a bit of my heart and soul in the bar.  I feel more naked in the real world, even though I’m fully clothed.  On the subway platform, waiting for the train to come, I steal glances at the few people around me.  Can they smell the sex of the night on me?  Can they sense it?  Being New Yorkers, they probably don’t care if I smell of sex.  At this hour, they probably do too.

I crumple into a seat on the subway and look up to see an attractive man across from me with eyes closed, sleeping.  It sounds like a good idea and I too close my eyes.  But when I open them again, he is eyeing me.  He grins slightly before closing his eyes again.  We pass this flirtatious ball back and forth until I realize that I’m coming to my stop.  At my stop, the door opens and I take a last look back at my sleeping beauty.  As I step off the train, he jumps up and leaps off the train just as the doors are closing shut.

Sleeping beauty is a dancer with an esteemed dance company, and he was heading home, but up for hanging out.  He follows me as I lead him up the steps from the subway into the street, and in the time it took to get home, a miracle has occurred.  The light has arisen on the city, and it is that holiest of moments in New York, when the streets and even many of the pigeons are still asleep at dawn and it’s just you and the City.  And in this case, a beautiful dancer.

In my single-room-occupancy room, the dancer undresses and lay on the bed.  His balls are hairy, a rare gift in this waxed age, and I cup them in my hand.  He breathes deeply and teasingly shows me how flexible he is by stretching a leg so far back that his heel nearly reaches his head.

My cock is done – what happened at the Lure was all it had the energy for, but I do have the energy to worship this dancer with my tongue, all over his body until I reach his cock and take it in.  When he cums, we lay together silently.  His energy is at peace and I instinctively sense that he is a nice person.  This is meaningful to me.

When he goes, I lay down, placing my head into the indentation on the pillow where the dancer had rested his head moments before.  My window is open, and I hear the sounds of civilians starting their Thursday.  As I lay there, I don’t worry that straight people, and many of my gay brethren, would think that I’m a stereotypical example of the promiscuous gay male.  I don’t worry whether I’ve got an STI.  I can worry about that tomorrow – and I probably will.  I don’t worry that I was seduced by men and booze.  Instead, as the machinery of capitalism begins to churn on the streets below, I simply fall asleep.

 

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?