Honest Conversation Is Overrated
Actual Human Interactions Witnessed Or Overheard
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
Last week, I slept with three men with dog names: Duke, Rusty, and Spike. This is not bullshit, or creative liberties. Three men. Three names I associate with dogs.
Duke was hot. As in feverish. I was waiting for the T (the Boston subway) on my way home from work when he started talking to me. He recognized me from a show I did, and started telling me how hilarious I was. And the way to a man's penis is through his ego. And since he lived near me, we ended up going back to my house, watching Arrested Development, and heading back to my room. Duke sweat. And all I could think of was how dogs don't sweat, and how much hotter Duke would be if he just salivated and panted instead. This led to much giggling, which I refused to explain to him. Of course, we did it doggystyle. And it was average. Rusty was a college student. When I was doing the online whore thing a couple of years ago (nothing to rival Whore Month...it was one or two guys a month), we'd contacted each other, but never met. Basically, he never wanted to meet up until really late at night, and I didn't live near enough for him. Well, now I live down the street (moved here about two months ago). So I e-mailed him, and at 3 o'clock, he called to make sure my roommates were asleep before he came in. Fucken closet cases. In fact, one of my roommates was awake, so he pussied out and went home. Then called at 5 to see if they were still up. Roommate A was now asleep, but Roommate B was awake. So, I headed over to his place. His place. His place was freaky. He lives in a building near a bunch of colleges in Boston. He lives in the basement of his building. There's a washer, a dryer, a furnace room, a supply closet, and an apartment. To get there, you have to be buzzed into the building, and then you get in a serial killer elevator. A brass contraption with doors you have to hand open. The doors seal with magnets, and I think there may be some Sudanese children who hand crank the thing up and down. Freaky. His room was filled with candles, and other things that suggest he has a romantic soul, and no one to fuck. He was only wearing his blue and red striped briefs when he answered his door. He called me Sir. Sir. While those who know me, may infer that he was way younger than me, he wasn't. I'm thirty. He was, at the youngest, twenty-five. He kept asking me ridiculous questions about where I was from, and asking me if I knew Tom from Cape Cod. Because, you know, there's only one Tom on Cape Cod. "The gay one." He said. I know four gay Toms from Cape Cod. "The one who killed himself." I know four gay Toms that killed themselves from Cape...wait, no, I don't know any Toms that killed themselves. "Ummm...Do you want to fuck? Or did you invite me over to see if we knew anyone in common, cuzzzzzzz, I've got to go to work soon." I am ashamed to say that not-very-attractive, socially awkward, kind of annoying Rusty was A Fantastic Lay. Loose enough that just a tiny bit of fingering was required before entry, but not so loose that I accidentally got my knee stuck in his ass during foreplay. And loud. I'm pretty sure people passing by the tiny window to his basement apartment stopped and said "I don't know who's doing the fucking in there, but they must be amazing." I overflowed the condom. I overflowed the condom. And he said "Oh my God, I've never seen so much come before. Anyway, I was supposed to see my sister like an hour ago. You should probably leave. Call me tomorrow?" I didn't call him the next day. But I haven't ruled him out for the future. I have ruled out Spike. Spike has an ass like a pancake, but flatter, and less defined. Also, too much maple syrup, if you know what I mean. Once his clothes were off, he bent over on my bed, and I said "Uhhhh. Yea, this isn't going to work." He looked over his shoulder at me. "Huh?" "You need to take a shower. And perhaps consider buying a different brand of toilet paper." "Oh, sorry, man." He said. "We ran out in my apartment." Dude.
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I was in Austin for a poetry event, and there are a couple of cool sandwich shops. When I went to Austin last year, I started collecting stamps toward a free sandwich at a particular shop, so when I returned to Austin this year, the sandwich shop was one of my first stops.
The guy behind the counter was totally cutiful. Brazilian. Early twenties. gay but not Gay. He gave me the hard sell on a milkshake. There was some sales contest he was trying to win, so not only did I buy a shake, I convinced all of my friends to buy shakes, too, thus winning him the sales contest, and, apparently, winning me a place in his heart. Well, maybe not his heart. But a place in his groin just sounds weird. I go back the next day, a stamp away from my free sandwich. "Hey, you're the guy from yesterday." Sandwich Guy says. I confirm. We small talk about weather and different clubs in town, when he says "You're in town for some businessy thing right?" And I'm about to tell him that, actually, I'm in town for a poetry competition. One that I've just lost hardcore, and am currently in a minor depression, but he rolls right over me saying "Chicken Caesar Wrap with bacon and cheddar, right?" I confirm. After eating my delicious sandwich, I head back to my hotel, where I take out my wallet in order to find the little credit card thing that will open my room, when I notice a phone number written on my sandwich card. Classy. At around ten o'clock, the friends that I'm in town with go out to an after party. I am not feeling particularly partyish, but I do have that phone number. "Hello?" "Hi." God, what am I supposed to say? I don't know his name, he doesn't know mine. I can't very well say Is this the Sandwich Guy? "Is this the Sandwich Guy?" Okay, maybe I can very well say it. "Oh. Yea. Hi. This is the uhhh...business guy?" Business guy? I've been wearing purple shorts and slogany t-shirts all week. I don't have the business paunch. I'm certainly not a business anything. "Yes. I'm the business guy." "Cool." Silence. Silence. Silence. "Soooo...how long are you in town for?" "I leave tomorrow." Silence. Silence. Silence. "I've never done this before." He says. And I'm not sure whether he means giving out his phone number, or...something else. But, either way, I'm not sure I believe him. Turns out, he means that he wants to meet me for something akin to sex. After many minutes of painful phone silence, he tells me that he's always had a fantasy about meeting up with a businessman in a nice hotel, fooling around, and then leaving. "But I only want to do it with a guy who's not, you know, gay." Riiiiiiight. One of those straight businessmen who fucks strange men in nice hotels. "Well, I'm married." I say. Surprising myself with the lie. "My wife lets me fool around with guys when I'm on the road, though. She thinks it's hot." "Cool. Your wife sounds...cool." And then more silence and awkward sex talk, and then "Could you...could you wear dark socks for me?" Oh for..."Sure." So I'm standing outside my room in dark socks. Several of my friends are walking through the lobby below me. I wave at them. I call my roommates to make sure they're having enough of a good time at the party that they won't be back at the hotel anytime soon. They won't. Sandwich Guy walks slowly up to me. His eyes never leave the floor. "So...what do you want to...you know...do?" So Sandwich Guy doesn't do anal, or oral. And doesn't feel comfortable touching guys. He wants to jerk off while watching me jerk off. You know, I can jerk off by myself, and I can certainly think of hotter fantasies while jerking off than watching him jerk off. "Your socks are hot." He says. They're socks. Blue socks. There is nothing sexy about my damned socks. Just as there is nothing sexy about watching him jerk off. He has a nice enough looking cock, but his ass is about 90% bone, and he won't even take off his shirt. "Do you..." He looks at the floor. "Do you like my ass?" I do not. "Yea, you've got a great ass. Do you work out?" "I'm gonna....I'm gonna." And he does. On my damned shoes. "Well that was" fast, awkward, gross, disappointing, a waste of my night "good for you?" "That was amazing." No. Really, it wasn't. I hate my roommate. Owes money. Stinks up the house. Steals my porn. Won't leave.
My boyfriend[?], Sora, hates his roommate as well. I'm not sure as to why. But last year I lived with him for four months, and I suspect that the person responsible for their antagonistic relationship is him. But I love him, so I don't tell him this. One of his major problems is that his roommate has been letting one of her friends crash on their couch since the day they moved in, nearly a month ago. This guy doesn't pay rent, or any bills. Aside from that, I know very little about him. Late one night a few weeks ago, Sora calls me to say "Ewww. So, you know how I told you my roomtwat's friend has been crashing on our couch?" I reply in the affirmative. "Well, an hour ago, for the third time, I walked in while he was jerking off." "Have you told him that you have a bathroom with a lock on the door?" He laughs, and continues with his bitching. A week later, I decide to come visit his apartment. As soon as we get in the door, the couchjerker flits his eyes at us, lowers his head and says hey. He's adorable. If I had this guy on my couch, I would ORDER him to jerk off whenever I came home. Sora feels differently, he grumbles in the couchjerker's direction, and pulls me into his bedroom. After watching a couple of hours of Drawn Together, we get down to the busy busy. There's some head involved, some ass slappage, some anal, and a little more head for good measure. We aren't as loud as usual, but we weren't completely silent. After toweling off, I open the door and walk to the bathroom to pee. As soon as I enter the living room, couchjerker shoots me this horrified look, prompting me to put on my serious face, and my fuck you voice and say "What are you looking at? You don't pay rent here. You don't get to look at me like that. If we're too loud for you, fuck you, find your own apartment." Then I walk into the kitchen, burst out laughing, pop my head back into the living room and say "I'm just kidding." He does not laugh back. The next morning, the three of us are all in the living room. Sora is playing Kingdom Hearts (I know, I know), I'm alternating between massaging his back and checking my e-mail, and couchjerker is sitting on the couch, continuing to look traumatized. He looks as though he is constantly watching someone rape his favorite kitten. It's almost cute, but not quite. At around noon, Sora realizes, holy shit, it's almost noon, and he has to leave for work at 12:30. So he gets up, goes to his room, and closes the door behind him. I follow. And, as I'm wont to do, I stand behind him, wrap my arms around his chest and kiss him, giving rise to both his spirits and his cock. I grab on to it, and start slowly pulling it up,. "I've got to leave for work in fifteen minutes." He says. "We don't have time to....ohhhhhhh. I mean..." I know what he means. Usually, if we're finished in less than an hour, one or both of us has fallen asleep. Fifteen minutes for both of us? I'm determined to make this work. Off come his pants, off come my pants. I press my cock between his prodigious buttocks cheeks while I jerk him off. Then I kneel down, turn him around so we're facing each other, and put some serious smack to his ass while I blow him. He explodes rather quickly. I lean back on his bed and stare at my cock. "Do we have time?" He asks. Of course we do. "But, I'm terrible at giving head." He says. This is not true. I'm not a big fan of getting head. I don't mind it. It beats listening to Slipknot while monkeys throw pudding at you, but I much prefer anal. But Sora is...well, I love him, so his tongue gets bonus points. He doesn't use much tongue. He is mostly lips, moving so fast, I swear he's gonna get whiplash. And within a minute I watch a web of come blossom between his lips. I didn't even know I was....and then I feel the wave. And then another, and another and a...wow. We towel off, and Sora gets dressed for work. I grab my backpack, and get ready to head home. We stop in the kitchen to grab a couple of sodas. Couchjerker is in there, looking...well, yea, traumatized as usual. In an effort to make him uncomfortable, without being mean (mostly because I find it funny), I start small talking with him. At this point, the roommate (who I hadn't met yet) comes out of her room, wearing her work clothes, and starts loudly bitching about being late for work, and how she hates this and that and yadda and yin and yang and whatever. I roll my eyes, and turn back toward couchjerker. I squeeze his arm as I say "It was nice to meet you." He barks like a dog who's had his tail stepped on, causing Sora to laugh. A swooping laugh that turns into a cough. A cough that launches web of come out of his mouth and on to the left breast of his roommate's waitress uniform. Unable to resist, I say "Damn. That's the first time my come has been on a woman's tits since the early nineties." Sora continues to choke laughter. Couchjerker continues to look traumatized. The roommate just shoots me a disgusted look, and walks back into her room. I really must visit Sora more often. I used to give my roommates, Celeste and Sir Trick, who were a couple, a hard time because every week or so I'd need to take a piss while they were busy fucking in the shower. When my boyfriend, Sora, moved in, I had to decide whether to take the high road, and not seek vengeance by long shower-fuck sessions, or take the low road, and see if we could make more noise.
For once in my life, I took the high road. Apart from a couple of noise battles (when you try to prove how much better your sex is by increasing the volume of moans, shouts, and smack noises), we tended to let our sex remain private. One afternoon, Sora and I were in the kitchen arguing over something stupid, and we heard the roommates getting it on. We ignored it. And after a half hour or so, Celeste came into the kitchen, with a huge glob of come on the front of her shirt. Sora and I contained most of our laughter, and didn't even say anything when she said "Oh my god, dude!", turned around, and ran into her room to change her shirt. Later that night, after drinking enough Coronas to be declared official citizens of Mexico, Sora and I stumbled into our room for some loud, sloppy, lights out, almost sex. Because Sora had a nasty habit of falling directly asleep after orgasm, we had a standing/sitting/laying down agreement that I always got to come first. So I did. Once devoid of sperm, I knelt down to reciprocate, and Sora promptly rammed his cock into my nose. After the requisite name calling (I chose douchenozzle for this particular occasion) and ass smackage, I forged ahead with the fellatio. Once he'd come, we made out for a bit, and then Sora decided to take a shower before he fell asleep. He threw a towel around his waist, and walked down the hallway to the bathroom. He was too tired to hear the water running, so when he opened the door, the apartment was filled with all three of my roommates screaming. Sora screamed because he'd walked in on Celeste and Trick's shower sex, and Celeste and Sir Trick screamed because Sora's face and belly were covered in blood. Apparently, he'd rammed my nose harder than either of us had realized. The next day we put memo boards up on our bedroom doors, and the bathroom with "Occupied" and "Vacant" signs. The next thud you hear is my self-esteem smacking against pavement. It sounds exactly the way balls against ass does not.
I'll blame it on The Internet. Fuck GMail. Fuck the way my fingers slip over the mouse. My hands are slick with disappointment and someone else's sweat. I didn't want to do touch him anyway. Hated the way his humble cock poked through his shorts. The way he breathed like I was putting out cigarettes on his tonsils. I am too old for bicurious pussies. Rene was first. "Meet me at 5:30." He said. "My house is your house. You will fuck me until I can't walk anymore, and then I will crawl to you so we can fuck some more." But before sex, before Rene's quivering cock, I'm meeting a friend at the book store. "Maybe you should call me Goat With A Thousand Young when you talk about me in your journal." He says. No more requests for your names. For now he is Cheerio. And he'll either like it or won't. "Are you not allowed to take a shower at Clitty's?" I'm not staying at Clitty's, but do I smell? Am I covered in? Oh, right. There's still a bit of blood on my hands from nosebleed #374.2. I head to the bathroom, wash it off. Come back and get the Cheerio seal of approval. We talk novels and bad poetry, and I'm off. Rene's house isn't quite where he said it would be. Or, more correctly, not where I thought he said it would be. I am walking on sleepless pavement. I can feel sweat forming on my back. My knees need to crack. "Hi." He says when I finally arrive at the house. "Hey." I smile. He had problems sending a pic. His AIM was wonky. My GMail fucken sucked today. He was cuter than I feared. "Nice apartment." If you're into college minimalism. His room is a bed, a desk, no wall decorations, no throw rug, no pictures on his desk, just a computer. "Mind if I shower?" I ask. He smiles, sweetly. I take my backpack into his halfbath. Soap, check. I turn on the water. Scrub scrub. Why am I doing this? Have I learned nothing since I started this journal? Why on Earth would I...my dick nods to attention. Right. I walk back to Rene's bedroom. He is on the phone. "Ok." He says to the phone. Then, to me, "Sorry, I have to go. I was hoping you would be here an hour ago." "Oh." Unfuck. "Ok." Luckily, there was a backup plan. Eric wanted me to meet him at a bar on the other side of Harvard Square. I had a half an hour to get there before he said he'd just go home and beat off. A bus arrives at the end of Rene's street, just as I get there. The bus goes straight to the bar, but I feel compelled to get off at Harvard. I recognize a friend from poetry slam on the sidewalk. We talk about nothing. I stop in at the computer cave and check my e-mail. One message from Eric. "Fuck. Don't come. My roommate is gonna be home after all. Sorry dude. Don't come." Unfuck you, too. I check scattered e-mails. Thanks to fucken GMail I have the e-mail that my new landlord sent at 11 fucken in the morning asking me to call him before 6. It's 6:30. No keys for the new place. Among spam and Livejournal comments, floating like an obese duck in jello, is another e-mail from Robert. Robert and I have been trying to hook up all week. He's a kind of chunky Chinese guy. Not kind of. Chunky. He's in the closet. Closets are my least favorite rooms in the house. "I really want you to come over now." He says. So I hop on the next bus. Walk over to his iron gated apartment complex. "Nice apartment." I say, and this time I mean it. He doesn't say thanks, just angles his head like he's considering cracking his neck. Fear Factor is on the TV, and he wants to finish watching it. Whatever, I'm early. Just as the third stunt is about to begin, his shaking hand goes up my shirt. "I love redheads." He says. "Are you...all red?" This is time #6,327 someone has asked me this. "Want to check?" And my pants are coming down. He doesn't even bother unbuttoning the pants. I must be losing weight. He is not, but that's ok. He is breathing like I'm putting out cigarette butts on his tonsils. I can smell him freaking out. See the word fag roll across his pupils. He touches my cock like it's a doorknob on fire. I kiss his neck. I don't know why. I don't mean it. I grab his ass. I think someone with his weight should have a better ass. He does have a nice cock, though. I start to gently tug and "I can't do this." He says. "I'm sorry." "Are you sure?" I ask, knowing the answer. "Yea. You can stay and watch the end of Fear Factor...maybe...tomorrow night we could...?" No, we can't. You won't want to tomorrow night either. We are too ugly to fuck. You are too nervous. I am a nosebleed to your asthma. All I want to do is go back to the home I don't have. The streetlights shake their heads as I walk by. I'm taking the T back to Allston. I am shooting flare guns at closet cases. Help me, I think I wanted this. Wanted a night of accidental cockteasers, weak willed fags who couldn't find their spine with their backs. People who can't kiss or look at themselves when they masturbate. At the next internet cafe, I get an IM from Timmy. He's missed me so much he hasn't e-mailed me in a year. But he lives in Allston now. I am in Allston. Turns out, I'm right down the street from his house. Do I want to stop over? Sure, this night can't get any worse, right? I'm a writer, I'll write myself a goddamned fucken happy-ass Hollywood ending to tonight. But I don't live in Hollywood. As soon as I get in the house, he grabs my hand and pushes it to his tiny, tiny erection. I do not have a large dick. Timmy has a toothpick. "What took you so long?" He asks. "I ran into a bunch of drunken stupid frat boys at Redneck's." And...you're wearing a necklace with a greek symbol on it. Great. He smiles, then asks, "Do you suck dick?" "Sometimes." I say. "You?" "Nope." Then he is in my mouth. Pushing me with his sweaty hands. He's small. Even if he wasn't drunk, I could easily push him away, but what the fuck, he begins poorly jerking me off as I suck him. His cock tastes like PBR. It takes him ten seconds, fifteen, and....he's done. I've had bigger sneezes. I stand up and present him with my dick. "No, dude." He says. "I'm done. Tired." "You're not even going to jerk me off." He gets this truly evil grin on his face. "Welcome to the Frat House." He'd been waiting to say that all night. I want to say something equally scathing in return, like welcome to the fag house or something. Instead, I let my teeth do the talking for me. I grab my bag, and hurry out the door and into the street. I'm so thirsty, and disgusted. I head into the Store 24 for a Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper, precisely because it has a terrible shitty aftertaste that tastes nothing like Timmy's dick. I think I see Timmy on my way out of the store, but I'm probably just being paranoid. And so what if it was him? At his level of drunkenness, I could have cockslapped him unconscious. Rene will call tomorrow, but I won't pick up. Eric will see me online and debate sending an IM. He probably won't. Eric will wait until another day when his roommate will show up at the last moment. I don't think I'll be hearing from Timmy again. I have already blocked them all from seeing me for who they are. Brandon had an asshole like the Chunnel, and a cock so large, it once beat Yao Ming in a slam dunk contest. All those racist assholes that say Asians have rice dicks should have to spend at least ten minutes of their lives with Brandon's dick up their ass.
Surprisingly, his anatomy wasn't the reason I wouldn't sleep with him. Nor was it the vague smell of fried onion that hovered around him. I wouldn't sleep with Brandon because of his tongue ring. There are some people in the world blessed with the talent to give head/kiss/lick nipple. If these people would like to stab a piece of steel through their lip/tongue/uvula before they kiss/blow/rim/lick me, they can feel free. But if you kiss like a dachshund with emphysema, for the love of all that's horny, keep your steel balls in your own germ-infested mouth. Pre-piercing, Brandon once kiss-raped me while we were watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I was totally into John Ritter's performance as a freakazoid android when out of nowhere, a tongue still coated with butter and salt from the handfuls of popcorn he hadn't even finished swallowing yet, suddenly started trying to pry my lips apart. Because Brandon was cute, and I'm a huge slut, I opened my lips for him, and allowed him to continue the assault. After five seconds he pulled away and smiled at me. I said, in my best deadpan: "Don't ever do that again, please." For two months, he didn't do that again. I only saw him naked because we went skinny dipping with HIS GIRLfriend one Saturday night when they were drunk, and I was bored. Then, during a drive home from work, he waggled his newly pierced tongue at me. "What do you think?" "Did they kill it?" I asked, hoping the answer was yes. "No. Ever kissed a guy with a tongue ring?" The answer was yes, but I knew he wasn't going to give up this obvious plea for attention until I let him kiss me with his new tongue ring, so I said "No." And before he could get out his lame "Do you want to?" come on line, I reached over and initiated kissage. Have you ever had faux-steel slam against teeth on both sides of your mouth? It's not sexy. He pulled the car over to the side of the road, and began reaching for my zipper. Knowing where this was going, I reached for the door handle. I'd rather walk a mile home in seven feet of elephant piss and razor blades than have his barbell permanently imprinted on my nutsack, or worse, stabbed through my peehole. After I invented an imaginary closeted boyfriend who I swore to be faithful to, Brandon was very cool about not doing anything more affectionate than squeezing my ass when we hugged. That's something I'll never have a problem with. The invitation said "Sunday night suds and studs party. Call Jack for more information."
I was intrigued. I assumed (wrongly, of course), that a s&s party was some sort of beer thing; hot guys with Harpoons and Amber Bocks. Hot guys in skimpy clothing would be walking around with a variety of specialty beers, flirting with the ugly queens in order to get them to buy more beer. I hate beer. I don't particularly like ugly queens, or false flirtations from hot guys in skimpy suits and bowties. Still, I called the number on the invitation and asked to speak with Jack. Jack explained how wrong I was about a suds and studs party. He had rented a gym after hours. At 2 AM, any guy with an invitation and the special password can come into the gym. They are to head immediately to the locker room, where they take off all their clothes, and have their "bikini area" covered in foam. The foamer, surprise surprise, was a hot Brazilian kid with a bikini that revealed that he either had an enormous cock, or he had stuffed his suit with a Beanie Baby. I had little doubt, looking around the locker room, that Gilmar would be the hottest guy I'd see all night, and he wouldn't be going home with me. But I'd already decided that I wouldn't be going home with anybody. "How about I just play doorman?" I asked Jack. A disparaging term for female genitalia was muttered in my general direction. It wasn't the first time, I'm sure it won't be the last. I watched the various entrants get sudsed and make their way to the shower area. All the partitions had been taken down, creating the perfect Nazi gas chamber ambiance. Well, it would have been the perfect Nazi gas chamber ambiance had the room been full of anorexic men and children. However, the room was filled mostly with grizzlies and orcas. Clearly, I was not the only person in the room without a legitimate gym membership. Remember, I like chubby guys as much as I like slimmish guys, and I'm not completely averse to obese guys, but I felt really uncomfortable being both the youngest, and one of the most in-shape guys. I should never be the hottest guy at a party. It's a position I've never held in my life, and have never wanted to hold. After all, being the hottest guy in any given situation would mean that there really aren't any hot people at the party. I'd much rather be the most Interesting guy at the party, or the least likely to be molested by a creepy stranger covered in foam. I was so glad I didn't have to pay the forty dollar cover charge to get in. Jack had invited me for the experience and waived the entrance fee, under the conditions that I write about it, but not give either his name, or the name of the gym we used. He was also kind enough to give me Gilmar's e-mail address. Jack is now my favorite fag in the world. Well, except perhaps for Gilmar or Dmitri. What can I say, I'm fickle. "You want to go out and smoke?" Gilmar asked. "I don't smoke." Haven't smoked a cigarette in three years. "Not a cigarette." He smiled. And with a smile like that, I would have gone out and smoked a cigarette with him. But he didn't want to smoke a cigarette. So what then, crack? Pot? I haven't lit anything on fire and stuck it in my mouth since I lived in Pieceofshitdeserttown. "Some cock." I've never lit cock on fire period. Well, maybe with friction. "What?" I asked. "I'm kidding." He smiled again. Bastard. "I don't think I've seen you at one of Jack's parties before. Are you one of his boys?" Boys? I'm not a boy anymore. I reverse Pinnochioed years ago. "No. He uhhh...he knows me through my writing." "Oh. So are you..." Single? Famous? Sporting an erection? "gay?" "Yea." I'm gonna be picked up by the hot guy. I'm gonna be picked up by the hot guy. I'm gonna-- "Cool. Every other guy I've met at these parties is some skeezy old guy who looks at me like a piece of meat." Hey, I didn't write his material. If he wants to speak in cliche, it's his right as a hot human being. The bottom line is, Gilmar has only been in Boston for two months (he's from the exotic world of Barnstable, Massachusetts, proving that the world I live in is entirely too small..send in the Disney animatronics), and wants a gay friend with no romantic interest to show him around Boston. I'm gonna be the platonic friend of the hot guy. I'm gonna be the platonic...wow, that's not nearly as fun to say. Maybe the rhythm is off. On my way home from the grocery store I saw a poster that said $200 costume contest tonight. $100 for gentleman in funniest costume, $100 for lady in sexiest costume. On another day, I might have pondered the inherent sexism of this obviously frat boy planned party. Today I was thinking, to make it fair, shouldn't it be $100 for the gentleman in the most desperate costume?
Today, I am the most desperate man at the party. I've got two hours before my first hookup since Ethan referred to me as Safey. It's not hard to fall into the familiar routine of shower, shave, tweeze, doubt. It's in the shower that doubt arrives early. I've spent most of my life as a writer, hanging around other writers. I enjoy long-winded, well written sarcastic LiveJournal posts. An e-mail with six paragraphs of witty misanthropy can cause me to fall in love. So why am I going to meet someone based on a "Send me back a pic if interested" "I'm interested, name the time and place" "Three o'clock, here's my address" "See you then" e-mail exchange? Apparently, my love is a symphony of urbane observations. My lust is "Nice hair, let's fuck." I spend a half hour in the too hot shower. The bathroom gets so steamy that I have to kneel in order to see my reflection in the mirror. There's an analogy or a metaphor here that I'm not interested in seeing. I'm embarrassed by the way my hair is thinning in front, the spot of dry skin just northwest of my lip, what feels like it may be the start of a pimple on my butt. I should call this off. I really don't have any hope for love, and given my history with meeting strangers for sex, I don't have any hope for lust. Odds are the picture was fake, he lied about his age, he's married, he hasn't changed his underwear since the Carter administration, he thinks patchouli is an adequate substitute for personal hygiene, he kisses like the Tasmanian Devil. Odds are, I'll leave his house feeling empty, and not empty of sperm, but empty of dignity. I know all this will come to pass. Still, I lather my face with shaving gel, and pick up the razor. I do a seek and destroy mission on my ass, and discover there is nothing remotely pimpular. I'm just about to finish shaving when I knick a place on my neck. I will always have at least one blemish. I toss on jeans and a shirt, and call the number he gave me to let him know I'm on my way over. The phone rings four times. I pray for the machine. I don't want to do this. At some point in the shower I stopped seeing this as an opportunity to get off, and started thinking of it as the real ending to my novel. The Last Hookup. One more real story. Not the bullshit Happily Ever After. The real ending is me having learned nothing, putting on my jeans and my fuzy Lucky shirt, and walking to some stranger's hope with the hopes of sticking my dick in his ass. I get the machine. His name is Matthew. I leave a message on his machine. Crisis averted, I can go back to sending suggestive e-mails to the cute boy in Chicago with the self-deprecating wit and the digital camera. The phone rings. Matthew. I pack a bottle of watermelon lube and condoms in my bag, and head out the door. Most of the guys on The Internet are either deceitful or else they've been victimized by a ruler maker with a cruel sense of humor. Seven inches is often four and a half. I don't ask people for their cock size not just because I know they'll lie but because I don't have a huge kielbasa myself. Also, I'm an ass man, what do I care how big their cocks are? What Matthew either lied about, or has been conned to believe is that he's 6'1". He's close. He's pretty much my height. I'm 6'. I don't understand why he's added inches to his height anymore than I understand people sending out old or fake pics. Obviously, I'm going to find out before you even get your clothes off. We head immediately to his bedroom, where we talk. Matthew seems like a nice guy. He's a poet (shoot me now) getting his MFA at a local college. He's occasionally gone to a reading I host, and a reading I frequent. However, we've never been at either place at the same time. Lovely. I've been rather proud of the fact that I've never let my poet life and my sex life intersect. So when he leans in to kiss me, I pretend not to notice the Selected Poems of Elizabeth Bishop collection sitting on his desk. His kiss. Our kiss. Our kiss is bad. His breath tastes like stale nicotine. Have I mentioned how much I love the taste of nicotine? No? There must be a reason. Most of the problems with our kissing are not Matthew's fault. We are completely out of synch. I am lips when he is tongue, I am tongue while he is lips, he is tongue while I am wishing I was somewhere else. It isn't long before our clothes came off. In a normal relationship, or at least a well-thought-out hookup or one night stand, you and your partner have some sense of what the other person likes/wants. Matthew's body is not proportionate to what I was looking for. I don't ask him, but I'm fairly certain he isn't all that thrilled with me either. Understand, he isn't ugly. Far from it. He is very cute in a nerdy sort of way. And I generally find nerds quite sexy. But his weight is in all the wrong places for me. After a few minutes of awkward kissing and skin on skin, he rolls over and asks me to rim him. Despite my well publicized liking of the ass, I haven't had a lot of experience licking of the ass. I've only ever rimmed two guys: Victor,, and some guy during Whore Month who didn't even warrant his own story. Matthew bends over, showing that he does, indeed, have an ass, but much like the rest of his body it isn't the shape I prefer. I soldier on. Slather some watermelon flavored lube in the vicinity of his mangina and dive in. And much like diving too deeply into a pool with too much chlorine, my eyes start burning and I can't breathe. Why? His ass is not proper rimming shape. There is no position I can find where I can breathe. It could be worse. At least his ass is meticulously clean (as it should always be when meeting for sex). I give up and begin fingering him. His breathing gets heavy, and, though I won't realize it until a few minutes later, he comes. He then sits up, covering the wet spot on the bed with his ass and attacks my mouth with second hand tar. He also begins licking my ear. Have I mentioned how much I love having my ear licked? No? Hmmm. Funny, that. I figure he must enjoy having his ear licked, so I decide to sacrifice my tongue to save my ear. I breathe heavily into his ear while doing some more licking. Then, just as he is getting into it, I can't do it anymore. It is too absurd. As soon as I stop, he pushes me back on the bed, and begins snapping his finger around my nipples. Not sexy. I move his hand down toward my cock. While our arms were moving my hand brushes his chest, and I realize he's already come. I'm not even on the same continent with coming. He proceeds to go down on me. I think. I stop paying attention at this point. I am trying to remember whether or not I'd locked the door on my way out of the house. "Want to 69?" Not really, but since I'm here, sure, why not. I begin nearly gagging on his cock. I don't think it is big, I haven't really noticed it one way or the other. While I try various ways to get him off using my mouth and hand, he is...what the hell is he doing? Is he still blowing me? I can't feel a fucken thing. "I want you to come on my chest." Yea, and I want Dmitri's Diesel Cords on my bedroom floor. There are some things you have to be patient for. And he is patient. In the time it takes me to come, he comes again. This time I see it with my own eyes, and it does nothing for me. I kneel there, passionately jerking my cock, for what seems like months. If our roles were reversed, I probably would have gone out for pizza while he was jerking off. I would have gone out for pizza in Italy. While he towels off, I put on my clothes and jacket, stuff my lube and unused condoms back in the bag, and head home. I am barely out of his house when I notice a woman in a burka walking toward me. Most days, a woman in a burka would set off my inner-activist, I'd think how wrong it was for a woman to be forced to cover herself. Today all I can think of was how comfortable she looks. How warm. How safe. If she'd just come from robbing a bank or fucking a stranger, nobody would be able to pick her out of a police lineup. I am walking the streets in tight pants. And my fly is open. When I was living in Burlington, Vermont, a few of my friends were discussing how often they masturbated. I was distracting myself by imagining what our waiter would sound like with my dick in his mouth.
"And I bet Adam masturbates at least a dozen times a week." Dagster said. "Probably more like twenty." said The Soggy Blind Lesbian. They'd have been pleased to know that my actual masturbation per week average was comfortably between their guesses. But I wasn't going to tell them that. I'm an incredibly sexual person. Deviant some might say. Still others would shout "Whore!". One of the things I'm proud of, though, is I have (or had until this journal) a low sexual profile, and I'd never been caught masturbating. I've walked in on friends, roommates, the Brazilian water polo team...wait, no that last one was a fantasy. The point is, while I've walked in on easily dozens of people masturbating (though not at the same time, that would have been awkward), I have never been caught with my pants down. *cue ominous music* While I may have masturbated between fourteen and twenty times a week back in the good old days of 2001, lately I've been in a serious rut. My libido isn't shrinking, it's just that I live with two roommates, one of whom has a six year old child. There is nearly always someone awake at my house. Usually working on the computer which is within close visual/audial range of my bedroom. This morning marked...entirely too many...days/weeks since the last time I had an orgasm. At around four-thirty my mentally six year old, physically thirty-something year old roommate finally stopped playing "City of Heroes" and went to bed. I made myself some apples and peanut butter to celebrate my domination of the room, and appease my inner-kindergartner. At six, the child/monster roommate went off to school, and the other adult roommate headed for work. I decided to literally seize My Opportunity (that's what I call him). I opened up a dozen or so various porn sites. Remembered that pictures on The Internet just aren't doing it for me these days, and opened up my Porn Playlist on Media Player. I clicked on "random" and hit the forward button. The first movie was twenty minutes long. I decided that would be the duration I'd, pardon the pun, shoot for. About fifteen minutes into the session, the phone rings. I'm waiting to find out if my book about bad gay sex experiences is coming out, Luckily, caller ID is in sight. It's not my publisher. If it had been her, I still wouldn't have interrupted my special time with my long neglected right hand. After all, I could legitimately claim I was doing research for the sequel. While I lean back from looking at the phone, I accidentally squish my left hand into the plop of peanut butter that I had yet to eat. I go to shake the peanut butter off my hand (yes, I know that doesn't work, but my brain was lacking proper blood flow at the time), and knock the dish on to the floor. For whatever reason, my dick decides this would be a great time to come. So I do, loudly and messily. There is now a broken dish, come and peanut butter all over the floor. And I hear footsteps. I'm not sure whether the footsteps are my roommate coming upstairs, or one of the people from another apartment going down the stairs into the lobby. Just in case it's my roommate, I leap up to get paper towels, only to discover my feet have fallen asleep. I have just enough time to yell out "Fucker of God!" before I fall, pants around my ankles, on to the peanut butter, come, and dish covered floor. My shouting attracts the attention of the neighbor who was coming down the stairs. I am briefly thankful that there is a door between us. "Are you okay in there?" Then I remember the door is not locked. "Fine. Just dropped a dish. No need to come in." I realize that, as I made to brace my fall, I cut my right palm on one of the broken dish pieces. So now there's blood in the mix. Our floor looks like a discount tie-dyed t-shirt. God, what if my neighbor, whose name I don't even know, came in and saw me like this? Would he laugh? Dial 911? Be aroused? I imagine my book being released posthumously. "It was the greatest marketing gimmick you could ask for." My publisher would say. "A guy writes a collection of awkward sex stories and is found dead of embarrassment after a stranger walked in on a bizarre auto-erotic ritual involving blood and peanut butter. It's like John Waters meets Mel Brooks in a dark alley and rapes him." Luckily, my neighbor believes that I'm ok, and leaves. I fail to pass out or die. Instead, I hobble over to the kitchen and realize that we're all out of paper towels. For a few years, I've been the maintainer of a Livejournal Community called Bad_Sex. For part of that time, I diligently read every entry until I couldn't imagine why people had any sex at all. The following was borne of a week long editing of that community. No, it didn't really happen:
Bad sex is your first time. I was in middle school and decided I really didn't want to be a virgin anymore. I had this really good friend, let's call her Chanukah (name withheld to protect the guilty LOL). Hannuka was kind of fat (I hope she doesn't read this), but I'm on the heavy side, too, so I can't really talk. Anyway, one weekend my parents and social workers were out of town, and Chanuka and I decided to pop our cherries. The thing about Hannukah is that she's kind of crazy, but I figured it was a chance to get laid. And you know how guys are always thinking with their little head. LOL. So Chanukkah and I were in my bedroom, and she started taking her clothes off, and she had the hariest bush. I took off my clothes, pulled my machete off my wall and hacked my way through her pubic jungle. Oh my goD, the smell. She was like totally tuna down there. Before I could protest, she grabbed my head and started pushing my chin into her cavernous twat. This girl was loose. I could have fit my whole head in there. "I want you to polish my pearl." she said. All I could think was how much easier this would be if I had a scuba mask and a snorkel. Just as I was about to get my lick on, I noticed a piece of string sort of hanging out of her left labial fold. "Whoops!" she said, flushed red, "I must have forgotten to take out my tampon." I leaned back as she dug around with her huge fingers and pulled it out. Just as it came out, she let out this huge queef, and then a wave of blood came at me like that scene in The Shining. I was majorly grossed out, and told her I was not going to be going down on her. She was like, "whatever fuck me then." Well first I put the condom on the wrong way. Then, once I got it on right, I started really going at her doggy style when the bed broke, and my parents, a police officer and The Pope came home. Boy was that embarrassing. My parents grounded me for like three days, and I wasn't allowed to hang out with Chanucka or any other girls for a month. Not one to be easily deterred, I snuck out that night and went over to my friend Jae's house. Jae and I had been friends since I was five, but we'd never had any feelings for each other. We were watching Police Academy 7, and downing a bottle of Goldschlager when we started making out. He was a terrible kisser. I should have known he was going to be terrible in the sack, but what can you do, I was horny. So we started taking off each others' clothes, and I noticed that Jae had a dick the size of my pinky, and the circumference of a pencil. I stifled a giggle. I hadn't planned on going down on him, but he was so small, that I couldn't give him an effective handjob. I was three licks into fellatio when he was like "I'm gonna..." and then he farted. I started to laugh when he spurted come right in my eye. He apologized for it, but I was like wtf. It looked like I had pinkeye. Once I'd washed my eye out, he asked if he could go down on me. I was like, "yea, you at least owe me a blowjob" and he was all like ok. I guess he'd never sucked a dick before, because he kept grazing me with his teeth. I told him to stop before he started taking off skin. He said he still felt really bad about the whole come in the eye thing, so he asked if I would like to fuck him. I really wanted to get off but when he bent over I could see that he hadn't wiped in like forever. I was about to start putting my clothes back on when Hannika came in without knocking. I guess she had let Jae borrow her biology book, and she needed it back. She started yelling at me and at Jae but I was like so past caring that I just walked by her and went back home. I didn't even get to come. That was the worst sex evar. |
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