My Mr. Big (It’s Not What You Think)

Carrie on Sex and the City dubbed the Chris Noth character ‘Mr. Big’.  Whether that had to do with the size of his genitals, I don’t know, as I don’t recall the series ever going there.  No, the dubbing of Mr. Big had more to do with the largess with which the character lived his life: he was a big time, self-made, financial wizard/tycoon who had a driver and a town car at his beck and call, lived in the most opulent condos/apartments, and wore only the finest suits.  Bottom-line: dude had more money than anyone has a right to.  But that is life in the big city, right?  That is life in the real world: the haves and the haves-not.  The one percent and the ninety-nine percent.

I definitely live my life as a ninety-nine percent-er.  I've made my peace with that.  Money, for me, has only been important if lack of it prevented me from travelling someplace, or renting a theater  or buying a new laptop, piano, or piece of software.  Clothing?  Designer names hold no allure for me.  I feel guilty if I splurge and pay fifty dollars for a pair of Levis.  My car?  I recently paid it off and I love it.  It’s one of the first Saturn Ion’s made (with the dashboard console in the middle).  It has lots of get-up-and-go, is good on gas, and has a plastic body (no rust).  I plan on keeping it up and keeping it going for as long as possible.  For me, a car is a means of getting to work without having to resort to taking a bus, or a means of getting to Chicago for a hot weekend – nothing more.  I always chuckle when I meet someone whose identity is tied to their vehicle. 

No, for me, as long as I have enough money to: eat what I want, donate to the causes I wish to support, keep my car in good working condition, keep up with current technological  advancements, travel where I want to, keep my dogs safe and healthy, keep a roof over my head, and buy a new pair of jeans and a nice pair of boots from time to time – then I am happy.   Yes, like most people, I am impressed with other people’s wealth – not the flashy, in-your-face kind of wealth (Kanye West, Donald Trump – blech), more the kind that acquire it quietly through ingenuity, hard work, and incredibly smarts and live wisely.  So, I am not immune to taking note of someone else’s good fortune.

My Mr. Big is very, very quiet about his wealth.  He lets his opulent, sparse, but well-decorated condo speak for him.  He lets his clothing – casual, expensive, modest, and in good taste - indicate just how well he’s doing.  He’s the type that hires someone to decorate his place for the holidays.  He’s the type that hops on a plane and flies to New York for an evening at the Met. 

He’s secretive.  Private.  Powerful.  And… sexy.

I don’t know how old he is.  He’s Italian. Built like a football player; broad shoulders, huge arms, big pecs, calves and thighs that amaze me, and a cute ass that I have never had the privilege of getting to know very well.  He’s handsome, too.  Manly.  I think you have to be in order to succeed in his world.  Yep, physically, Mr. Big has it all, except for one… sigh… tiny… issue.  He was not blessed with a massive appendage.  In fact, I will generously say he has a good six inches.  Hey, I’ve had to work with less.  Nice thing is… Mr. Big knows how to make what he’s got count.

Our usual scenario goes like this:  He texts me.  I text back.  We arrange a time (he typically has no more than an hour at any given time).  I show up, on time, always at his place.  I address him as SIR, and he calls me boy.  We kiss at the door and he sends me upstairs to get ready, as he has to finish up some phone call he is on.  I never wait long.  He likes to watch me take my clothes off and tells me all the time how much he loves my body.  He strips and gets into his bed, under the sheets and comforter, and then tells me to slide in next to him.  Typically I get to spend the first ten minutes with my head on his chest, kissing and cuddling, or massaging his feet (he has incredible feet).  Then he forces my head onto his dick and tells me to offer up my hole.  He likes fingering it and asking me dirty questions while I suck his dick.  I like the way he smells.  He has a funk all his own, not overpowering, but it’s there, and I like wearing it home, in my nostrils.  Then I either climb on top of him, facing him, so he can play with my dick as I gently bounce on his cock, or he turns me around and goes to town on my ass doggy-style.  Like an egg timer going off, we are ‘done’ at exactly 30 minutes.  He shoots his load up my ass and likes it when I shoot all over his chest.  We cuddle for a bit, catching our breath, before dressing.  My exit is quick and swift, efficient, with a nice peck on the mouth and a pat on the ass as I head out the door.

My Mr. Big is a relatively new acquisition of mine.  He started hitting on me on-line last summer.  I was busy sunning and enjoying the outdoors, so I kept him at arm’s length.   But in the fall, we got together for the first time, and we seemed to click.  He’s now one of my regulars.  This is new to me – having regulars.  For most of my life I have been Mr. No-Strings, and while there really is no commitment on anyone’s part to continue to play – seeing one another on a regular baiss is the unspoken (and sometimes explicit) agreement.  So, the amount of strange that I play with these days has greatly diminished.  The concept of the fuck bud has taken its place.  I have about five, currently, and am working on a few more.  Thing is, these dudes get to know me, and I them, so when we do get together, the quality is there and everyone leaves satisfied.  I like it.  It suits me and my current lifestyle.  That’s not to say that some strange doesn’t get roped into the mix on occasion, but, as my upcoming (March 15^th) year-end sex round-up will so aptly demonstrate, I am much more comfortable now, not constantly getting a little something-something.  My down time has become as important as my… UP… time.

That is especially true of my hole.

I never take my hole for granted.  When it comes to sex, it is my bread and butter.  Getting it fucked is my ultimate payday.  I do special glut exercises to keep the globes from dripping down to my knees.  I have also been fairly adamant about not getting fisted.  However, my hole, and in particular forcing things into it, is one of Mr. Big’s favorite things.  He is constantly pushing the envelope, or in his case – three to four fingers – up my hole.  When I resist, he tells me I have to take it.  At one point I told him I was no longer going to play with him if he did not honor my two-finger maximum rule.  He promised to be good.  And he was… for our next three playtimes.  And then, this last time we got together?  He kind of went gonzo on my hole, leaving me sore.  It really put a cramp on my plans for the weekend and I don’t like being uncomfortable.

So, I’m not sure what to do.  Cut him off?  Say adios?  It is such a minor thing, right?  But given that it is the ONLY demand I make of him, I think it succinctly demonstrates a lack of respect for me on his part.  Don’t get me wrong… he treats me really well; like a peer, a friend, a lover.  I dig his little kinks (the SIR/boy thing, the cuddling) and we always have a good, satisfying 30 minutes together.  I don’t want more.   His tastes are… a little high end for my taste.

He loves opera.  I think he has season tickets at the Met, because he is always flying to New York to see something.  And, during my last visit, as I was getting dressed, I started to look at some of the art in his bedroom and bathroom.  It’s the real deal.  And not modern, by any means.  It’s all very classical, very old-school, and worth a lot of money.  As in, there is a piece that hangs opposite the bed that I bet I could retire on.  Don’t get me wrong… I ‘m not discounting his taste; the art is good.  It’s just that I have just rarely been in the presence of someone who can AFFORD his taste.  I actually find this rather endearing about him.

I would like to say that I don’t see what he sees in me… but he has been very vocal about what he appreciates – he loves my body.  He loves my hole.  And I think I am compliant enough that even though we are either the same age, or he is a bit younger than me, I still can make the SIR/boy thing work well enough for him to get off at the thirty-minute mark every time.

I love his body.  His dark, thick hair.  His boyish, aww shucks smile.  He’s so masculine.  And really, physically beautiful.  I love his slight funk.  I like the way I feel in his arms.  I love how we get to cuddle UNDER the covers and that he is rarely stingy with the kisses.   There has yet to be a time when I did not walk away from one of our stolen moments with a smile on my face.  I walk back to my car feeling like… someone desirable and coddled.

I don’t expect anything more than what we have.  Nor does he.  And I think he likes that a lot.  I make no demands on his time.  I am just a willing hole, something for him to fill from time to time.   

When we first met he used to threaten to shave the treasure trail I have manscaped on my chest and abs.  I told him no, and he hasn’t pushed the issue.  Otherwise, he likes me shaved, and as that just happens to be my preference of late, I never disappoint him.  He surprised me recently.  He didn't balk when I showed up with a trimmed, full beard.  If he doesn't like it, he has yet to say so. 

On occasion, as part of our cuddling foreplay, I will tell him how much I want him to pimp out my ass, and have dozens of men watch him take control of and fuck my ass.  He likes that – the idea of it.  But I think we have pretty much established our repertoire, and I don’t see any additions making the set list anytime soon. 

Me?  I want him to stand over me, wearing a jock strap.  I love looking at his beefy, muscled body from below.  I want him to place one of his perfectly pedicured manly feet on my crotch or face.  And yes, I would love it if he pissed on me some time, but that ain’t gonna happen.  He’s not ‘that way’. 

I started to suspect that he is married.  There are two bedrooms, and the other bed is always messed up.  I saw a long black trench coat in the downstairs closet the other day and thought it might be a woman’s.  But, no.  Mr. Big may not be a flag-waver, but he is gay.  Also, his condo?  It doesn't have even a hint of a woman’s touch to it.   

Though, there has been one recent, rather feminine addition to the household: he got a cat!  Her name is… well, I won’t share that.  She’s a very sweet, pretty looking tabby.  I’d told him about my rescue dogs.  It made him want to rescue a cat.  I think the cat will be a very good influence on him. He coddles her and talks sweetly to her.  He would have made a great father.  Granted, one of those distant, can’t make your ballgame, missed your birthday, kind of Dad’s who is always working, but a great one none the less.

So what does this all add up to?  Nothing more than what it is… a couple of fuck buds that get together on a regular basis.  And, yes, something more, too… he makes me feel special.   I walk away from each tryst with a romantic glow.  Like I am worthy.  Of someone like him, someone of his caliber.  It makes me feel expensive.

Ah, as the saying goes… he’s on a whole ‘nother level.

And that’s okay with me.

I like the view from down here.