Acquired Tastes, XXIV: Bald Men
Did you ever find Telly Savalas somewhat sexy, lolly in cheek, affixing some dolly with a seasoned lover’s gaze as he spoke his most famous catchphrase: “Who loves you, baby?” When it comes to famous bald men there are so many to choose from: Yul Brynner, Michael Stipe, Bruce Willis, Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson, LL Cool J, Patrick Stewart, Andre Agassi, Stanley Tucci, Vin Diesel, Ving Rhames, Scott Leo "Taye" Diggs, Seal, and my current jerk-off fantasy man, Pitbull. The list could go on and and on. In other words – pretty much somebody for everybody.
There’s something potent and sensual about a dude sporting a chrome dome. Run your fingers through his hair? A dime a dozen, son. To be honest, I’d much rather polish my ball sack with a sweet, smooth melon. Or plant a grateful kiss on top of a pristine cue ball as I slide my hole down ‘round his pole.
So let’s take a look at the truly ‘Happy Shiny People’, give this topic our best spit shine, and take it from the top as we examine …
Scope of Activity:
A sensual appreciation for the follicly challenged, male-to-male style.
The Official Line:
There isn’t any. This fetish doesn’t have a truly cool, medical name. But speaking of fetishes…
The word fetish originally meant "charm," and it originates from the 15th century Portuguese word ‘feitico’, which means false power, object, or charm. For example, when the Portuguese explored West Africa and encountered native religions, they called whatever talisman they revered, (totems, carvings, beads) a fetish. To the Portuguese in those days, the fetishists were those who worshiped the unusual. Later on, however, the implication of the word took on a different meaning.
Why do any of us have the fetishes that we develop? Probably some childhood association, right? Or maybe it’s something that we grow to love and appreciate, you know, like the taste of a fine Merlot, or the sound of a perfectly played oboe?
Having a yen for bald men is certainly not something that is uncommon…. particularly among women. Some people actually consider them as a talisman and rub their heads for good luck. People also link bare domes to virility and physical or mental authority. Tough guys. Smart guys. Professor Egghead.
I think gay men tend to be a lot more hung up about their hair and therefore, value a full head of hair as it is considered one of the standards of beauty. Gay guys also tend to obsess about growing older and having a hairless pate tends to make one appear more mature. Also, people tend to avoid what they fear they might become, so a lot of men, especially gay ones, are bald-phobic, which helps explain the existence of Hair Club for Men, Donald Trump’s stupid ass doo, and a lot of nasty ass eagle’s nests and comb-overs.
From AskMen: A fetish involves the transfer of power from an original source onto a substitute. A fetishist is someone who operates outside the circle of what is characteristically considered normal.
The association that many bald-appreciators form: bald = virility and authority (in either the form of a dominant militant type or of someone with a superior intellect) springs from somewhere. It could be based on a personal experience (a police officer, a professor) or it could be images the media has indelibly stamped on our collective consciousness (Telly Salvalas, et.al.).
Ah, yes. Well of course this is just another excuse for me to talk about the most recent dude to destroy my hole. So, yeah. It happened. But more about that later.
Obviously Telly Savalas was a big eye opener for me, and, I think, America as a whole. The bald thing threw us. He was sexy in a phys ed coach kind of way. That deep voice; swarthy, exotic. And while I kind of wanted him to say nasty things in my ear or watch me/force me to masturbate in front of him, or humiliate me somehow – I don’t think I really ever thought about fucking him or vice a versa. I guess the same could be said for James Evans Sr. (John Amos), although the thought of him bending me over to show me who’s the man? That still gets my juices flowing. So, I guess television and the media has had a lot to do with my appreciation for bald men; an affection that has grown over the years.
Growing up in my hometown, the only cop in town was bald. We called him Chrome Dome and everybody hated him. I don’t know why, but then I suppose if you are the only cop in a small town and you are the one that breaks up everybody’s fights, issues speeding tickets, busts you for possession, sees you at your very worst, etc., then I guess it stands to reason that everybody would end up hating you. I felt sorry for his kids. He had a tough job, as my hometown was full of total shitheads. Was he sexy? No, not even in the uniform. He was young and had a great bod… so, not sure why, but…nope, nothing at that early age.
Fast forward to the 1990’s and being bald became kind of a thing among celebrities. The fact that Bruce Willis chose to embrace his baldness as opposed to covering it up (looking at you Mr. Travolta), had a lot to do with smooth pates being more acceptable, and not just the fashion choice of evil villains or pin heads.
Personally, my appreciation for bald men grew as I had to come in terms with my own thinning hair. By 1997, I simply didn’t see the point of going to a barber anymore, bought a clipper, and began to buzz my own head. I hated losing my hair and would still prefer to have a full head of luxurious hair to style, shampoo, and condition if I could, but that wasn’t in the cards. Real men face facts (Mr. Travolta) and embrace whatever reality presents. Of course it helps to have a nicely shaped head. Nothing worse than a skin head featuring an oddly indented dome; it brings to mind those critters in the original ‘The Hills Have Eyes’. My scalp is fairly shapely, and if it weren’t for the size of my ears, I might actually pass for okay looking.
Whenever someone comments on-line about my bald head or makes a suggestive comment in regards to it, I am perplexed, but I am learning to take the compliment. Recently, my ever present baseball cap is being left to the side more and more and, as of yesterday, my on-line profile pic features me sans cap and with a beard! Who knows, I may be breaking into a whole new market.
So, as media-acceptance of bald men became more prominent and my own hair vanished, I came to see the lusty allure of a perfectly formed melon. Which brings me to my current infatuation with Pitbull. I hated him when he first hit the music scene. Thought he was a poser with all the substance and staying power of Tone Loc. His music has grown on me (thanks, zumba), as has his personal style, and now he has become my number one celebrity crush.
Now, I kind of wish he would make me his bitch (I love the way he says ‘titties’ and ‘ass’).
Well, substitution is a form of flattery, right? Sort of? There is this guy on A4A whom I have blown off or ducked for well over a year now. I like his pics – in fact, he is dreamy looking – perfectly round head, smooth skin, lovely, romantic, almond shaped eyes, nice pout, super masculine. We’ve been trying to get naked, but the timing is always off: he can’t host, I can’t host, he is short on time, I am in a meeting, blah, blah. A few times I really could have made it work, but the logistics were troublesome and rather than stress myself out trying to force something work I opted out. I was beginning to feel like a game player.
After our most recent snow storm, I get on A4A and sure enough, there he is– and he can host! I’m horny, all prepped, and feel I owe the dude a little something-something. On the other hand, the streets are awful. My feeling of indebtedness ends up outweighing concern for my personal safety (and that of my car) and off I go. I arrive, let myself in, and leave my boots at the front door. He calls me up the stairs, where he is sitting naked on the side of his bed, jerking off. I waste no time stripping down and getting on my knees.
The dude had warned me a number times in advance, that his dick would prove a challenge. AND HE ISRIGHT! OMG! The length? 8.5” inches – not a problem. In many ways I consider it the perfect dick length. But the width? No, it isn’t a soda can or one of those weirdly pumped up numbers, but it sure is throat filling. Granted, him sitting on the side of the bed with me on my knees between his thighs? Not my favorite dick sucking position. Something about the angle isn’t the best for the easy glide that I like to create. That said, there is no easy anything with this dude’s dick. I try to keep my struggle as private as possible, but struggle, I do. I manage to get all the way to the root many times, but it never feels easy and I really worry that I might end up rubbing him the wrong way. Still, a fat dick is a thing of wonder. Even holding just the glans in my mouth feels amazing. I take a couple of hits of poppers in order to relax, but eventually I accomplish a certain level of oral competence.
He slides back onto the bed and I continue my oral assault, flipping my ass towards him, so that I can achieve a better angle. This provew to work much better, but his thickness is still a challenge. He begins fingering my hole, using a little spit as lube. Please note: spit is not lube. Spit is not a great lube. I need to get hardcore with men and tell them that if they want to stick anything in there, lube is required. He slams his finger in and out my hole, and inside my head I am praying that whatever he is doing is going to be enough for me to be ready to accommodate Mr. Pitbull’s great appendage (That sounds like a twisted children’s book: ‘Mr. Pitbull’s Great Appendage’. )
Figuring that I have done my best lip service, I flip around and straddle him, allowing the tip of his dick to rub my anus. His body is soft and hairless. Definitely masculine, but gravity is certainly winning. He’s ten years younger than me, but my bod is tighter and I hope he appreciates it. I begin pushing my ass back onto his dick, just teasing it. He grabs the poppers and takes a hit, telling me to grab the lube on the night stand. I do. Lube up his cock and my hole and then I just decide to go for it.
This is meat and potatoes sex. No kissing. No romance. No noises or dialogue. The room is super dim and I think that was because he might have intimacy issues. His house impresses me as belonging to someone who is big on appearances and maybe ‘gay’ is something he only does in the privacy of his dimly lit bedroom. I don’t challenge anything. For me, this is just a fuck, not the start of something big. And speaking of big…
Even with ample lube, I find myself struggling to accommodate Mr. Pitbull’s cock. I am snorting poppers like they are oxygen. Thing is, the dude never gets even a tiny bit soft, so it is like impaling myself on a gigantic spike. I do manage to hit the base and work my way into a rhythm, but the stretch is always there and I never feel myself relax into it. Also, in the back of my mind, I am wondering just how much damage I am doing to my poor hole. This is my hole’s maiden voyage after a week off. Lately I am having to take more time off between fucks, and that is due in large part to a recent practice of not using an adequate amount of lube (also, that one dude tried to fist me, and I think that might have a lot to do with it, too). After ten minutes or so in this position, we switch to doggy-style and my ass ends up feeling a bit better, but still… that stretch is felt. His attack is pretty straight forward, ramping up to the big finish with just a modicum of communication and guttural noise. He stays in there a good while, and once he does disembark, I reach back and feel my cum-filled hole. It’s nice and painted back there, so I know what’s inside must be massive.
We clean up a bit and I dress as quickly as possible. He’s making a small attempt at chit chat and walks me down to the front hall, where my boots are waiting. He looks fucking amazing in his navy blue underwear with a red waistband. And, yes, he is my Pitbull dream. His ass looks good, but it is the massive bulge in the front that is most impressive. He fills out the front of those undies like they were meant to be filled. After I get my boots on, I kneel and press my lips to his crotch. It’s like visiting Mecca – a deeply amazing visit, but something one only gets to do once in a lifetime. I’m thinking a return invitation isn’t likely – not because I did anything necessarily wrong, and maybe this is as good as it gets for him, but his world was not rocked in anyway – at least not in any way that I can tell. His lack of verbal clues leaves me thinking that is the case.
I hurry back home so I can push out his load. It is as big as I had hoped. I hold his DNA in my hand and then rinse it away in the sink. Damn. That was a difficult fuck, but I would love another shot.
Thing is, as wonderful as his dick was, it was his beautiful rounded head and sexy distant behavior that really kept me in the game. I found both sexy as hell. That said, usually I get to worship a dude’s dome, caressing it, giving it a kiss. But that was not going to be appreciated in this case, something that Mr. Pitbull’s body language, conduct, and lack of verbal communication clued me into. I just take them as I find them and go with the flow. There are other heads to kiss.
Another thing I love doing with a bald head? Rub my balls on it. It feels great. Dudes do this to me all the time. There’s something very kinky about it… and on those occasions when I get to rub my head on their hole, I do that as well.
For me, a bald head stands for authority, strength, hyper-masculinity, and sexual prowess. Yes, those are the qualities I have assigned it and certainly not a given; more of a wish list. When it is coupled with a distant, reserved demeanor, I find it to be even more erotic – when something appears unattainable; I tend to want it more.
My love of bald men is definitely an acquired taste as it took me awhile (and the loss of my own hair) to really appreciate them. Now? It is definitely one of my personal sexual triggers. Even on tiny dudes.
Being bald? It’s humbling. And challenging. And something I have come to see as less a hindrance and more of an asset. I frequently try to keep in mind the words of the immortal Telly Savalas, who said it best...
“We were all born bald, baby.”