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.

Craigslist

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The Ethical Slut

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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.

Poz Friendly

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Hometown Hook-Ups

As you may have gathered, I live in a large Eastern city, and I live in its Gay Village.  But previous to this, I lived in a small city near the Rocky Mountains, and I’m writing to you from there now, visiting on vacation.  My family picked me up at the airport early last week, and as we drove into the downtown core, I spotted a place that caused my soul to lurch with a wave of sentimentality.  The place?  The Holiday Inn Express Hotel.

We kept driving towards my family’s apartment building located on the fringes of downtown and we passed The Westin, The Coast Plaza Hotel and the Carleton Hotel.  As we drove, I did my best to chat and play the role of “son”, but seeing those hotels recalled a part of me perhaps more authentic than that of “son”.

In each of those hotels, I recalled a hook-up.

And it wasn’t just hotels.  I had lived in this backwater city for a decade, and had had hook-ups in homes and apartments dotted across town.  On this trip, there would be no time or opportunity for men.  I was here to see parents and friends, whom I hadn’t seen in almost two years.  On the plane, I had already begun to slip into the roles that I would play – that of son and buddy.  It wasn’t until I saw the Holiday Inn Express Hotel that I realized that the role I felt most authentic in was the one I played when naked with a man.  I looked forward to talking with my family and friends, but I longed even more to be back in room #212 in the Holiday Inn Express, where words weren’t always necessary.  Instead, I and another naked man with a matching need would communicate on a visceral level – with words, if necessary, but also with taste and touch.

We continued driving, and passed the apartment complex that I had lived in while residing here.  I thought not of the parties with friends, or the meals I’d burnt in the kitchen, or the view from my 23^rd floor window.  Instead, I remembered the men I’d welcomed over – some of whom I’d connected with, some of whom I hadn’t really, but respected all the same.  Respected them for skipping the niceties of normal society and baring their need to me.  They would leave and I’d be left to wonder what their “real” lives were like, the life in which they had to put a mask on and return to being a son, a brother, a friend, a banker, a waiter, a doctor.

During a hook-up, I was so unmasked and authentic, that I could also be terribly vulnerable.  I would sometimes say goodbye to a hook-up, leave his place, and feel that I’d left a part of my soul behind on his bedside table.  There would be times when I wouldn’t really connect with someone I was hooking up with and feel dirty afterwards, as if I had raped myself somehow, my emotions shaken and stirred.  But that feeling would subside, and I’d be online again, looking for the next hook-up.  

Because often I would luck out and really dig the guy I was hooking up with.  Yes, I realized that even during the hook-up, I was playing a role (that of sex buddy).  But the role did away with worldly pretense and most of all, hypocrisy.  Thus, the role felt authentic, at least to me, and the by-product of that was that I felt alive and realized.

Living here, I had felt so isolated as a gay man that I believe I hooked-up sometimes for the wrong reasons in order to just feel noticed.  Now, living in a Gay Village, I am no longer isolated and therefore less inclined to hook-up out of desperation.  I used to think that hook-ups were just about getting off.  But if that were so, we could all just jerk off.  No, we hook-up because we need to be seen.  We need our authentic sexual needs acknowledged and accepted.  Even if we like being single, and feel that we are not the marrying kind, we still need to be touched occasionally (touched gently if you wish, or slapped hard by a gorgeous dom Master).

The new trend for gays is to resist being ghettoized and to not live in a Gay Village.  But here I am in my old town, and the world feels and looks so straight that I feel like a ghost walking through it. I feel a void here that cannot be filled by terrific parents and loving friends.  I feel castrated and lonely, and I would sleep with just about anybody just to be recognized as a fellow gay traveller. 

I’m ready to go home.

Anonymous Sex and Soccer Moms

Religion screwed me up about sex.  Celibate priests and sexless saints.    Feeling compelled to wash my hands obsessively just at the thought of arousal.  Terrified because I found Jesus attractive.  The lessons I learned in those days led me to see the sexual realm as somehow “dark”, while religion was supposedly the bastion of “light” (and therefore necessarily divorced from sexuality).  I recall reading a book that told me that masturbation was an affront to god, and that the only sex deemed holy was that had in the sanctity of marriage.

I got to thinking about the soccer mom who might, on a Saturday night, accidentally stumble across my blog while looking for a blog on knitting.  What would she possibly make of it? Would she cluck her tongue at male sexuality, especially gay male sexuality and its supposed excesses?  And on Sunday morning, as she sings “Alleluia” from her pew, does she silently pray for me, that I will turn from my sinful ways?  Does she pray that I’ll recant?

What would she think if I told her that I’ve seen videos on Xtube of anonymous sexual encounters?  You know the kind – someone posts an ad on craigslist and waits, ass up, for a stranger to walk in and fuck him.  When I clicked on these videos, I expected something dark, something frightening, but found them often...friendly.  It often started with a Hello, and ended with a Thanks (and sometimes See You Next Week).  Does our collective conscience deem such an experience as dark only because it falls way out of the realm of “normal” sexual contact?

Because what about our soccer mom, who after church, comes home where she and her husband have loveless sex.  Loveless because of twenty odd years of emotional wounds inflicted and resentments harboured.   Her husband hired a new, young secretary two weeks ago.  She’s noted that he takes longer in the morning to get ready for work and she is not a stupid woman.  And now, with her husband on top of her, she prays again, just as she did at church, but this time for him to climax and just be done with it.  But it’s all within the sanctity of marriage.  Am I supposed to see this as “light”?

Am I promoting anonymous sex, like the kind I described above?  Absolutely not.  It would be irresponsible of me.  I was robbed once by a trick.  I’ve had friends who have invited strangers over for play and ended up physically assaulted.  What I am suggesting is a paradigm shift, an awakening to the idea that if it’s safe, sane and between consenting adults, we might find sexual beauty in the unlikeliest of places, scenarios and kinks.  Alleluia indeed.

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.

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....

 

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?