Honest Conversation Is Overrated
Actual Human Interactions Witnessed Or Overheard
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
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Until this week, the worst thing anyone had ever said to me during sex was You're better than my brother. Until this week.
On Monday night, I was feeling particularly not feeling. Checked some long neglected (but, apparently, not long enough neglected) dating sites, and saw that I had a bunch of mail filled with a bunch of males. Forgetting the three that only figuratively blew me off, the first guy I agreed to meet had the same name as me (Safey, for those of you playing with yourselves along at home). I'd always wondered what it would be like to be able to call out your own name in bed, without looking egotistical, so I replied to his e-mail. His picture indicated he was blessed with clear skin. Lots and lots of clear skin. "I hate that picture. I've lost about thirty pounds since then." So I agreed to meet him, not realizing that, while he may have lost thirty pounds since the picture, he had gained all of it back. And those pounds had accumulated friends. He was pretty adamant about getting fucked, and I was pretty drunk. I rolled my eyes at the fact that he was wearing a jock, bent him over the bed with absolutely no foreplay, strapped on a condom, and went to work. It was okay. Nothing Earth shattering. Nothing terrible. Until he said "Breed me." And I said, "Huh?" "Breed me." Fags can't breed. Even if I hadn't been wearing a condom. "Oh, yea. Breed me, daddy, breed me." So, I faked an orgasm, pulled out, threw away the condom, and got dressed. He left. An hour later, he sent me an e-mail, talking about how my come kept oozing out of his ass. Again, I was wearing a condom. Again, I hadn't actually come, even in said condom. The next night, I needed some balance to the universe. I answered an e-mail from an absolutely adorable guy who, because I hadn't updated my profile in five years, thought I lived down the street from him. We go over the requisite info: I'm a top, he's a bottom. Both recently tested negative. Neither of us admitting to being crack addicts or serial cat rapists (shut up, it was one time, and that cat was not being clear what it wanted). As per usual, I offered to host. My apartment is nicer than those of the people I tend to meet. He wanted to meet at his place, except his roommate didn't allow him to have friends over that she didn't know. Why alarm bells failed to go off in my head at this point, I can't say. "So you could come over," he said, "but we would have to fuck in the basement." Okay. "And then you'd have to take a cab home or something." Not okay. So I told him I wasn't at all interested in going over to his apartment if it meant I was going to have to hide in the basement, and flee in the night like some sort of closet case ass burglar. Finally, he agreed that I could sleep over. "But I don't know about sleeping together. That may be weird." Again, no alarm bells. I was, not drunk this time, but overtired and seeking something to eclipse the memory of Mr. Breed Me Jockwearovich. So I hopped on the last train to his house. Called him from the end of the street, to let him know I was almost there. "Are you into anything kinky?" He asked. "No." I refer to myself as French Vanilla. Sex talk is fine, spankage, light bondage, "Nothing involving a suit or a ball gag." I would later regret making that last statement. "And no bodily fluids except semen and saliva." "No watersports?" I sighed. "Not unless you're trying to tell me you've got a pool, a jacuzzi, or a heated lake in your basement, no. I don't want anything coming out of your penis that isn't thick and white." "What if I just want you to pee in me?" Now the alarm bells were in full cacophonous mode. Fuck. And it was entirely too late to get a train home. When he answered the door, I realized, once again, this guy looked nothing like his picture. However, for once, he looked much better than his picture. He was wearing long pajama bottoms and a Good Bush/Bad Bush t-shirt, which concerned me, not because I disagreed with his politics, but because neither of the bushes depicted were the sort of bush I wanted either of us to have. He got right to the kissing and, while not the best kisser in the world, was not bad, either. It wasn't long before his clothes were off, and he was bending over the basement stairs. I put on a condom, and got to work. His ass was magical in every way. Shaped properly, only slightly fuzzy, and tighter than a Republican wallet at at an NEA fundraiser. His moans were adorable. After about five minutes, he stood up, leaned into me, kissing me, while clenching and unclenching his ass like the gassiest sinner in Church. We adjusted positions pretty regularly for about forty-five minutes, and then he pulled away from me, and let out a series of small farts. He blushed. "It's okay." I said. "There's been a lot of in and out going on down there." "And a lot of beer before that." He smiled. He then proceeded to suck me off for a few minutes while jerking himself to orgasm. And then I came. And then, "Are you up for more?" He asked. I'm always up for more. So he laid with his back down on a futon mattress. I folded him a few different ways, listening to his amazing whimpers. Then he pulled my head to his, looked me straight in the eyes and said "You've been tested before, right?" "Of course." I said. And I wasn't lying. He got this weird look on his face, that I confused for a wince of pain from being fucked for so long. I resumed fucking. He resumed moaning, and then he said "I want your hot, poz, seed in me." I flinched so hard, my cock popped out of him, and I think I may have sustained mild whiplash. What is with gay men and their "I want to get barebacked into getting a horrible disease" fetish? I'm not HIV positive (abbrevriated poz, apparently). And, once again, I was wearing a condom. There would be no seed of any kind inside him. Certainly not hot, poz seed. He leaned in to kiss me. "Come on, baby. I want your hot poz seed inside me. I don't want to know your name, I just want your--" "STOP TALKING." And I put my hand over his mouth. "Seriously, not sexy." He shrugged, leaned back, and pulled me back into him. And I fucked, and I fucked, and I tried to erase all memory of hot poz seed, and then I pulled out. "I want your hot," I stared at him. He stopped. And then he started blowing me. When I was finished coming, he stood up, and it was pretty obvious he wanted to snowball. I did not. So I pushed him away. "So," he smiled, "are you going to pee in me?" "No." "Well, will you at least suck me off?" Of course. But, I suspected, since his cock wasn't at optimum erection, that there may be a pee plot, in effect. "If I sense even a drop of urine, I'm going to rip off your testicles." "Unless you find that sexy." And I returned to blowing him. And then he wanted me to start fucking him again. At this point, we've been going at it for over two hours. And, apart from his weird bug chasing and water sport sex talk, it had been pretty good. So I fucked him for a while, and then he said "Can I fuck you?" It had been a long time since I'd let anyone fuck me, but this guy was obviously drunk, had come in the not so distant past, and I was going to double wrap his cock, and, being as how drunk he was, he probably wouldn't notice. He didn't notice. He also never got inside me. Though, after about ten minutes of grinding his cock between my right ass cheek, and the mattress, he let out another little fart and said "I just totally came in you." I smirked. "Did you like it?" "Oh, yea." I said "It was hot." And he giggled, "Positive?" And that's when I bit him.
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Just back from another glorious weekend with Racist Grandma. After letting me sleep in all the way until six in the morning, she cooked me ham and eggs for breakfast, making sure to remind me that I had to share most of my ham with the dog, or else the dog would cry.
I made the dog cry. "Do you like the eggs? I broke the yolk. Your father doesn't like it when I break the yolks, he always makes me recook them. He's such a kidder. I don't understand why the Blacks think they need everything. They all have nine hundred dollar shoes, and all that gold(!), and they keep crying about how expensive the heat is. But have you ever been to a Black Person's apartment? They all crank they heat up, and leave the windows open. My god. I don't get it. At least they get all dressed up and nice for Church, not like the Spanish. I keep telling the priest he needs to talk with the Spanish, they let their kids run around all the time, and they always spill their sodas on the floor. Who do you think has to clean it up? The white people. It's not fair. Do you know how hard it is for a white kid to get into those, what do you call them, magnet schools? They're all Blacks and Spanish. I thought Those People didn't want segregation. Oh, and the singing. I hate the way the Blacks sing in Church. It's shameful. Are you all done with your ham? Frisky wants the rest of the ham, don't you boy, yeeeeeeeeeea." I have discovered that my body's defense mechanism is sleep. I'd be completely functional, and working on writing, or reading, and she'd start in on a rant, and zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. I'd be out for about an hour. But when I woke up, "And another thing, why do they drive so fast? All day long, zooom, zooom. Always The Blacks racing up and down the street. Shameful." Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. I needed the excess sleep for my return trip home, as I detoured to Worcester for a slam. Before the slam, I went out to dinner with a couple of friends at Crapplebee's. While we were perusing the menu, the teenagers at the table behind us were trying to remember the names of Hanson songs that weren't MmmBop. And then one of them said, "I just got tickets to The Spice Girls show in January. I'm so excited." Apparently, I detoured to Worcester circa 1998. After dinner, we headed to the poetry venue. I debated just going to watch, but when I heard Ben was coming, with a carload or two of Hampshire students, I decided to make him pee a bit by slamming against them. I won. And, instead of going straight home, I decided to be a fratboy, and play drunken Monopoly with some friends until three in the morning. In order to be a fratboy, I could have drank some Budweiser, some Natty Light, a forty of just about anything. Instead, I drank Skittlebrau. Smirnoff Ice, with Skittles dropped in it, making it fizz and change to whatever color the Skittles are. It tasted wonderfully not quite awful. I didn't win Monopoly. At all. I was only able to buy two properties during the game. I wasn't being selective, I just never landed on a property someone else didn't own. It was kind of eerie. The game ended a bit after three, and a bit around six, I drove home with one of my roommates. I stayed up, banning bad_sex trolls until it was time for work. During the middle of the shift, a bunch of coworkers stopped in. We were discussing my being caught in Worcester circa 1998, when one of them said "At least it wasn't 1986." "I beg to differ. If it were 1986, I could have at least Pogoballed while people talked about the new Falco cassette." None of them knew what a Pogoball was. "You don't...I mean...they...they were these neon colored Saturn looking things. Two balls with a sort of plastic tray between them that you hopped up and down on. You don't remember?" They didn't remember. So we ended up talking about other 80's fads, Hypercolor t-shirts, Jams shorts, jelly shoes, "Do you remember slap bracelets?" a random customer asked. "You mean those brightly colored fabricy things with the metal rods inside?" He did. "I hated those things." I said. "The metal was always just waiting to slice through the fabric and into your skin. I hold the inventor of those stupid toys personally responsible for the entire generation of cutters we have out there." And then the store got eerily quiet. "Too far?" A few weeks ago, I cracked one of my teeth. The pain wasn't too bad. But the next day, after some ibuprofen and orajel, I forgot that I hadn't seen the dentist yet, and I split a bag of Smartfood with a friend. One of those white cheddar kernal corpses lodged itself directly into the now open cavity of my back tooth. It fit so painfully perfectly that I couldn't get it out. I miss the late nights in the kitchen. Flicking the lights on during my trek to the bathroom, only to find the cat, sitting in my way. I would reach down to pet her, and she'd gently tilt her head up, and then scratch the blood out of my hand. Then a quick hiss, and she'd be angling for me to pet her again. I fucken hated that cat, and how I always tried to be nice to her, even though I knew she was an ungrateful beast. She even tried to bite me while I was feeding her. I've been playing a lot of Super Smash Brothers on the N64 this week. I switched from Yoshi, because he was always your favorite, to Link, which my roommates refer to as The Cheapest Character. You're a waffle. I'm an iron. You've got my palm prints over every inch of your body. You're delicious in a way you could never be without me. In a way I could never be. The Chinese place across the street has been, literally, turned around in the last week. The door is on the other side, the kitchen and the dining room are switched. I was feeling lightheaded, and sinusy, so I stopped in just for a bowl of miso. The cute guy with the faint accent handed me the miso, and a pair of chopsticks. The playlist on the station I listen to has been mostly the same since you left the first time. Just when a song reminds me pleasantly of you, fucken Loveline comes on. There's no metaphor in this paragraph, it's just a huge fucken pain in the ass how the only station I enjoy listening to, keeps getting interrupted by teenagers who call older men for love and sex advice. Ever since you and I stopped doing whatever it was we weren't doing anymore seeing each other, I've been looking for someone who reminds me nothing of you. Last night, I found him. I mean, I found him before last night, but I didn't know what I'd found. Last night, he came back. You know how you and I sandpapered each other with words until we finally fit comfortably into each other. He and I didn't need the rough tongues. We just fit.
No one online, looking for sex at two o'clock in the morning should ever anticipate anything more than the grungiest, most self-absorbed, disfigured sex addicts. Or drunk people. I'd like to believe that it was the seventh glass of Bacardi 151 that opened the Craigslist page.
I was too drunk to write a clever ad. Too drunk to write an accurate ad. So I wrote: moderately hairy top can host. Smooth bottoms to the front of the line. I don't even know what that means. But I got an e-mail from someone who lived about five minutes down the street. He said he was going to shower and come over. And thank God, because he reeked of booze and sweat, and...wait, that was me. Shower. Great idea. I threw on some sweatpants, and a t-shirt because I was at home meeting a stranger for sex, so the clothes weren't going to be staying on for too long, anyway, why not dress for easy access? And I waited. And, I waited. And I. Waited. It was a terrible idea anyway. I was three o'clock in the morning, and the highlight of the day had been finishing the first season of "Arrested Development" on DVD. Maybe. So, I was just about ready to head to sleep when my phone rang. The guy. William? Really? Huh. His sister had some sort of family crisis, which I was sure was a bullshit excuse for him not to come over, which was totally fine, because this whole thing was a terrible idea anyway, and, oh, he was calling from my driveway. "Hi." I said when I let him in. He was gorgeous. Flawless. Clearly a hallucination. No one looks that good in a pair of Adidas warm up pants. "Hi." He said. I was not gorgeous. Luckily, it was dark in my room. It occurred to me, that we had never discussed what was going to happen once he'd made it to my house. I'm usually very specific about things like this. What I want, what I expect, what I fear is going to happen instead. But this guy. I had no idea what he wanted. So, I just prattled unmemorable nonsense. After a few minutes, he said "You mentioned porn." I never mention porn. I own some. I've used some. But never when I have a living, breathing, ass accessory (that's how I refer to the part of the male body attached to the ass) in my presence. But I did have some, and I put in the DVD player. And off came the Adidas warm up pants. And, the most adorable little penis in the world was underneath it. Tiny? You betchya, but it was just so cute, standing at its widdle attention. And the way it disappeared in William (really, William?)'s fist, like a match in the Hubble telescope, was adorable. Don't misunderstand, there was nothing kid-like about his cock. Tiny, though it was, it had definitely been attached to his body for all of his twenty-four years. It was just manly in a very tiny way. Like a midget Vin Diesel. I reached over to give some assistance (not lend a hand, that's too cutesy, even for me). It disappeared when I pressed my pinky, ring finger, and middle finger to my fist. On a cold night, when my hands shivered a bit, I could probably have gotten him off with out even deliberately moving. Still, I felt obliged to give this tiny penis a blowjob. It was too easy not to. The noises William (huh) made were astounding. It was like he'd never had any sort of sex before. Content whimpering, ecstatic sighs. His left hand dug into my left shoulder. "This is sooooo". He shuddered, but did not come. Five minutes later, he came. Fairly impressively. All over his stomach. "Can I?" He shuddered. "Can I use your bathroom?" "Of course." "Can I walk out like this? I don't want to get come on my pants." Sure. And, as he walked away, warm up pants around his ankles, I got my first glimpse of his amazing ass. Something I would keep a close eye on when he got back into the room. A minute passed. Then, two. Then, I saw him, pants back in their regular position, sneaking out the driveway. He was trying to leave without finishing me off. Or, for that matter, starting me. I scurried to, and out the front door, and waited for him as he rounded the corner. "Forget something?" I asked. He looked confused. And the confused expression looked very comfortable on his face. Like confused was the warm up pants he put on when he didn't want to go to the effort of anything else. "Were you planning on getting me off?" "Oh. You wanted to get off, too?" I glared at him. If confused was his face's warm up pants, the glare is my face without clothes on. And he followed me back into my room. "I can't blow you." He said. "I bit my tongue." And he just sat there. I took off my sweatpants. And he just sat there. I was starting to feel bad. Like this was a person with no experience pleasing a man. But, I'd seen this guy's ad when I used to check Craigslist regularly, and that was years ago. He was either bullshitting, or accustomed to just not having to get his partners off. Or he didn't find me attractive, and didn't know how to say so. But that, I wouldn't feel bad about it, I'd sent him my pictures, they were accurate and recent. "Why don't you take off your clothes again, and at least jerk me off." "Oh." His face brightened. "That sounds good. Do you have any lube?" I'd never given/received a handjob using lube before. It's never seemed necessary, but I passed him the Astroglide, which he squirted all over his hands. And while he moved his hands in a pleasing fashion, I'd never quite encountered, I fondled and fingered his ass. He grabbed my hands in his, until they were slick with lube. And while he licked my balls, and jerked me off, he arched his back until my fingers were as deep as they could get in his ass without me fisting him. He moaned, and said "How would you like to--" And I came in his eye. "God, I'm sorry. I've never come that fast before and." And I was still coming. "I'll go get a Kleenex." But I couldn't. My hands were all lubed up, and I couldn't get a good grip on the doorknob. And his hands were all lubed up, and he couldn't get a good grip on the doorknob, and neither of us seemed capable of figuring out where our clothes were, despite how small my room was. After about the longest fifteen seconds in recorded history, I snatched a clean shirt from my, thankfully open, closet, and opened the door. "I'll be back in a sec." And I tied the shirt around my waist, as I scoured the kitchen for the Kleenex box. "Got it!" I whispered. And turned around just in time to see naked William, hopping on one foot, trying to get his warm up pants on as he walked out the front door. It was my turn to look confused. |
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