Honest Conversation Is Overrated
Actual Human Interactions Witnessed Or Overheard
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
M. Froggypants left his cell phone in my room. It had fallen between my bed and the wall, and thus, I didn't even know I had it until about a half hour after he left. And, even then, I only knew I had it because it started to ring, I shit you not, La Marsellaise (the French national anthem). It was M. I- Must-Be-Gooeeeng-Now-Or-I-Weeeel-Meees-My-Trayeen checking to see where his phone was.
After our brief conversation, he hoofed it back to my place, and knocked on the door. He smiled when I answered, as though I should be glad to see him. "Waaayer eees my cellephoan?" "Sorry. It's in my room. I didn't realize you'd be here this quick." "Ees no problem, I weel go een and get it?" And so we walked into my room. His phone was on my bed, right on the spot he'd ejaculated on (though I'd wiped it up as soon as he was done). Also on my bed was Darth Vader, the bottle of lube I've been using. "Thees eees such a strayange-" and he dropped Darth, who must have had a bit of lube on it, to the floor, spilling a bit, but not too much. "Sorreee. Aneewayez, I shood bee goeeng." And he picked up his phone with his now slippery hand, and it, of course, fell to the floor as well. This happened twice more as he tried to pick his cell phone up off the floor with his lubey hand. Eventually, he managed to get the phone into his pocket, making a few lubey spots on the outside of his khaki pockets. "I weeel see you laytare." Which he wouldn't. No, when I keeeel heeeem, it will be from a distance, with a sniper rifle. And as he turned to leave the room, his shoe skidded briefly in the floor lube. He quickly regained his balance, flashed a smile in my direction, and said "That was cloase." And then he took two more steps forward, and slipped halfway out of my room, falling on his overly sensitive ass. "Ow." He said. "Weel you help meee up?" My turn to smile. "No. I don't want to get any lube on my hand, it's nearly impossible to get off. Don't worry though, it'll dry up in ten minutes or so." And I laughed quietly watching him try to get up, watching him carefully navigate out of my house, and watching him wiping his shoes on the concrete steps outside my house.
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I'm not saying the no one in this city knows how to fuck properly, I'm saying that people who don't know how to fuck properly tend to move to this city. Some are Chinese, some are French, an overwhelming amount seem to be from Pittsburgh, and a metric ton of these untalented fuckers hail from Milwaukee. There must be something about people from cities with funny names. I'm looking at you Poughkeepsie.
It's been three months since I've seen any of my exes, so I've been dangling my carrot in front of every horse-brained whore this side of the Charles River. I've met four French men, a half-dozen or so men of Asian descent, and an adorable Latino guy who got really bummed out when I told him I needed to see his driver's license. Yea, I like younger guys. No, I do not have sex with anyone who still has a curfew, and gets really excited about Hannah Montana. The first French man chatted me up in a bar, and told me he thought I was hot (which meant he had been drinking profusely even before I arrived), and wanted to take me back to his place. When I told him my place was closer, he let me know we had to go back to his place because his hot brother was home, and he couldn't have sex unless one of his brothers was in the same building. I paid my check and went back to my house. Without him. Froggy #2 came a courting from The Internet. His pictures were so fabulous, I knew they had to be fake. And while there is a strong possibility that the chiseled features and gorgeous smile were, once upon a time, grafted on to his face. He has obviously spent the decade or so since those pictures were taken working in a coal mine filled with radioactive waste, and no hazmat suit. Well, maybe the suit, but definitely not he visor. He was denied entrance to my domicile. The third surrender monkey cruised me on the T. This happens frequently (cruising in general, not necessarily cruising me), and since we got off at the same spot, he started talking to me. Small talking in a hot accent. And I might have been enticed to give him my e-mail address or my phone number, if he hadn't smelled like he'd been rolling in a pile of perpetually frightened skunks for the last week and a half. Last night was célibataire number four (or quatorze, if you're Bono). We'd been talking online for a couple of weeks. His picture was not flattering, but he looked like the sort of person who's moderately attractive, but not photogenic. I gave him my cell number and my address, and waited to see what was going to go wrong. He missed his bus, or there was no bus at the scheduled time. It's Boston, and the shitsucking general manager of our public transportation spends his day in his office canceling buses, and jerking off to the collective aggravation of the city when none of the trains or busses arrive on time. It was totally not this French guy's fault. So he walked a mile or two to my house. And when he showed up he smelled understandably musty, but not terrible. He looked better than his photo. "May I take a shower?" He asked. I gave him a towel, and pointed him in the direction of the bathroom. He stripped in my room, and walked naked to the bathroom, and proceeded to shower for about five minutes. When he came out his alarming cock was already engorged with blood (which is way better than being covered in blood). "This weel be my fairst teyum with an Amereecan." His accent seemed deliberately thicker, like a casual German playing a Nazi on the History Channel. He pulled off his towel and laid face up on my bed. I took off my clothes, and leaned in to start sucking/fingering him. "Weee shood talk abowt consentyill theengs wee mite want to beee doeeng." So we did. We agreed we were open to anything that didn't involve piss, shit, or his family. And then he rolled over, and said, "My ass ees yores, due what you want to eet." Which shortly became "Reem me." Now, as I knew he'd just come from my shower, I was willing to throw my tongue down Crackpipe Alley. But I'm no Gene Simmons (or, for that matter, Freddy Kreuger in Freddy's Revenge), and when he started moaning "Deeeperr", I was forced to tell him that was as deep as I could go with that particular organ. I was ready to move on to the fucking he'd said he so desperately needed when he started talking to me about the last guy he had sex with, who, apparently was French and horrible (pronounced whoreeblay). I don't want to talk about bad sex when I'm trying to have good sex. And I don't want you to tell me that you love the way my cock feels inside you when my cock is not only not inside you but not touching you in any way. "I want you to put all yore wayit on mee, and push een as deep as you cen, rite aaaaayway." So I did. Even though it wasn't really my thing. "You are such a mannn." Yes, I am. And I began to slowly move back and forth, and "Ohhhhhh. I theenk I just kayim on yore bed." And, he had. "Do you haff papir towells?" I did, and pulled my condomed cock out of him, reached over to the papir towells, handed him some, and waited for him to clear up. Then I turned him over, prepared to do things my way. "What are you doeeng? I am feenished." "I'm not. I've barely started." "I do not meen to bee selfeesh, but once I am dun, I am dun. And I do not want to mees my train home." "Seriously?" I mean, seriously? "You said you wanted me to fuck you for hours, that your ass was mine, and as soon as I get my dick in you, you come, and say you have to go home?" "Okay, I weel let you try some more? But, please, make it quicklee." And he bent over. and in went my cock, and then out shot my cock as he released a long, noisy, lubricant wet fart. And another. And another. And another. I handed him more papir towells. He toweled off his ass, looked at his watch and said "I am sorree, but I do not want to mees my train. Maybee I stop by to-morroh?" "No. Just go." And he went. I texted one of my perpetually indecisive Chinese American exes (there are three, and between the three of them, they've made two decisions in their entire lives, all three of them were removed by C-section, as they couldn't decide when was a good time to get out of the womb). As expected, he thought he might want to possibly come over maybe, but in the end he was kind of tired, and it was late, and he thought his horoscope might have said there was possibly something unusual in the air, so he didn't come. Which meant I didn't come. Which means my testicles are now the size of a scale model representation of hoop earrings, as worn by a trashy woman with a face the size of the sun. And it doesn't look like I'm getting any today, either. Jim, my roommate Byrne, and several other people in the poetry community seem to have the mistaken impression that I hate all Gay People. "And I don't mean you're self-loathing. It's just other Gay People you hate. I mean, if I were to make a pie chart of The Gay Community where the red part was people you hated, and the black part was people you liked, it'd look like a watermelon."
"To be fair," I replied, "the chart would look exactly the same were you to divvy up the straight people I did and didn't like." But it's Pride Week, and most of the people annoying me are Gay. Here's the thing, I don't like PDA, even when it's hot gay guys groping each other and doing the type of kiss that surrenders to Germans. I don't like the huge rainbows, the Madonna karaoke or the horrible fashion shows with clothes designed by people who should never be given scissors within a hundred yards of curtains or bathmats. When I was invited me to read for Coming Out Day, rather than Pride, at a local spoken word venue, I knew the organizer understood me. Ryan and I had a couple of hilarious conversations about how we hated melodramatic gay people. Which made his choice to kill himself rather than come out to his parents all the funnier. Ok, I didn't find it funny at the time, but it makes me giggle now. Ben and I used to riff on hating stereotypical Gays, too. And that was funny because Ben is as stereotypically Gay as you can get without bursting into Flamer (note, I am not calling him a Flamer...he's just sort of sparky). But it was Sora that I really bonded with on the loving homosexual men, and disliking Gays. And while I may joke about not liking Gays because of their fashion sense, their musical taste, their propensity for PDAs, their coifs, their deliberately screechy octavoices, or their gonorrhea; the truth is none of them seem to know how to kiss properly. Trey kisses like a damp sponge being pressed against your lips and slightly squeezed into your mouth. I met him, as I'm sure you're shocked to know, over The Internet. And his kissing was the only thing I could fault him on, but I haven't called him back. Breezy uses his tongue like a woodpecker searching for ants at the back of my throat. I wouldn't have called him back either, but the thing is, he has this great apartment. I mean, the apartment itself is average. Not furnished very well, devoid of any art, but it's on the water, meaning bay breeze, which, given the current heatwave, is good enough reason for me to continue seeing him. "So you're dating a guy for his apartment." Asterisk said. "I've done worse. I've dated people because I've liked their dog." And while I've never dated someone for their dog (and I do love dogs), I did threaten to break up with someone when their ex-roommate got custody of their awesome cat. But it's not just the apartment. Despite his being the sort of Gay you can see from space even when your eyes are closed and you're facing in the opposite direction, staring into the sun, he looks really good naked, and since he has no roommates, we spend a lot of time naked in various rooms. But we're not dating. I know we're not dating because both of us had sex a few hours before we met up (with other people, natch), and then a few hours after we parted ways. Clem was the guy a few hours earlier, and he received kisses exactly the way a closet case kisses back when they're about to freak out. Our sex didn't really last long. We'd been trying to meet for months. And by we, I mean he. I gave up on him after the first night of his utter wishy-washiness. He wanted to meet. He wanted to bottom. He had the night off, but, horrors, what if someone saw me go into his house and knew I was A Homosexual? What would the neighbors say? (I surmise they'd say "Yawn. He could do better.") Three months and eleven potential meet-ups later, he sent me his address, and I hopped on a bus that connected with another bus, and yet another bus that dropped me off in his neighborhood. We made very small talk before we went into his bedroom, where he closed his shades, turned off all the lights, and took off his clothes. When I tell you he had the tiniest penis I've ever seen, I'm not trying to insult him. As much as I can appreciate a good looking penis, it's not the part of the body I'm most looking for. His ass was assdequate. But barely had he slid his skivvies around his ankles, when he started stuttering. He had one hand on my cock, and said "Your c-c-cock is so big. I can not b-b-bottom for you." Which is flattering, but not at all true. Not even remotely true. So I started putting my clothes back on. "I can jerk you..." "No." "You can't." "You've got a car, right?" In the movie version of my life, I'm smoking a cigarette. Perhaps two cigarettes. "Yes. I have car." Apparently, my cock was also so big he forgot how to use articles in his sentences. "You're giving me a ride home then." And he did, without question. And as soon as he dropped me off at the house, I e-mailed Breezy, and he took care of my Indigo Testicles. And I took care of his. And he took care of mine. And I took care of...you get the idea. When it was finally well past time for sleep, Breezy plopped down beside me on his bed, and grabbed my arms around him. Which is fine. I can be rather cuddly when the mood strikes, much to the chagrin of Sora, and the amusement of Zach. The latter referring to me as a Reverse Teddy Bear. "A big furry thing that never lets go." Breezy was the first guy I've ever thought of as aggressively huggable. Every time I was certain he was asleep, and I tried to move to a more comfortable position, he would wait for me to adjust, and then commandeer both my arms, roll his neck under my chin, and slide his butt up against my cock, which is a pretty surefire way to get me to not move too much for a while. "Where are you going?" He asked when it was time for me to head home, shower, and consider going to work. "Home." "Not yet you're not." And he was correct. Three times. When I got the e-mail from Diego, telling me he would die without a sperm transfusion, I wondered if meeting him was a bit over the top. True, I hadn't been laid since Wednesday afternoon, but it was only Friday afternoon, and I had a show to go to Friday night. But he was insistent that he come over. he was insistent about everything. Kissing too desperate. Mashing of mouths, yanking of head. It was like kissing a fish that kept flopping around to different sides of your face. "Am I too rough?" He asked. "No." You just suck at this. "I am ready to be-" don't say it, don't say it, don't say it "taken by you, Big Boy." Sora developed a sense of dirty talk sometime after the first year or so of our on/off/on/off/off/off/on/whatever dating cycle. I think this goes back to a conversation we had where I mentioned liking when a guy was vocal in bed. But what I meant was guttural, or pleasured, not loquacious and porn talky. But Sora gets away with it because I like him & he has a sexy voice. Diego...Diego doesn't fall into either category. It's not just the bad kissing, the bad porn talk, or the everything else. Diego proved something I suspected, but didn't know for sure. I'm not into black dudes. It's not a racist thing. I cold surely fall in love with someone black, and I can damn sure realize when someone black is hot, but I'm just not into them, precisely the same way I'm not into women. They can get me hard, they can get me interested, but they can't make me come. Diego tried and tried and tried and tried, until Byrne knocked on my door to let me know it was time to go to the show. I don't think he heard what we were doing (and if he's read this far, I'm sure he now regrets it). "What do we do?" Diego asked. "You have not--" "We've got to go." I said. "Sorry, I didn't realize this would take so" epically "long." "I will call you later." He, I hope, lied. "You are such a whore. Again." Dmitri said, when I relayed the stories to him. "Who killed himself this time?" "Ouch. No one. I mean, I'm sure someone, but nobody I know. It's just..." Oh shit. Trey kisses sponge, Breezy woodpecker, Diego cinder block, Clem like a terrified mannequin. Diego is too needy armed, Trey too non-existent. Diego too existent. Clem not enough anything. These ass shaped men trying to fit themselves in my heart slot. And, in theory, the piece should fit. Not perfectly, or even well. But they should drop into the too big space for them, and slide around like the last pretzel in a kiddie pool sized bowl. Everything about Breezy is nearly acceptable except that he isn't Sora. And, fuck. The best thing about having your perfect boyfriend commit suicide a month into your relationship is that you realize pretty quickly that there's no way you can improve upon your relationship or bring things back to the way they were. He's never going to be nearly as responsive, even if you dig him up and put a tape recorder in his chest. He's never going to kiss back, or silently judge you for your horrible necrophilia jokes. Ok, he will always silently judge you for your necrophilia jokes, because silent judgment is one of the few things corpses are good at. But, I digress. Sora is, thank everything, in no way shape or form dead. Nor is he, nor has he ever been perfect, as my friends frequently remind me. But he kisses properly, which is sometimes enough. And we've become accustomed to our cycle of whatever it is we do or don't. And Zach was right about me. I'm just this big, furry thing that never lets go. When one of my ex-roommates was four years old, his parents held a party with all their friends from work. It was an Adult party (not to be confused with an ADULT party), and as such, it was no place for a four year old. And, besides, it was past his bedtime.
Not one to be denied a party, the sage four year old sat down on his bed, and tried to think of a way to go to downstairs and mingle, without being caught, and sent back to bed. He could tie a red blanket around his neck, and wear his Superman pajamas and go downstairs, but Superman was a do-gooder boy scout, who, when asked to go upstairs and go to bed, would be forced to comply. He had once gone downstairs naked, imagining himself invisible, and that had made his parents very cross. What, then? He dug through his closet, and there he found The Answer To His Problems. A Darth Vader mask. Who would dare send Darth Vader off to bed at nine PM? Maybe Emperor Palpatine, but that's about it (these being the days before anyone knew of whiny emo Anakin). This is how there came to be The Greatest Party Ever, in which a bunch of suited up water cooler types, sat around the couches, and leaned in doorways, listening to a tiny Lord Vader regale them with stories about dinosaurs, and computer games, and other things that strikes Tiny Vader's fancy. Tiny Vader is, at no point, sent upstairs by the little boy's parents, but eventually falls asleep on the chair, and wakes up the next morning clutching the Vader mask like a teddy bear. This has nothing to do with the story I'm about to tell you, except that when Jim said, "So I've been telling a story about you recently that involves Darth Vader, and I thought you should know." This was the only story I could think of. "Vader?" I asked him. "Yea. And, the thing is, I've told a lot of people. And, I figure the story is probably going to get back to you soon. And, so I should probably tell you." Three sentences in a row that star with And usually spells doom. Particularly when there are three syllables between the a and the n. Doom. "Remember last week, when I was over your house?" I did. "And, you know how I had you watching videos on Youtube for a while?" I did. "And, remember how I got up and had to go to the bathroom?" Well, this I didn't remember, as I don't make it a habit to record my house guests' potty habits. "Do you know why?" I did not. "Well, you have all these cool comic book stuf in your house. The trades, the Munnys, and everything. And, so I was looking around, and I saw your Darth Vader action figure." I do not have a Darth Vader action figure. "And, I thought, that looks cool. And so I went to pick it up, and it was not a Darth Vader action figure." My mind races. What on Earth do I have in my house that looks like, but is not, a Darth Vader action figure? "It was a dildo." It was not. "I don't have a dildo in my house. Darth Vader-like, or otherwise." "You don't? It was by your bed, in one of the cubby holes. And it was covered in...something gross." Something...? "Oh! It's a bottle of lube." "Ew." "What do you mean, ew?" "I mean, I touched something that you stick in a guy's ass." What? "No you didn't. You don't stick a bottle of lube in a guy's ass. though, I suppose you could. You flip the top, dispense the lube on your fingers, and then stick your fingers in the guy's ass. The bottle never gets any play." "Oh. Well, that's not how I've been telling the story." Which is why, at two in the morning, at IHoP, I tell an assortment of friends, including Ben, that Jim has still not touched anything I've ever inserted into a man's ass, except my hand, which I wave in his face. But I'd washed it plenty of times between those two events. A few days ago, I was bored at work, when I remembered there was a porn store on the other side of the building that I'd never been to. I needed to (and this is not a pun) rectify that situation. But I didn't want to be the creepy loser who goes to the porn store alone, walks around the aisle, but doesn't buy anything.
This induced a flashback. A week previous, one of my four current guythings (none of them will commit, so I'm not going to choose just one), Zach had called me, drunk, which is the only time he ever calls me. It was around eleven, and our conversation consisted of "Long time, no talk." "Yea." "Wanna fuck me tonight?" I thought about it for a second. "Yea." "I'm on my way over." At 1:30 in the morning, I fell asleep, not having seen him. As he lives down the street from me, and works about a ten minute drive or so, I assumed he'd passed out somewhere. Hopefully, not behind the wheel of his car. At 3 AM my phone rang again. "I'm outside." I was still mostly asleep. "Who are you? And what are you outside of?" "Who were you thinking of fucking tonight?" Is there ever just one person I think of fucking a night? "Joe?" "Who?" Oops. Wrong FWB. "Just kidding. Hey Zach, let me...I'm gonna..." by the time I figured out how to articulate that I was on my way to the door to let him in, I was at the door, having already let him in. "Who's Joe?" He said, still talking into the phone. I grabbed his phone from him and hung it up. "Just some guy I've been fucking." While this might sound cool, and all, it should be noted that I had Sleepy Voice going on, and it probably sounded more like "jussome guyvebeenfuckn". "Weirdo." He said. "Why do you smell like calamine lotion?" Apparently, just after calling me, Zach had been corralled into going to a club with one of his friends. There, he tried to flirt his way into anyone's pants. Not a particular someone, a general anyone. Apparently, his main target was the DJ, and one of the other dancers took offense to this. Instead of slapping him, hissing, or queering out on him, this guy seductively took off Zach's shirt (which is really unnecessary, you just say the word shirt to him, and he takes it off on his own. It makes it really awkward to compliment his clothes when you're out at a restaurant. Anyhow, the shirt comes off, and the guy leads Zach into the middle of the dancefloor, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a bottle of calamine lotion, which he proceeds to dump over Zach's head. Why he was carrying around calamine lotion during the middle of winter in Boston is positively beyond me. The whole story stunk of having been made up, but, then, why would Zach deliberately cover his hair and chest with calamine lotion? "I need a shower." He said. And was correct. "Pants." I said, and off his pants came. I pushed him, gently, into the bathroom, checked to make sure my roommates were asleep, and began to strip myself. I hadn't really planned on shower sex. It never goes well for me. I just thought Zach might have been a little too drunk to get all the calamine lotion off on his own. I don't know how he'd managed to drive to my house. Or what god he prayed to that kept him from getting pulled over and having to explain to a police officer why, on a freezing March night, he was driving shirtless and covered in a hard pink shell. I mean, shit, it's been over fifteen years since the FDA said that calamine lotion is nothing more than a placebo. Once, he'd been depinkified, I started to play with his ass a little. My plan being, I would arose him, then leave the shower, and have him follow me to my room. "I want you to eat me out." He said. And then he pushed the shower head toward the inside wall. I figured, why not, and got down and my knees, and began to get my lick on. I knew he was clean down there, I'd watched him soap it out. The thing is, I wasn't at quite the right angle, and I'm no expert at eating ass. There are other appendages I prefer squeezing into them. After about thirty seconds or so, he repositioned his feet. His whole body moved a bit. I assumed I was doing something right, or else he was standing uncomfortably. Then, the water started streaming down his back and into my nose and mouth. Shampooey water. "What the fuck?" I choked. "I'm doing my hair." He said. I spit some water and shampoo at him, and said "I quit. I'm going to go into my room, and wait for you. Jerk." "I'll let you fuccccccccccccccccccck me." He mocked. But I knew he was too drunk to get in the right position in the shower. Still, I tried. Still, I was right. Ten minutes later, I'm in my room, frantically throwing papers, plastic bags, and books around because I can't find any lube. Anywhere. "S'all good." He said. "I'm sick, anyway." This led to an unenthusiastic blowjob on my part, a facefucking that nearly drowned the poor boy in sperm, and a few hours of cuddling before I had to go to work. Which is where I was having this flashback. So I sent Zach a text. Going to porn store for lube. Preference? Zach: anything non-water based Me: were you raped by Aquaman? Zach: yes. jerk. Flash ahead a few hours, and I'm texting with the semi-famous (you don't know him) closet case that I've been slowly seducing, when I get an I'm on my way message, which I assume to be from the closet case, but is, in fact, Zach. I actually checked my text messages before I opened the door, just to make sure I wasn't going to end up with two people showing up at my house for sex at the same time. I mean, I wouldn't mind, but they might. "Shirt." I said when we reached my bedroom. "Pants." "Underwear?" He asked. "Not yet." He laid, stomach down, on my bed. I proceeded to massage his shoulders, slowly trailing down his back when "Cough cough cough cough co-ough" I choked a tiny little loogie on his back. "Hot!" He said. I assume he was kidding. "Sorry." I coughed. "You must have gotten me sick. Bastard." He craned his neck around and gave me an eyebrow raise. "You have rectal cancer?" "What? No." "Because that's what I've been sick with. I don't know what you've got." I got a towel to wipe my loogie off his back, and returned to the massage. It wasn't too long before the briefs were off, and he said something in the vicinity of "I want you inside me", but hopefully, not that cliche. This was when I realized that I'd left the bag of lube and condoms that I'd bought, at work. "It's like you don't want to get laid or something." He said, my arms having already assumed the just cuddling position. "I mean, when was the last time you got a chance to fuck a hot twenty-two year old?" "Thursday." I said. "No. I stopped by on Monday, and you didn't have any... Oh. I guess that would be Joe, then." And I know I should have said yes, or just kidding, but somehow the words, "Rick, actually." came out of my mouth. "You whore." He said, in a non-committal, sleepy voice. And that's the last thing I remembered until I woke up the next morning with Zach's face hovering over my penis, which had definitely been in his mouth in the not so distant past. "Ok." He said. "Joe. Rick. Who the fuck is Sora?" I was still mostly asleep. "My ex." "Pokemon sheets?" "Pokemon sheets." "You are such a whore." And then he returned to business at mouth. It wasn't too long before I solidified his tonsils, at which point he smiled at me, and then spit his huge mouthful of my come right in my face. I almost choked to death, laughing. On our first date (which took place in my bedroom, which is always a good sign), we spent a couple of hours talking about the unsexiest things we could think of. That time, a decade ago, when I had kidney stones. His recent treatment for rectal cancer. Getting The Applause from MisterHotPostiveLoad. The fact that Zach (the new guything...which is an incredible step up from the previous boything) has also slept with MisterHotPositiveLoad, but he didn't get The Applause. But he did get crabs. "And not hermit crabs." He said. "Alaskan King Crabs. The bitches braided my pubes with one claw, and tickled my ass with the other. These were some seriously gifted crabs."
Is it wrong that I was turned on by our conversation? I assumed our discussion was leading nowhere. That I wasn't his type. Who talks about STDs and medical mishaps as foreplay? Apparently, us. I was so shocked by his tongue, and the feel of his hands on my face (though, that had a bit to do with my having shaved off my beard for the first time in fourish years), that I banged my head against the wall next to my bed. And, of course, my sheets and bedspread got all twisted and misplaced before we were even doing anything interesting with our bodies. And thanks to my roommate's inner-senior citizen, our house is always incredulously cold (heat's expensive! wear a sweater!). So when Zach said I should probably get the condoms, I got my right ankle all twisted in the covers, and whoof! Down I went on the marble floor, which was not what I'd intended to go down on. I got up, uninjured, secured condoms and lube, and we got into the sex. And it was good. A couple of days later, we were invited to one of my friend, Emily,'s parties. Zach, being the only person I've ever maybedated that she has ever approved of. On our way home, he got real quiet, and said, "I have something to tell you." And, certainly he couldn't be into me, I'm not his type, he felt sorry for me; these could be the only things he'd have to say. I recognized his tone of voice. I was thinking Sexual Karma 76, Self-Esteem 0. "There's no way for this to come out right." God damn it. "My doctor wants me to thank you." Huh? "Huh?" "Well, you know, I have the whole rectal cyst thing, and...well...since you fucked me, I had the first solid stool I've had in six months." So. Very. Awkward. And yet, somehow adorable. The last couple of Thanksgivings, a bunch of my poet friends and I have gotten together to have a family-free holiday. We have lots of alcohol, tell lots of raunchy stories, and eat a lot of amazing food. This year, my former roommate, and former romantic foil, Ben joined in. The favorite story of the day was about the Mr. Hot Positive Load. We, in fact, referred to Thanksgiving as Hot Positive Loads Of Food Day. I was almost thankful that I had fucked Mr. Hot Positive, as he'd given me a great story. He had also, however, bruised my ribs while riding me. I thought that was his final gift to me. I was wrong.
The day after Thanksgiving, I was preparing to take a piss when I saw a thick yellowish liquid on the head of my cock. Now, after nearly a decade of very carefully protected sex with many, many people, I've never had an STD, but I knew immediately that I had one then. So I entered my symptom online and took an educated guess that I had gonorrhea. I made an appointment at an STD clinic, and sent off an e-mail to Mr. Hot Positive's Myspace Profile. It said "Hey. You should e-mail me. There's something we need to talk about before you sleep with anyone else." He responded by defriending me. So I left a comment for him. "Thanks for the STD, jerkface. Get tested before you give it to someone else." How was I supposed to know his mom and his sister read his MySpace page? Oh, right, he'd told me before we met. Whoops. He replied with "I don't have any STDs. Why are you being such an asshole?" Now, I had only had sex with two people during a two week stretch. Mr. Breedme and Mr. HotPositiveLoad. I had inserted my penis (fully condomed) into Mr. Breedme for a couple of minutes, and then made him leave. Also, Mr. Breedme said he hadn't gotten laid in years, and given his appearance and self-esteem, I believe him. Mr. HotPositiveLoad is a big slut (I realize this is the proverbial pot calling the proverbial kettle Cookware American) who likes to have men pee in him. We had fucked and whatnot for hours, and while I had been very careful with condoms, there had been some non-latexed oral that would lead me to believe he, and not Mr. Breedme was the one that gave me The Applause. But if I'm wrong, then Mr. Breedme gave me The Applause, and I probably passed it along to Mr. HotPositiveLoad. Either way, he had gonorrhea. By the time I write out my kindlier than it should be e-mail, I discovered he had me blocked, changed his MySpace profile to private, changed his name, gotten rid of his picture, and changed his age and location. I'm pretty sure that doesn't change the fact that he had The Applause. Around about this time, my penis started to hurt. I already had an appointment at the clinic for the next day, so I resigned myself to the fact that there was nothing I could do. I made it a point to not pee very much, as the idea of having hot lava shoot out of my cock has never been very appealing to me. Ben called. He was running a show at his college, and his host had bailed. He wondered if I could come host the event. Seeing as I had a show there myself the next week, I agreed. I wrapped some Kleenex around my cock, and shuffled off to the train. An hour and a half later, I reached my destination (late), and Ben picked me up. We drove about 100 MPH all the way to the show (about another hour of travel), where I waddled into the lecture room. In order to host, I had to walk up and down the stairs of the lecture hall every five minutes or so. My ribs were bruised. My cock was ON FIRE. The Kleenex had shifted to somewhere around my kneecaps, and my penis, dripping hot lava out of it, was now scraping against my jeans. The show lasted about two hours. So I missed the last train home. Meaning, I would not be able to make it back to the city in time for my appointment. I was not very happy. Ben got on the phone to his sister, who is a doctor. The conversation that I heard went something like, "Well, it's my friend Safey. He's got The Applause. Uh huh. Well, he's not going to make it in for his appointment at the clinic, which means he's not going to get any medication for at least another couple of days, and I was wondering if you could prescribe me the drugs, and I could pick them up first thing tomorrow, and give them to him. Well, it's kind of my fault he isn't going to make it to the clinic. I know I'm not supposed to ask you about drugs, and I normally wouldn't, but do they really think someone is going to recreationally take antibiotics? Thanks. Thanks. No, really. I'm sure he appreciates it." Ben went to sleep a bit later, while I kept waddling back and forth to the bathroom to survey the damage. I may First thing the next morning, we took a trip to the pharmacy, where Ben picked up the prescription, while I waited in the car. "You know that the lady inside totally thinks I'm the one with The Applause." He said, fluffing his hair at me. I did. And it amused me. I took the pills immediately, thanking any deity in the vicinity that, if I had to have an STD, it, at least, was one that you can knock out with one dose of pills, and not have any sort of recurring rash or quickened death. Ben then drove me, and a few of his friends to the restaurant/poetry venue where I work. I was dreading going up and down the stairs all night, carrying plates of food; and was overjoyed to discover that the kitchen was closed, and I would still get paid, even though all I would have to do was deliver the occasional drink from the bar to one of the nearby tables. I still decided that this was a sign that I shouldn't be meeting strangers for sex via The Internet anymore. So I was pleased to receive an e-mail from Duke, a couple of days after a doctor confirmed I was "cleared up". After all, I'd fucked Duke once already, so he was hardly a stranger. Also, I hadn't even been able to masturbate while I had The Applause, as even brushing the tip of my ON FIRE cock against a sheet caused incredible pain. I could tell by the way he kissed me when I got to his house that we were going to have loads of sex to make up for the last couple of weeks. But while they would certainly be hot loads, and I hoped they'd be positive loads, I was hoping they wouldn't be hot positive loads. Near as I can tell, they weren't. Also, the next week I had my show at the college, and it went very well. My ribs felt a lot better, and I was definitely Applause free (though many people clapped during my show). I had Ben call his sister and let her know how much I appreciated what she did, and that I think of her every time I pee, and it doesn't hurt. I hope she understands that's supposed to be a compliment. also have put a voodoo hex or two on Mr. HotPositiveLoad. I barely got any sleep, as the pain was...and the gross was...and ewww. 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. 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. My penis is made of razorblades.
I know this because now three people in as many years have complained that the outside of their ass burns when I fuck them. Granted, none of the people I've been in actual relationships with have ever had this complaint. And three people in three years is not a huge percentage for me, but it's enough to give me pause. Do I have paws? No. Retractable adamantium claws? Nope. Freddy Kreuger or Edward Scissorhands gloves? Under the bed in the box marked FOR EMERGENCY. My first thought was, maybe there's something burnilicious about the lube I use, but I just recently switched from KY to Astroglide. I asked the guy if he was allergic to latex, he said no. Things had been going fairly smoothly. Super closeted, but in such a way that he was actually straightish, not a big mo who was pretending to be straight. Big black dude with an appropriately puffy ass. He had a good sense of rhythm (And I don't mean "Black people can dance!", I mean when I pushed forward, he pushed back at just the right rate and angle.) So when he said "Ow. That...that hurts. Sorry, man. I can't do this any more tonight." I was appropriately despondent. "Mind staying bent over and letting me come on your back?" "No. I play safe." The lights were out in my room, so he couldn't see my facial expression. Also, he was facing the wrong way. "Do you have some sort of deep wound on your back that I can't see, or do you think semen absorbs into skin?" "I play safe." Sigh. "You probably don't blow either." "Nope." I knew he wasn't bullshitting, he was just a straight guy who liked to get fucked. I have no problem with this. "Sorry. I won't ask you to get me off, either. I know it's not fair." Wow, our sex failed, and yet he wasn't some sort of psycho or pussy, he was actually a considerate guy. "Is it safe to go outside?" Which, I assume, meant that he was worried that one or another of my roommates might be up and see him. But my roommates were all well asleep, or, at least, in their rooms. So we shook hands (straight guys don't kiss dudes, and I didn't want to kiss him anyway), and he said he'd call me next time he was horny. And maybe he was bullshitting then, I don't know. It doesn't really matter to me. Mainly because a more sexually secure, and hotter guy who I actually know from the real world e-mailed me while we were fucking. But has anyone else had the "It burns the outside of my ass when you fuck me" problem before? Or am I just helmet special? |
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