Honest Conversation Is Overrated
Actual Human Interactions Witnessed Or Overheard
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
Ethan. Ethan? On my front stairs? How...how should I approach this? Maybe start off smooth and snide. Pretend to ignore him and mutter "Man, I'd love to go home right now, but the vibe is all wrong." And then just walk on by the house. Then I would not answer his e-mails or phone calls (which I was certain there would be hundreds of) until that one day when I'd run into him at, of all places, Good Vibrations. I'd be by the vibrator wall. I'd slowly turn toward him, offer no proof that I recognized him, and say "Gosh. I want to get one of these vibes for my hot, eighteen year old poolboy/boyfriend, but I'm afraid I'll get the wrong type. You look like someone who knows his vibes, what would you get?" He would be not only crushed but rendered impotent by the exchange, and would spend the rest of his life breaking out into hives whenever someone discussed sex toys, acoustics, or that Marky Mark & The Funky Bunch video. One day, five years down the line, he'd be at a party, doing lines of Pixie Stix off some skank's diseased stomach when a certain Beach Boys song would catch his ear. At that moment he'd realize how empty his life was without me, and he would have no choice but to slit his wrists and throw himself into a vat of Hydrochloric Acid and lemon juice. His stomach skank would think it was a bad reaction to the nose candy, but, even though I would have so moved on by then, when word of Ethan's death reached me, I would know that I was the reason he pulled his fizzing body out of the acid vat and threw himself out the plate glass window and on to the salt-covered barbed-wire electric fence.
When I realized how that scenario was far too good for Ethan, I looked him almost dead in the eye and said "Hey." "Hey." "Why are you sitting on my doorstep?" "I felt like an asshole." If I had written the experience, instead of living it, I would have said "You were an asshole. I hope you didn't come here looking for forgiveness or sex, because you can forget about either." Instead, I said "Don't worry about it." I am a fucken pussy. "Can I come in?" No, you cockblocking, bad vibe having piece of spermicide, you can't. "Sure. You have to be quiet, though, my roommates are sleeping." Let's pretend that we had some long conversation that completely vindicated why he essentially threw me out of his house. Maybe his Dad died, or his roommate urinated in his fish tank. The assumption that we'd reconciled our first encounter, makes us both sound a little less desperate than the truth: as soon as we were inside the door we began snogging. "Before we go any further," he said with one hand down the front of my jeans, "I have to ask. Do you have AIDS?" "No. I'm very much negative." "So what's with all those spots?" I wondered if I'd had such a stressful night that I'd entered some sort of second puberty. Was my face a minefield of pustules? No. "Spots?" "Spots. They're all over your arm." "My freckles?" Was it possible he'd never seen a person with freckles before? "Freckles?" "Yea. Freckles. When I'm out in the sun, instead of getting a tan, I get freckles. It's like low carb skin cancer. I've had them since I was born." "So, they're not like lesions or an STD or anything." "Unless you consider life as an STD, no. They're just freckles. No more contagious than my hair color." "Oh." He pushed me on the sofa, slid off his Umbros, and sat his ample ass on my exposed cock. "Ooooh. You like that don't you." I suppressed a snicker (and perhaps a Twix or two). Talking dirty is a fine art. Ethan was stillfingerpainting. "I know you love my ass. Don't you Safey?" I froze. "What did you just call me?"
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Michael Christopher (a.k.a Saint)’s testicles had swelled to half the size of his body. If theaverage man ejaculates approximately 40 million little swimmers every time he shoots his wad, I was guessing Saint had approximately 6 billion. If you showed a photo of his testicles to an elephant, it would have said “Holy shit, those things are fucking huge. He should really see a doctor.”
But Michael hadn’t gone to a doctor. He had come to me. “I’ll let you do whatever you want to me if you give me a blow job.” I did my impression of a velociraptor trying to distract a human while the other raptor sneaks up and eats him. Saint was what I called quasi-gay. He preferred pussy to cock and was absolutely petrified of the very existence of anal sex. He had no problem with two guys getting off together but the very idea of any part of a person’s body coming into any sort of contact with another person’s ass repelled him. It didn’t matter if the ass belonged to a male human, a female human, or a transgendered platypus, ass was not an appropriate place for any kind of penetration. “Let me get this str...correct. If I give you a blow job, you’ll let me fuck you?” He gagged. “Yes.” “Ummmmm.” I really wanted to fuck him. Had, in fact, spent several hours of my life masturbating to the idea. Knowing his aversion to anything anal, I had long since given up the idea of it ever happening. We hadn’t even fooled around before. Much. He was mostly straight, and, as far as I had noticed, not the least bit interested in having me as anything more than a friend. Sure we’d made out a couple of times but he had been reeeeeeealy drunk. “Have you switched teams or are you testing your stamina for a Fear Factor audition?” “I don’t want to talk about it.” He moved next to me on my bed, rested his head on my shoulder and began rubbing my back. “I just -- I really need -- it wouldn’t change our friendship, would it?” “Would giving my friend and occasional roommate a blowjob before I fucked him change our relationship? Hmmmm. I would imagine so, yes. I’ll be happy to do it but it will change things.” “For better or for worse?” “Are we getting married or are you talking about the comic strip?” No laugh. “I don’t know. Maybe if you explained why the sudden change of heart or change of preference or change of cock or whatever this is I could give a better assessment.” He leaned toward my ear and whispered, “I really need to cum.” I matched his phone sex operator tone “So jerk off.” “I can’t.” I gave him the raptor look again. “You can’t jerk off?” “I haven’t jerked off in over two years.” “Why?” “If I tell you, do you promise to blow me?” "It depends. Is an alien going to shoot out of your meatal and try and kill me? Is there some rash I can't see from this angle?" I lifted up his balls. This was the first time I'd ever touched him in his bikini zone. He shivered, not unpleasantly. "If I tell you something, do you promise not to tell anyone?" "Okay." "A couple of years ago, I bought a porn DVD for the first time. One of those fancy deals with multiple angles, chapter selection, and no unnecessary plotline, just really classy, really beautiful women getting fucked." "And this was detrimental because -- " He pushed me away with his head, and then pulled me back with his arms. "I watched it for at least six hours, I must have come like twelve times." "If this story involves chafing I'm not only not giving you head, I'm making you put your clothes back on." He stuck his tongue out at me. I put it to good use. "Chafing? Please. I used to be a professional wanker. I never start without lotion." "Go on, then, what happened?" The kiss had already sealed the fact that he was going to get his blowjob, even if he was going to come an alien life form. "I turned off the DVD player, and the news was on..." He stared at me. "Oh God, nothing kills an erection like Ted Koppel. Well, maybe Dan Rather or" I shuddered. "Connie Chung." "Actually it was Katie Couric." "Ewwwwww." "The first thing I saw when I turned off the TV was the plane flying into the tower." "Oh. My. God." I was starting to grasp the issue, as well as his cock. "You poor thing." "I just feel like -- ahhhhhhhh, yea -- I feel like if I hadn't been jerking off, maybe the towers wouldn't have fallen." I gagged a bit. Pulled my head out of his lap. "What?" Raptor look #3, a personal record for most times used during single conversation. "I just — I mean, what if next time I jerk off Mt. St. Helen erupts or a meteor strikes Washington D.C." "A volcano eruption would be tragic, but I think the nation would owe you a huge debt if you single handedly..." "I like to use both hands." "Okay, if you double fistedly wiped out Washington D.C." He laughed. I returned to the business at mouth. "Do you think that makes -- ohhhh God -- does that make meeeeee -- I'm going to" He did. Everywhere. Mt. Saint Christopher erupted all over my face, chest, headboard, wall, window, blanket, pillow. It looked like an explosion at the Liquid Paper factory. He smiled at me, and wiped the come off my face. "Does that make me fucked." "It does now. Bend over." Like a pedophile's inappropriate erection at a YMCA pool, Elvis kept popping up. Three years post-Rex, I was living in Burlington in a house full of "creative types" (read: potheads with enough money to buy musical instruments, paintbrushes, and poetry journals). For a couple of months, I was the only person in the house with a computer, so I put it out in the den to make it a public computer. I deleted all the pornography, and wiped the history file clean of anything that could ruin someone's day.
About a week into it being a public computer, I checked the history file to see what people were looking at. I found an assortment of online comics, the complete lyrics and tablatures to Phish and Ween, a how-to guide about Section 8 living, and Gay.Com. I was not the only out homosexual in the house. There were up to seven of us living together at any given time, and at this particular juncture there was me, one bisexual guy (no, not ever, not if his cock tasted like Smarties, and his ass felt like gelatin...well, maybe if his ass felt like gelatin, but it didn't, so the point is he was gross), and one decidedly dykey lesbian. Oh, and we think the cat was a little fey, too. At any rate, I had never seen gay.com before. I'd visited the personals on PlanetOut, and seen an assortment of real porn sites, but I'd never stumbled over that infuriating little spike on the information superhighway known as Gay.Com. So of course, I started clicking. Everywhere. Guys here, guys there, looking for this, look at my cock, I want a man who dresses in purple bunny suits and likes to be peed on while reading Martha Stewart Living, etc. I was enthralled. And then...I saw him ByronElvisSeithRex. His hair...his hair was styled EXACTLY like mine, it was my color (it had not been when we were together). He looked like a thinner, better-looking version of me. So much so, that when I showed the website to a friend, she asked if he was my little brother. Ga. I haven't been back since. Occasionally, his name would pop in a conversation with someone who knew me back when we were together. I started writing about him in the hopes of exorcising him completely from my life. I moved from Burlington back to Boston, and spent two years not thinking about him much. Then I moved from Boston to Pieceofshitdeserttown and knew I would never have to see his face again. We were both older, and...why am I trying to build up tension here, you know what's coming. A couple of weeks after I returned to Boston, I resorted to porn. Well, not exactly resorted, more like camped out at a cheap motel, or hoboed. I put some phrases into Kazaa and started downloading. The first three files were very porny. I found myself more amused than turned on. Began contemplating writing a porno script, so I began to put in common porn theme ideas into the search feature: pizza delivery boy, plumber, behind-the-scenes, poolboy, etc. The sixth video I successfully downloaded was a plot-porn. The first two "characters" were discussing a third. The two were amazingly hot. I really didn't think I was going to make it to the third character when they showed him: Elvis. The turtle pulled in his neck, the boys decided it was too cold and went home, someone let the slack off the line...my cock was Droopy the Fucken Dog and it said "Going down, sir. Sub basement level, sir." It was at least an hour before I looked at porn again. There was a reason Justin never sent me a pic. I'm not choosy, but he wasn't my type. Not unattractive, but too fat to comfortably fuck. A friend once told me that he hated having sex with other fat people because it was tough to stay penetrated. I'd never experienced that before tonight.
We were off to a bad start when we realized that neither of us had done any online dating since the nineties. We were obviously uncomfortable around each other & had little chemistry apart from both liking the same TV shows. Drank a beer to get prepared. I hate beer. Started out in the shower. He was bigger without his clothes. Smooth but awkward. I knew I should have gone home. He was too big to shower with, so we headed to the bedroom. The bedroom had a couple of dildos out and some lube. I had brought the condoms. He likes to give head with the latex on. Had I known I would have bought flavored condoms. Despite not being attracted to him in any way, I managed to get aroused. He gave decent head. After a few minutes he was ready to get fucked. This is when I realized that I am an emotionless robot. If I'm not attracted to someone I have the most mechanical sex imagineable. It was tough to find a position to get comfortable in. He was clearly too big to be comfortably on top of me. It would be like being pinned by The Canadian Earthquake. His bed wasn't high enough for him to be laid out on his back, so we ended up doggy-style. Usually I'm all about long tantric sex, but I just wanted this to be overwith, so I ended up coming in about eight minutes. Yes, I looked at the clock. That's how bad it was. The hard part would be getting him off. I'm not a fan of licking latex, and haven't bottomed for anybody in about six years, though I don't dislike it. I decided I'd rather get fucked for a while than lick latex. He lubed up a condom, and put it over a butt plug which he then sat on. I laid on my stomach, forgetting that the bed was too low for this to be a comfortable option. Doggystyle again. It didn't work too well, though, as his stomach kept getting in the way. Also he was much more of a bottom than a top, so he was having trouble staying hard. After about two minutes the condom fell off, and that was all she wrote. I wasn't into it enough to kiss or give proper attention to keeping him aroused. My passionless jerking of his cock did nothing for either of us. He was clearly embarrased. He offered to pay for a cab ride home, claiming it was too cold for me to walk to the subway. It wasn't that cold. Neither of us broached the subject of his not getting off, but he was clearly disappointed. So was I. At least I don't have to wash santorum out of my boxers. In mid-July, Melissa announced that she was leaving for Florida for a while. This made me very happy. I’d recently started working at a nearby Kookaburra Canyon. It was a job I’d loved when I lived in Cranberry Lake. And since I couldn’t stand the crap corporate restaurant I’d been working at when I met Melissa, I was overjoyed at the prospect of returning to work at a KC.
Among the typical college student servers, and the housewives whose children had gone off to colleges, was the hottest man I’d ever laid my eyes on, rested my eyes on, desperately wanted my eyes to fall into a coma on. David. I’d been working at KC for a week when David turned 21. I served him his first legal drink. I was the first man to get him drunk, but, though I thought about it, not the first one to takeadvantage of his drunkenness. I was the first person to notice when he started using color contacts. “Are your eyes...I mean...your eyes look...purple? Aren’t they usually...brown?” “How do you know what color his eyes are? You checking him out?” Asked Becky. I didn’t like Becky. “Either that, or I’ve noticed that Brazilian men with deeply tanned skins and brown hair all tend to have brown eyes.” Becky glowered at me. “Racist.” This from the bitchy former stripper who once cooked a huge catering order of chicken on the same stove top she’d used to cook bacon for the cheeseburgers, and said “I want to see a big old Jew take a big bite out of this fucken chicken. Send that fucken Jewbag straight to Hell.” And, yea, she’d laughed after she’d said it, and then, on seeing my horrified expression, “I was just kidding, Adam.” I heard that’s how Eva Braun got started. Yes, I’d noticed his eyes. There were quite a few other features, I’d noticed, too. I was busy noticing one part that, in French, rhymes with carrier, when I bumped into a server who wasrearranging the bread oven. I pulled him back, so he wouldn’t get burned, when Becky then rammed into me, full force. This was a sandwich I did not want to be the meat in. “Were you...were you checking me out?” David asked. We were on the T. His shift had ended about an hour before mine, but he’d sat at the bar, apparently waiting for my shift to end. “Yea.” “Oh.” And then silence. And then, “Want to come over and take advantage of your new found liquor buying abilities?” He nodded. Adorably. While we hadn’t had anything like sex during the next three months, there’d been quite a bit of cuddling, and out makeage. But when I told him that Melissa was headed to Florida for at least a couple weeks, he said he wanted to come spend the nights for a while. He claimed to be too drunk for any debauchery during the first night that he stayed over, but the next morning, he’d must have sobered up a bit, as I awoke to something on my penis that felt strangely like a tongue. More normally as a tongue, actually. And then there were hands, and flesh, and lips, and all the other fun stuff, and then condoms, and then moaning. Loud, wow, moaning. This went on for about twenty minutes. When we were done we heard applause. Uhoh. David hopped off the bed, threw on his pants, and peeked through the venetian blinds. “Fuck.” yes, we had. “Look.” Outside, three also hot Brazilian looking guys were sitting on chaise lounges, pointed at my bedroom window. Apparently, they were house painting when they heard our, uh, performance, and decided to take a break. “I’ve...I’ve got to go.” David said, throwing on his hoodie, and some sunglasses. “I’m….I’m sorry.” When Ernie started showing up at the store where I packed fudge in the literal sense, I knew I was in trouble. Potheads in a candy store are only good for business if they leave every once in a while. Ernie had been standing in the same place for so long that I’d actually varnished his shoes.
Around closing time, while I was sanitizing the knives, and weighing the remaining fudge, Ernie mentioned that he’d missed the last bus to Middleboro. At the time, I was living in a commune type house, three floors, seven bedrooms, living room, dining room, three bathrooms, kitchen, laundry room; a poor man’s mansion. I was the poor man. “Well, we have a pretty comfortable futon in the living room if you don’t mind my roommates coming in and out of the house at all hours.” “You know,” Ernie said, “There was this sketchy guy in my college who used to tell freshman girls about his comfortable futon in order to entice them over to his dorm room where he’d get the drunk and fuck their brains out.” “I promise I’m not trying to get you drunk and fuck you. I’m trying to get you high and fuck you.” It’s important to note that I was trying to be funny. I was no more attracted to Ernie than I was to VH1. If I happen to be in the room while “Behind the Music” or “I Love the 90s” is on, I’ll watch it, but I don’t set aside time in my day to sit on the couch and watch “The Surreal Life” marathon. I was trying to be friendly and offer him a place to sleep, nothing more. I thought he was looking for an excuse to stay at my house because I lived with five very generous drug dealers, not because he wanted me to fuck his brains out. As soon as we got back to my place, Ernie wandered into the dining room where two people who lived in the house, and seven people who probably should have been paying rent where sitting at the table, smoking. I headed into my room to change out of my work clothes. I had just taken my pants off when Ernie opened the door. I regretted going commando. “Uh, hey.” I said. “I thought you were supposed to get me high before we came in here. Are you so horny you can’t even wait?” I must have looked as uncomfortable as I felt because he added “Just kidding. I didn’t know you were changing. Sorry.” But he didn’t leave the room or stop staring at me. Four hours later, he had been baked out of his bean, and his eyes had been properly glazed red. The rest of the crew had headed to the basement and plugged in the various instruments. Tonight’s song to be butchered was “Running With The Devil.” Somewhere in Obscurity, Eddie Van Halen started crying. I had set up the futon for Ernie, said goodnight and headed into my room. I wasn’t as baked as the rest of the household (I’d only inhaled second hand smoke), so I decided to forego my usualpre-sleep ritual. I didn’t want Ernie to think I was decorating my cake for him. When I woke up at 3 o’clock I knew something was unusual. It wasn’t that the band had stopped playing. The house was eerily silent, but that wasn’t incredibly unusual. There was the inappropriate ratio of smoke to air, and the house didn’t appear to be flooded or on fire, and yet something was decidedly non-status quo. Ahh, yes, someone was sucking my dick. “Uh, hey.” Ernie said. I chose to ignore the fact that he was infringing on my copyrighted greeting, and chose to focus on the more important issue. “Uh.” I added more of a pause than usual, “Hey Ernie.” I took a four second hour to figure out what to say. In the grand scheme of things, waking up to a houseguest sucking your dick is better than waking up to find a houseguest sharpening a knife or aiming a gun at your forehead or taking a shit on your toothbrush. But it’s still a tad unsettling. I made a mental note to start locking my bedroom door. I distinctly remember Gary Coleman's “Say no. Then go. And tell.” campaign. I remember that incredibly disturbing episode of “Different Strokes” where the bicycle store guy asked Gary’s friend to take his shirt off. I remember “No means no.” But at no point in either my exposure to pop culture or my sex ed classes did anyone ever explain to me what one should say when they wake up with their dick in the mouth of someone unexpected. Had the cock been in the other mouth, so to speak, I could have done the whole biting thing. But, as it was, I was unprepared. I can’t knee him in the jaw because then he is gonna bite down, and I certainly don’t want that They really should hand out pamphlets about situations like this in Boy Scout camp. Hmmm. Maybe a video or DVD directed at the escort and prospective altar boy markets. Not having any of the resources at my disposal, I was forced to take the completely lame “What are you doing?” approach. Ernie took my dick out of his mouth, and gave me the velociraptor look. The fucker was infringing on all my copyrights. “You’ve never had a blowjob before?” Touché velocirapist.“I mean, why are you in my room giving me a blowjob?” “I thought you wanted it.” I checked to see if I was wearing a short skirt and acting in a Lifetime Television for Victims movie. I was not. I sat up so that the closest thing to suck on was my toes, and prayed he wasn’t a foot fetishist. “No. What gave you that idea?” “Well, you're gay right?” “Yea.” I’m also a Democrat but I don’t want anybody voting for me while I’m asleep. “But, I’m-- I thought you were straight.” He flashed me the stupid Guy Who Just Bought Me A Drink And Thinks I Now Owe Him Keys To My Apartment smile. “I’m up for a little experimentation. I’ve never sucked a cock before.” This was glaringly obvious. “But I like you. And you know, you said that thing about getting me high and taking advantage of me.” “That was a joke.” I said. He stood up at the end of my quasi-bed, his rock hard cock pointing at me accusingly. What it was accusing me of, I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t the one who should have been apologizing. “Look,” I said, “If you wanted to fool around you should have talked to me about it. You can’t just go around wrapping your mouth around random gay guys’ cocks. This isn’t a rest stop bathroom." Crickets chirped. Tumbleweeds rolled across my floor. In the distance, a truck passed. As the doppler effect faded into the hum of the heating system, I waited for him to apologize. If not for violating my trust and personal space, then for the horrible way his teeth grazed against my cock, the way his stubble chafed my inner thigh. Because I’m the most unselfish man in all of creation, I could not stand idly by and let Ernie continue to go around giving terrible blowjobs to unsuspecting gay guys. As a member of "The Gay Community" it was my duty to either educate him or else tattoo "shitty sucker" on hisforehead. I was all out of needles and India Ink, and while I'm sure my drug dealer/artist roommates would have been able to loan me some, I decided to go the sex route. That way, I'd not only be able to tell everyone how I'd molded the subpar sucking "straight" boy into the perfect sex toy, I would also be able to engage in some much needed release of sexual tension get my fuck on. But, Adam, say those of you with more scruples than I have, you said yourself, he practically raped you. Why would you allow him the satisfaction of having your dick in his mouth/ass/nostril? Had Ernie woke me up with his dick in my ass, or with a knife/gun/copy of Dianetics at my throat/head/asshole, then I would have thrown him to the ground and beat him to death with my shitty futon frame. But, however misguided his attempt, he had been trying to pleasure me, not rape me. So, once I allowed my hormones to overrule my better judgment, I let him return to sucking my dick, giving him appropriate criticism: "teeth bad, tongue good"; even threatening him with a demonstration of why grazing cock with teeth was unacceptable. Not only did he learn better tongue technique, I even convinced him to borrow my razor and shave off his stubble. After about ten minutes of stubble-free, tonguelicious head, Ernie complained that his jaw was hurting. I started to give the old jerk the guy off into your mouth lesson when he interrupted "I don't want to jerk you off, I want you to fuck me." What is it with "straight" boys that they're so eager to jump from sucking to getting fucked on their first rape date? I understand the wanting to fuck regardless of orientation, but "straight" boys wanting to get fucked have always fascinated me. As a person who strives to be both tolerant and unselfish, I felt it would be wrong of me not to fuck him. So I unwrapped a Lifestyles and began the "Getting Fucked 101" tutorial. He got about a B- on the final exam. I fell asleep thinking that I'd diffused a potentially horrific situation. I've got my left hand on the edge of the bed, my right on the small of his back. My lower body is in the altar boy giving "bless me Father for I have sinned" head position. And after six positions in about twenty minutes after a full day of work serving dead cattle to zombie tourists, I'm not just fucken (adj. form) tired, I am fucking (verb present tense) tired. Even though neither of us have come yet, I'm thinking of grabbing my briefs off the floor and waving them like a flag. Then Aaron starts bucking against me and ---- we're done.
"Shit." he says, stretching toward Mecca. "Are you as wiped as I am." "Yea" is all I can really manage to say. It's been four days since I hired Erin, three since I realized he was, in fact, Aaron. In those three days, he's spent a great deal of time in my bedroom. "Do you have to work tomorrow?" he asks. "Yea, but I'm the first one in, so I should get cut early." "What time should I come over?" "Are you leaving?" I ask. He has this habit of taking off directly after sex, which is okay by me. I don't mind being a booty call. I haven't had anything even remotely close to a boyfriend since Elvis, and even though it's been over a year, I'm not sure I'm ready. Add to this the fact that I still had an enormous crush on my best friend (and things like that ALWAYS work out for the best), and the employee with benefits package fits my needs perfectly. "Do you want me to stay?" Here's where we might end up in tricky territory, if I ask him to stay I might be perceived as clingy, and if I ask him to leave... I'm saved from making this decision by the sound of my front door opening. This is one of those out of the frying pan into the spinning knife blades dipped in acid moments. There are three people with the keys to my house: my mother, my best friend (Liam), and my sidekick/former coworker/kind of formerish crush Cute Straight Boy. So, who's behind door number one? Tenth grade shall be etched in my memory forever as The Year of The Porno. It was several years after my initial contact with porn (or perhaps my initial contact with myself in connection with porn), but tenth grade was the year I first found out about group porn.
I'm not talking about orgy videos or gang bang photos, I'm talking about the curious practice of a bunch of straight boys wanking off together while watching porn. I don't get it. I like it but I don't get it. I'd feel weird jerking off to gay porn while some woman was fisting the kitty, and not because I'm repulsed by pussy (I'm not, I'm just not turned on by it) but because I find it an unerotic distraction from my special time with porn. As a gay guy, however, the fact that I lived in a dorm full of straight boys who masturbated together was a huge turn on. That said, had I been out as a teenager, this story might not be such a fond recollection. I'll never forget walking into the basement at 3 AM on a Friday night and hearing the fap fap fap of future frat boy self love. I didn't stay too long. I watched enough of the porn to remember that it was a Star Trek ripoff where the set is made of paper, and a woman actually ripped through the paper as a naked guy made the "fsssssssssh" sound of Star Trek doors opening. There were four guys fapping away. They weren't the hottest guys in the dorm. I suspect, it being a Friday night, the hottest guys in the dorm were out cruising in a girls dorm getting their fuck on. I returned to my room with only my curiosity aroused. I found out that the Friday night fapfest was a weekly occurrence. And while I knew that some of the regulars were guys I wouldn't mind seeing spew into a towel, I would have felt exposed if I ventured down there on a regular basis, so I tended to avoid the basement on Friday nights. On one particular Friday night, I was in the midst of a movie marathon. Alien, Terminator 2, Caddyshack. About halfway through Caddyshack, the seat & beat crowd came in and demanded we eject our movie so they could watch porn. My fellow marathon watchers were sophomores, like me. The sit back and whackers were seniors. Our dorm was so famous for hazing that freshmen had been banned from living there. The porno went in. The opening scene featured two trampy women sucking an ugly looking guy's dick. After a few minutes, the guy begins fucking Tramp #1 while Tramp #2 shoves a dildo up the guy's butt. A few minutes into the video I went upstairs to wrap my head around a bunch of straight guys jerking off to a guy getting a dildo shoved up his butt by a woman who could have easily passed as a man, had she not had an innie. Of course I walked in on my roommate experiencing a fap-attack. In the three years I went to boarding school, I had four roommates, and I caught all of them in mid-jerk. Little phased me. (I bet they'd all hate to think that I'd used the word little in such close proximity to the image of them jerking off) JBOB put his trouser snake away and flushed. "Can't I go anywhere without seeing dick tonight?" I lamented for the last time in my life. "Huh?" "Oh, I'm just cranky because we were in the middle of watching Caddyshack when the Friday night crew took over the basement to watch a video of some chick sticking a dildo in a guy's ass. Bunch of homos." Yes, it's true what they say about people who protest too much. "Dude, just because a guy likes getting a dildo shoved up his ass doesn't mean he's a fag." JBOB said, a bit too defensively. "I mean, it was a girl sticking a dildo up his ass. If he were gay it would be a guy sticking...whatever into his ass." Of course, he was right. Our discussion drifted around various gender and sexuality issues until we came to the issue of guys jerking off with each other. "I just don't get it." I said "The other day I walked into Seth's room to find out what the Algebra homework was, and there's nine guys sitting in a circle jerking off with a pile of nachos in the room. What the fuck?" JBOB shuddered. "Dirty nachos. Bleurgh. Stupid fucking hockey mutants. I don't get that shit. Why you'd want to jerk off with a bunch of guys is beyond me, and the idea of the last one to come having to eat nachos with a bunch of other guys' come on it is---" "WHAT???" We agreed that Dirty Nachos was, along with Dirty Sanchezes, one of the most disgusting sexual ideas ever invented. Eventually we got around to discussing gay sex. JBOB: "I mean, if I had to have sex with a guy, I'd want to be the guy getting fucked. That way I wouldn't get any pleasure out of it." "There's something wrong with you. I'd want to be the guy doing the fucking so that I'd at least get to shoot my load. Besides, getting fucked in the ass sounds painful." Then we started talking about pain in a very non-sexual way. What stayed with me, though, was the idea that he would rather be a bottom than a top, and he thought that enjoying things being stuck in your ass was not necessarily a gay thing. JBOB and I never had anything remotely like sex. Walking in on him (to date, I've never been unexpectedly interrupted) was as close as we got. But I did eventually meet a straight boy who reminded me of him. Randy lived up to his name. While I was working at Kookaburra Canyon in Cranberry Lake, it was my job to train new employees. Randy was finishing up his menu test when I came in. While I graded his test he kept looking at me oddly. I initially thought he was coming on to me. When I told him he passed he said "Is your name Insafemode?" You can guess my answer. "Oh wow. You used to be a counselor at the camp I went to. Remember me?" I didn't. "I was the kid who jumped off the boathouse and sprained my ankle." Now I remembered, he was the stupid kid. He wasn't one of mine. I had been sixteen at the time, and working with the eight to ten year olds. Randy had been fourteen. We spent the night working and reminiscing, and at the end of the shift, for no apparent reason he leaped on my back much the way the kids had when I worked at camp. Of course, the kids weighed about fifty pounds, and Randy weighed a buck forty. Had I been prepared, I would have lifted him easily, as it was I nearly fell face first into a table. "Sorry about that." On a particular Friday night, while a new generation was lurking and jerking at my alma mater, Randy needed a ride home. He started talking about a girl he was casually seeing and how she liked to do E and let him fuck her. He was quite the charming conversationalist. "When she's feeling really frisky, she throws on a strap-on and fucks me up the ass." I pulled over to the side of the road. "Bullshit. Why would you tell me something like that?" "I don't know, maybe I'm hoping you'll take me back to your place and fuck me." Who says that shit? Randy. I'm sure it was meant as a joke. Still, I pulled a U-ey. "Where are we going?" "My place. I've got a hard-on and a refrigerator full of beer." I am absolutely positive that it was not meant as a joke. Randy was tall, blonde, and cut like a Bel Ami porn star. He wanted more than anything in life to be a Navy SEAL. I could never date anyone like him, but I could get him drunk and fuck him, though I didn't imagine things would go as planned. I figured we'd get drunk and pass out, have some really cool conversation that didn't involve either of us getting naked. We didn't even make it to the refrigerator before he started taking his clothes off. "I have a few rules." he said. "Ok." "Tell no one. Seriously, I'm not gay, I'm just really turned on right now." Whatever, There was nearly no foreplay. A bit of fingering to prep him, naturally, but no kissing or anything. Just him bent over the arm of the couch, upside down in the middle of the living room floor, laid down on the chaise lounge on my back porch. We fucked everywhere that night. And the next night, and a week later. By then we were making out first, caressing each other like lovers. The fourth night was so amazing we knocked over and broke my computer monitor and I didn't care. That time he spent the night, playing with my hair, nibbling on my ears. I knew that this was going to be my first post-Seith relationship. I sensed the coming of an overwhelming happiness. Hence, I don't work for The Psychic Friends network. Randy didn't show up for work the next day or ever again, A few weeks later a mutual friend told me that he'd run into Randy at the mall buying clothes for his move to Florida. Having no idea that Randy and I were anything more than acquaintances, he was quite surprised that Randy asked how I was and told him to pass along the message that he was sorry to move out without saying goodbye. I'm standing at the gates of Heaven or Hell, and the doorbell doesn't work. Saint Peter must be on a lunchbreak, or else Cerberus is paddling around the River Styx looking for driftbones. The gates are red ivory, and thanks to Christo & Jean Claude's billowy purple canvas stretched around the length of the fence, I can't see fuck all on the other side. After a round of vigorous knocking and door-kicking, I try the doorbell again. In the distance a dog howls. So these are the gates of hell, the doorbell is so high pitched only Cerberus can hear it, and now he knows I'm here.
I pull out my cell phone and check my missed calls. Score. Emmet answers on the first ring. "Hello?" "Hi. I'm outside. I don't think your doorbell is working." "Ummm. I'm outside on my front porch. I don't think that's my doorbell. Wait. Are you the guy across the street?" I cross the River Styx, making sure to look both ways for speeding gondolas. Emmet is sitting on a blue futon, sipping a pear margarita with an umbrella in it. It occurs to me that I've never met anyone who puts umbrellas in their drinks when they're at home. This is a whole new level of Gay. I sit down in the captain's chair next to his futon. He kicks a cooler toward me. Inside is a blender of margarita mix, two green and orange striped, curved goblets, and about a half dozen little umbrellas. "Tommy should be on his way shortly." Emmet says. I doubt him. Not because I think Emmet is lying, but because I know Tommy. Tommy and I have fooled around twice. He's stood me up three times, and the last time we tried to plan a threesome, we ended up alone, eating shitty pancakes at three in the morning. We haven't spoken much since. Apparently, Emmet is Tommy's latest fuckbuddy, a twenty-two year old MIT student with the keys to his parents' summer house. It's not quite yet summer, which means Tommy is not quite yet eighteen. Three more days. But given our history, it seems pretty stupid to turn down the possibility of a threesome based on a 72 hour legal formality. Two hours, and a blender and a half later, it's pretty obvious that Tommy found a better offer. Likely, one with money involved. So this is neither Heaven nor Hell but Purgatory. I decide to take my fate into my own hands, and head home. "What? I don't even get a blowjob?" Emmet asks. No, Third Wheel, you were just a bait to try and get Tommy back into my sex life. He wanted a threesome, you wanted a threesome, and I wanted him. I appreciate the alcohol, but I had no intention of touching your dick unless Tommy asked me to. Don't get me wrong, Emmet was cute, and I'm not particularly choosy, but I had planned this entire day to literally get back in touch with Tommy. I'd been pretty much celibate since Elvis left, and all I could think of was Tommy's tongue. "Ummm. What?" "Fucker. You come over here and drink like half a bottle of tequila, and you can't even suck me off a little?" Maybe this isn't Purgatory after all. "You faggots are all the same." Says the guy with little drink umbrellas in his pink cooler. "You're all talk talk talk when it comes to sex. You lead a guy on over The Internet, go to his house, and then suddenly your legs are superglued shut. Fine. Fuck you. Get off my porch." I am already ahead of him on the last count. I'm about halfway across the street, and ready to bolt if he makes a move toward me. My attempt to apologize for not being as much of a whore as he thought are interrupted by a car horn. This is the second time I've nearly been run over when Tommy stood me up. Surely this is some sort of sign. I've got my hands securely fastened around my favorite guypart, my mouth around my third favorite part, while looking up at my second favorite part. (ass, cock, face) In an ideal world, I'm comfortable. In the real world his massive Lennie hands are cutting of circulation to my brain and are slamming my not incredibly large nose into his mutant outie belly button. I move my left hand from ass cheek to balls and begin to pull in a way that I hope is rather painful. I move my right index finger into No Man's Land and press hard and without warning. He grips harder, slams my head faster and says "Fuck, yeah." I'm not getting my point across at all.
It isn't until I do a little teeth grazing that he moves his hands off my head and moves over to my bed. He stretches out on his stomach, ass in the air. I enjoy the view from where I'm kneeling, but decide I'll be able to appreciate it more from up close. I am correct. Because I have decided he likes it rough (something I have just about no experience with), I decide to go for the gusto and once my cock is inside, I begin thrusting like a drunken swordfighter in a hall of mirrors. He moans "Oh yes." This is followed by a tremendous crash. Brett is now wearing my curtains like a wedding veil. "I was biting down on them." He says after I've pulled out to laugh at him. "They felt really awesome between my teeth. Until the rod fell on my head. Is it a good look for me?" I answer with a kiss. It's a passionate kiss, but nothing spectacular until he bites my fucken tongue "What the fuck are you doing, freak?" I ask, checking my tongue for blood, there is none. "Did you learn how to kiss from Freddy Kreuger?" "You're the one who was pulling my sack like you were ripping the tag off a t-shirt, and grazing my cock with your teeth." "Well you were slamming my nose into your belly dimmer switch." "I thought you...dimmer switch?" "Well it's way too big to be a button, unless it's like The Button that Evil Politicians always have their fingers on." And I press his belly button. "Look how much bigger your belly button is than my finger." "You have freakishly small hands." He says. "Yea, and look how much freakishly smaller they look next to your mutant umbilical cord." He grabs my hands, pushes me back on the bed, and sits so that his ass is rubbing against my cock, and lets out a loud, raunchy fart. Eye wateringly bad. Did I mention his half of the pizza had garlic and anchovies on it? When I coughed his cock slapped against my stomach which made me want to laugh which made me cough more. I sounded like a cat getting ready to cough up a furball. "Get off me, freak." "Stop calling me freak." He says, moving his gigantic frog eyes until they are about half a centimeter away from my human-sized ones. "Stop being freaky, freak." He moves back and centers his ass over my cock, slides down, and "Ewwwww." I yell, pulling my cock out of his ass. "What?" He laughs. "Dude, didn't that fart feel a little wet to you?" He continues laughing. "It's not like you aren't wearing a condom. What do you care if it was wet?" Still, he lifts his body up a little bit, and I see that my cock looks the way it usually looks when it's wrapped in blue latex. No shit. He moves back to his cowboy position, and reaches his hands behind him. He pulls one of the curtains in front of his face. "Oh, Mr. Mode, I do declare, I have sat my derriere on something pointy. It feels quite wonderful." I snatch the curtain away from him, whip it at him a couple of times and throw it across the room. I then sit up, pushing him onto his back and kiss him so I won't have to listen to his horrible falsetto. We go for about five minutes before I pull out, and we both make rather a mess of his chest and chin. We lay spread across each other for a few minutes. I can feel sleep falling over my head like those fucken curtains when Brett starts giggling. "What?" I ask. "I think I left something in the oven." "The oven?" I ask. He pulls the covers over our heads, and lets out the wettest sounding, garliciest fart in the history of gastronomical problems |
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