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.