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.

Apology

Dear (Unknown Name):  I was sitting on the edge of the pool table at the Eagle and I was in full hunting mode.  I was horny, and feeling aggressive about it – I wanted to get laid.  You saw me and recognized me from a fetish event a while back and reintroduced Yourself.  And I wasn’t interested.  And because I sometimes think the world revolves around me, I assumed You wanted to sleep with me.  Because I was thinking only with my dick, it didn’t dawn on me that You were genuinely just trying to be friendly.  And friendly You were.  You were kind, witty and had a gentle aura about You.  And because You are a sensitive human being, You sensed my reticence, looked at the floor, and quietly said “Well, have a good night” and walked away.

Then Paul walked into the Eagle.  Paul, my dream man, popular in the community.  I had met him at his fortieth birthday celebration a year earlier and we had kissed.  Subsequently, when running into each other at the Eagle, we would find ourselves in a dark corner.  He would spit on my chest and we’d kiss and swap horny energy.  But he was always somewhat out of reach – he never came home with me, no matter how much I tried to get it to happen.

Paul entered and I walked up to him and hugged him and the flirting dance began yet again.  But Paul noticed a friend behind me and said “Hey (Forgotten Name), how the hell are you?”  I turned around and it was You, the kind, polite man I’d just rebuffed moments earlier.  This time, You did not acknowledge my presence, and rightly so.  A group of men formed at the bar, with Paul the center.  We joked and talked, and I looked at You and smiled.  We were all friends, weren’t we?  But You looked down and away.  You had seen me preen my peacock feathers in front of Paul.  When you avoided my smile, I felt hot with shame.  My flirtatious dance with Paul now seemed pathetic and sad in light of how I’d treated You, Paul’s friend, so indifferently a few minutes ago.  You had class.  I had none, and I left the bar, without saying goodbye to anybody, not even Paul.  I was not worthy of Paul, and certainly not worthy of You.  I am sorry that still can’t remember Your name and I am so very sorry for my arrogance.

Dear Manuel:  Who says you can’t meet a great person at an orgy?  We met at 6 am at the end of an orgy on a Saturday night/Sunday morning.  When the party at the hotel dispersed, I took you home.  You were a stunning example of male beauty – latino, gorgeous muscles, an ass that wouldn’t quit, nipple piercings and a tattoo on your right hip.  Days later you emailed me pictures of yourself that you’d sent to PlayGirl Magazine.  There was no doubt in my mind that you would get a response from them.

I began to learn about you.  I held your naked body in my arms as you cried about the painful relationship you had with your father.  I felt you melting into me.  I listened as you earnestly looked me in the face one night after making love and whispered “No more hunting men online, no more orgies – just you and me.”

But my heart couldn’t crack open.  For whatever goddamn fucking fucked-up reason, I couldn’t feel what you were feeling.  And I so wanted to.  On paper, you seemed perfect – gorgeous, sensitive, loyal.  What kind of fool would bolt from this?  Only a fool named Jason.

Again, like the man at the Eagle in the letter above, you were sensing my reticence.  I could see it in your eyes.  You even had the balls to ask me if you were causing me stress, and I lied and said “No, no, everything is fine, everything is good.”  One morning, you woke in my bed and gently nudged me.  “Jason, let’s get up, go get some coffee.”  “Five more minutes,” I mumbled.  A half an hour later you said “Jason, honey, it’s a beautiful day, let’s make something of it.”  Again, I waived you away for another “five minutes”.  I never heard you leave, you crept out of my apartment so quietly.  We never spoke again.

We saw each other weeks later at the club.  You were with a new lover.  We smiled at each other and waved, but you looked wistful and sad at seeing me.  Your new boyfriend is a very lucky man.  What was wrong with me?

Dear Alanis Morissette:  You sang the line “What was wrong with me” in your song “Unsent”, from which this essay is inspired by.  In the song, you wrote unsent letters to men with whom you had some unfinished business, or something you wished you could have said to them.

Alanis, your album Jagged Little Pill was a seminal record for my generation.  Everyone could relate to you, as you discussed how men had disappointed you, hurt you, misunderstood you, or took you for granted.  How awful then that I should admit to often relating more to the men of whom you sang about.  Men whose hearts were un-open, or worse, empty.  Men who couldn’t connect.  Men whose emotional maturation was stunted.  I’m the guy that everyone always refers to as a “nice” guy, but evidently, I fail myself sometimes.  To know that I’ve caused pain to another man, especially one who has allowed himself to be vulnerable with me, is a jagged little pill to swallow.  And an apology seems hollow.  But, an apology this essay is.

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.

Self Love

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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....

 

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.

Hey Dude, Where's My Sex Drive?

The strangest thing happened to me this week – I rather lost my sex drive.  The idea of having a cock in my mouth is about as exciting to me as having one in my ear.  Now, I still masturbated.  It’s what I do.  But the frequency was less, the length of time it took was less, the pleasure was less.  Last night, in an attempt to get back into my usual sexual gear, I drank a ton of beer, but did not get drunk.  I watched a ton of porn, but didn’t get excited.  Dear reader, how lame is it that I have to tell you that I took a Viagra – just to masturbate alone.  I got off, but with a thud rather than a grand slam.

But desire doesn’t disappear entirely.  It’s a matter of transference, and I transferred my desire to something equally as addictive as sex – I turned to food.  I have just eaten a Big Mac, fries, and a junior McChicken from McDonald’s.  But a diet coke!   McDonald’s is my guilty pleasure and it was fucking delicious.  I orgasmed with every bite.  I brought it home so I could enjoy it like a pig in private (similar to my piggy conduct while masturbating).  I avoid McDonald’s at all costs, but tonight, I gave in.  It was the substitute for masturbating.

Where did my usually dependable sex drive go?  True, there are always worries swirling in my head – money trouble, conflict at the office, and so on – but that usually doesn’t get in the way.  Rather, masturbation or sex is the reward for making it through the day.  But this week, when I sat at my computer for my nightly, ritualistic jerk-off scene, I was listless.  And the porn seemed inordinately boring.  A cock goes in and out of a hole – big whoop.  Oh look, that dude in Minnesota can suck himself off – how nice for him.  Oh look, yet another gang bang.  Are there any cookies left?

However, I’ve gotten so much more accomplished this week, what with the extra time on my hands since my hands weren’t on my cock.  Even the fact that I am now writing rather than jerking off is a fine example of time well spent.  But if this lack of libido goes on for too long, this series of essays will come to an untimely end.  Will my libido come back?

Well, it’s gone and come back many times before.  There are times for even the horniest of us when we don’t want to be sexual, but to curl up in ugly pajamas in bed with a good book.  Or when illness, be it mental or physical, is knocking at the door, the libido takes a holiday.  And it can be freeing, not to be ruled by my dick’s every whim.  I can think about other things – world peace, getting my taxes prepared, trying a new recipe, searching for an old classmate on Facebook.   However, world peace is just too much for my pea-sized brain to comprehend, doing my taxes is as fun as having dental work, I hate cooking, and I could care less what my old classmates are up to.   Those alternatives just brought my sex drive back a nudge.

I think it might be a matter of my masturbatory routine getting a little....routine.  So I`ll shake it up a bit.  Maybe I’ll try dressing up, something I haven’t done in a while.  By this, I mean trying on my leather and my sexy underwear and parading myself in front of the mirror, doing a strip tease to Slayer playing on the computer.  But even that can turn on its self and feel ridiculous when your libido is low.  It becomes comical instead of hot.  So instead of forcing it, maybe I’ll just ride it out, put the ugly pajamas on and snuggle up with a good book – and a bowl of ice cream.