Doggystyle

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.