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Saturday, February 27, 2010

Church of the Poison F*ck and The League of Clueless Bastards

I tend to share the success stories on here – or at least those instances when the stars align and things get really interesting. But let’s face it – there are only so many euphemisms for the erect penis and so many believable sexual positions one can adequately describe before writing about sexual exploits gets stale. Which brings us to some of the instances when things were not so interesting or, worse, ended disastrously. Why? Why not? Sit down, you might learn something.

Not all sex is good sex. Sometimes it’s just so-so. And sometimes it is just so god-damn awful I can’t work up the strength to drag my ass to the bathroom mirror to chastise myself. Keep in mind it’s not always my fault, but sometimes it is. The items I am about to discuss go beyond the realm of pet peeves. These are deal breakers that will cause me to block your email or duck behind the nearest tree or into the nearest bathroom stall so I am not tempted to expose myself to your shenanigans again-agains.

Those of you on the front lines know exactly what I’m talking about. And to illustrate please permit me to be graphic and blunt (not that I am ever any other way). Here are a few of the things that make for really bad sex.

Shit on My Dick

The Issue: Hate this. Just hate it. It is a total bummer and a real momentum killer. I die a little inside every time this happens and my insides are not the only thing that dies in that moment. So bottoms? If you haven’t done your due diligence ahead of time, and douched like a good little bottom should, simply say so. Don’t go offering up your ass to be fucked or eaten if you’re not at least 99% sure it is clean. Granted, as a top, if you’re fucking a dude’s ass you know you’re running a risk of coming in contact with a little butt menses, but that is not what I am talking about here. I’m talking about those bottoms who consistently offer up their dirty ass when the whole thing could be (and should be) avoided if you would just say, “You know what? I’m not up for that.” Use some common sense, people. Unless the whole scat thing is your scene – and then you should definitely be up front about that, because that ain’t everybody’s cup of tea.

The Catalyst: So there is this dude in my neighborhood – tiny bod, no body fat, nice dick, great kisser, hot ass. We click on so many levels. I used to visit him about three years ago, until the shit issue just became this common occurrence with him and then I decided to stop seeing him. So about a month ago he answers a Craigslist ad I have posted asking for someone to come over and let me blow them while I wear a blindfold. Well, one thing leads to another and soon he’s sticking his ass in my face. Remember - I don’t realize it’s him. So naturally it goes to the same place it always ends up – with me wanting to ram my dick up his ass. He’s good to go – only – he’s not. Not at all. A week later he emails me and wants a repeat. I think – okay, last time was my fault – dude thought he was just coming over to get sucked off, so my bad. I go ahead and set up a fuck date with him, assuming that by now the man gets it; when I come anywhere near his hot little bottom, I am going to want to stick my dick in it. Well, as the saying goes… assume = ass of you and me. Or in this case, just me. And in this case, dirty, dirty shit filled ass. So, that’s it for me. He is on my permanent, personal no fly zone.

Playmates who are Physically Way-Over Aggressive

The Issue: I’m talking about those dudes who seem to believe that it is sexy as hell to leave their sexual partner with a swollen lip or black and blue marks. If that is your thing – you need to be up front about it, because when I come over to give you a blow job I do not expect to have my face pummeled bloody by your pelvis. If I come over so you can fuck my ass I do not plan on leaving with giant welts on my butt cheeks – giant welts that later become unsightly black and blue marks. I go to the gym, people. Dudes I don’t even like see me naked. So show some restraint and keep in mind that sex is supposed to be pleasurable for both parties involved.

The Catalyst: There is this lovely, handsome black man – reasonably sized dick, beautiful eyes, incredible body, worked out, sexy as hell, and sweet as hell, too. That is until I’m sucking his dick or he’s fucking me. Then this tiny, little, clueless demon emerges and he goes all terroristic on my ass. Maybe it’s the poppers. He loves them. So much so, that sometimes, after an hour and a half of ram jam there is no jam to be found and his ram is definitely on the wane. He used to wear a chrome cock collar until I finally had to tell him that my teeth just could not risk anymore exposure to that kind of danger. The man loses it every fucking time we fuck and throws his muscled body at me and into me with all the force he can muster. Now I wish I could say that I am all caught up in the passion of the moment and don’t care – but usually by the time he’s working my mouth or ass like a Coke machine that just took his last dollar (think - bam bam bam), I have been checked out emotionally for at least fifteen minutes. I’m all for marathon sex, if the sex is red hot. But when the sex has all the allure of a snuff film, dude? It is time to call it a day.

So after not seeing this dude for some time (we have fucked on and off for years now) he’s back on my radar. He comes over to my house for a blow job in my garage and for once – everything is cool. He fucks my face and cums after about 20 minutes. He leaves all smiles and so do I. So weeks go by and he wants me to come to his house and blow him in his basement. Cool with me. I arrive, walk down the stairs and there he is – all sexy wearing nothing but his black dress socks. He starts to take the dress socks off, but I tell him to leave them on, they do something for me. Things are going fine. He’s aggressive as usual, but not too much; hitting the poppers like they are oxygen and he can’t breathe. I have a hard on the entire time and am working it with my hand and he is getting off on that, too. After about 20 minutes, he sits on the bottom of the steps that lead upstairs. I’m thinking – this is good – now I’m in control. I’m working my magic on his stiff cock and he’s making noises like pay day is coming soon. Just the sound of this man approaching orgasm is enough to make me shoot my load – which I do. Not having shot my load all week, it feels awesome and splatters all over the bottom step and floor – I just love making a big, hot mess. I come off my orgasm high realizing that the postman has failed to deliver, so my work on this route is not done. However, the sight of me shooting sends him into overdrive – but not in a good way. He proceeds to ram my face onto his dick like he is trying to weld my skull to his pelvis. I am trying to resist, because I know where this is headed. And he fucking goes there anyway; cums, but not before he has made mincemeat out of the inside of my upper lip. I am like, what the fuck? Fucker made me bleed. So it’s over. Over and done. Don’t come knocking, because, dude, for you, I am not home.

Pinching My Nipples with your Finger Nails

The Issue: I like my nips played with. I wish they were more sensitive and hardwired to my dick, but they’re not. Still, you can pay them some attention, and lots of dudes do just that. But sometimes that attention is a little too on the point. As in: pinching the hell out of them with your finger nails. This leads to my nips being all roughed up and raw the next day. And there is nothing worse than raw nips when you’re running for a half hour on a treadmill wearing a t-shirt because it is gym policy. Mega ouch. Also, the sweat acts like some kind of corrosive agent making my bitty titties just scream. So use the fleshy part of your finger tips. I like pressure and pleasure, not sharpness and pain.

The Catalyst: One of my all-time favorite fuckers is guilty of this one. He is such a sweetheart (and such a good fuck – think: dick of death), that I just don’t have the heart to complain. I know I should say something, and I sort of do – when it gets to bordering on Saw IV time, I will remove his hands or reposition his fingers so that he isn’t cutting into my flesh. And I think he’s taking the hint – last time I saw him he was all fingertips and no finger nails (maybe he just needs to trim them more often?). But in any case, just as I have to accept that this dude has no interest in ever kissing me, so will I need to suck up the fact that he may be just a touch insensitive when it comes to my nips. Sometimes a great fuck requires some sacrifice. Of course, I could also just try talking to him about it, but then talking isn’t something we do a great deal of when we’re together.

The Over-Kisser

The Issue: Okay, so we have all been with our share of bad kissers. I’m talking about the tight-mouthed motherfuckers whose lips are so hard that it is like kissing a mummy. Then there are those who seem to think that their tongue belongs everyplace except inside their own mouth. Only thing worse? Those that think flicking their tongue in and out and all over your lips is sexy. What the hell is that about? If I want that I will kiss one of my dogs. Then there are the ones who practically drown you in a sea of saliva. Ugh. Bad breath? Cigarette Death Breath? Yep, had him, too. I place all these guys in the same league – The League of Clueless Bastards. You would think that all that squirming and pursing of lips that you do would inform them that something is amiss and that they may need to change up their game. But oh no, it’s like you might as well not even be in the same room for all the attention they are paying you. It’s like a cousin of mine once said to me after we danced together at a bar one night, “I guess you can just dance by yourself. You don’t need me at all.” And there you have it. What a fucking selfish bastard I was twirling about and getting all fancy. I totally forgot that I had a dance partner to play off of. So I learned that lesson. And that lesson applies to kissing, too. So all of the above deserve their special place in the kissing hall of shame – but the big winners – if you can call them that –are the over kissers. These are the guys who seem to think that sexy kissing involves opening their mouths wide; as wide as they possibly can so they can engulf your face. What the fuck? Those teeth of yours scraping on the sides of my mouth and cheeks aren’t enough of an indication that perhaps you’re a little off the mark?

The Catalyst: A dude I was totally hot to meet – tall (taller than me!), blonde, incredibly good looking, fucking killer eyes, super toned body and a big, fat nine-incher. We played email tag like crazy and then finally meet up. It’s during one of my ass sabbaticals, so all I have to offer is a blow job. He accepts. We meet up – I’m not going to give the specifics, but it was way sexy, crazy and risky. We kiss a bit, I blow him and he goes. We then plan to meet up again, same time/same channel – but this time he wants to fuck me and I’m game. I blow him a bit. Slide a rubber on his dick and he fucks me doggy-style. Fucking feels great. Then I arch up and we kiss. All is good, but he doesn’t want to shoot in the condom, so I pull it off and we seriously start macking on each other. And that’s when he becomes Mr. Big Mouth. Teeth scrape my cheek and I end up feeling mauled, as in, by a dog. He shoots his load all over me and it’s hot. But the moment is gone. He wants to stick around for me to cum, but I wave him off. Would I fuck him again? You bet. But the big mouthed kissing thing has really tempered my enthusiasm. Maybe next time I’ll just keep it doggy-style. Eh, truth is he can have another ride any way he wants it, he’s sort of worth the face scraping.

People Who Don’t Know How to Eat Ass, But Insist on Eating Ass
The Issue: Eating ass is not for everyone. I have been turned down numerous times and take the hint. I get it – not everybody is turned on by the idea of some guy mouthing their muffin. Fortunately, based on the feedback that I have received first hand (and the repeat business that has resulted), I happen to know I’m pretty good-to-great when it comes to eating ass. I must admit, it has a lot to do with the individual ass; if it is not clean, then I’m out. If it is not mouth-watering hot, I will probably still dive in, but not bring my A-game and move onto something else before the momentum dies. And this is my point people – if you are not into it or are not good at it – do move on, quickly. I cannot tell you the number of times some dude is all hot to eat my ass and I am more than good to go only to discover that the dude has no idea what the fuck he is doing. Seriously – it is a total mystery as to what some of these guys are doing back there, but getting me off is not one of them. The worst are the total frauds who talk a good game, but when it comes to putting their mouth where the action is act like suspicious squirrels, squinting and pursing up their lips like the dumb pussies they are. For god’s sake – dive in. This is the one time where I will happily take one of those guys whose kisses are all saliva, because getting my boy box wet is definitely on the menu and part of the plan. The other part involves deep tissue massage ala your lips and tongue. Don’t be shy, make a pig of yourself – they call it eating ass for a reason.

The Catalyst: I love wearing a blindfold on occasion. It can make for hot, hot sex based purely on the sensitivity of my other senses. It’s a bit risky, but I’ve lucked out. The scene is somewhat predictable – guy enters, guy sticks dick in my mouth, guy fingers my ass as I suck his dick, dude moves around behind me, dude eats ass, dude fucks ass, dude shoots, dude leaves. Maybe there’s some kissing and maybe some attention is paid to my dick, but that is the basic flow of the scene. However, it is always a different experience – every time, even with dudes I have done the exact same scene with before. So please note one of the hallmarks of this experience is the eating of my ass. No, it does not happen every time, but it is kind of the norm for me. Dudes who want to fuck my ass generally want to eat it first – I’m cool with that. As long as they know what the fuck they are doing. Because the eating of the ass? It is not required reading. You do not have to pass go to get the two-hundred dollars. So you should only eat my ass if that is truly something that will add to the experience – for both of us. Nothing kills the momentum of a hot date like a questionable segment. It is like dead air on a television station – it should never happen. So don’t dive between those cheeks, Mister unless you got a little something for me, because I can huff all the poppers I want to while you’re back there scratching your head, but it is not going to bring it on home for this trooper. I’m looking in your direction Mr. Pinch-Faced Fuckwad Accountant. Don’t try to sell me on something you can’t deliver. You only get one go around at this here buffet.

Okay… so, Boom, there it is. Or at least there some of it is. The rest? Maybe we’ll get to it another time.

And now the big ugly truth: Yes, lordy, lordy, yes… I am just as guilty as all five of the motherfuckers I just called out onto the carpet. I have been all these men – BUT – and this is a big but (not as big as some butts, but still big): I learn from my mistakes. Maybe I do not get invited back after the alleged incident, but I am self-aware enough to know that my performance can always be improved upon and that when the push comes to shove and the shove leads to love – there are (at least) two people swapping DNA involved in every less-than-satisfactory session of bumping uglies. And one of those uglies is me! And I am the only one I have any control over. So I make a point to educate myself and listen to my partner, pick up on the tiny hints his body language and face communicate and do my best to not put my own needs before those of others (except for that one part when there’s no going back and then I’m all about getting my own cookies - sorry). So while I claim to be a great lover, I am not perfect. My douching is not foolproof. I have offered up my ass from time to time unsure of its sanctity or sanitary nature. I have, in the throes of lust, been told that I need to pedal the metal back a bit and chill. It is true that I am on occasion guilty of getting a little mean with my partners nips and balls and causing them unhappiness and unintentional and unwanted physical pain. There is no doubt that my kisses tend to veer toward the wet side and are not always to everyone’s liking. And, yes, brothers, I have toiled or contemplated toiling away at the hairy crevice of a lover only to leave them wanting.

Yes. I have sinned. But I have learned from my mistakes and transcended them and made restitution to those I have wronged when possible and warranted.

Can I get an Amen? No?

Then can I get somebody to take over for the dude with the pinched face trying to eat my ass? Because that motherfucker is working my last nerve.


Friday, February 19, 2010

My Valentine: 2010

On Valentine’s Day I met my folks for breakfast at our usual Sunday spot. Near the end of the meal my Mom asked me if I would mind taking Dad off her hands for a few hours while she ran some errands. I said, sure, no problem. I didn’t really have anything planned for the day, other than spending time with my dogs, so a few hours with my Dad wouldn’t be displacing any activity of value.

My dad is 75 years old and has Alzheimer’s. He’s a shadow of his former self; and something of a stranger to me now. I know that I’m a stranger to him. He frequently has no idea who I am. My Mom fairs a bit better on the recognition front, though on occasion he tells me she is “just that nice lady that takes care of me”. It breaks her heart to hear it. This disease has a tendency to do that – break hearts.

Though a handful at times - my Dad is fairly easy to manage. It’s important that he remain in somewhat familiar surroundings. We have to make sure that when eating there is not too much noise and that the table is cleared of extraneous items. Clutter, along with patterns on the table cloth or place mat or more than three items of food on his plate can cause him to become distracted. He fails to comprehend that the patterns are part of the cloth. He thinks he can physically pick them up, and would spend hours trying to do so if we did not intercede. Too many food choices cause him to freeze up; unable to decide what to eat first; he would end up eating nothing. There was a time when television held his attention – especially Westerns. But now the only thing he seems to enjoy is Tom and Jerry cartoons. Coloring was also a favorite activity, but that has gone by the wayside as well, though he still likes collecting and arranging the crayons.

In fact, collecting things seems to be one of his favorite activities, especially at stores and other people’s houses. He’s become a bit of a shoplifter, so when we do venture into a store with him we have to be on guard constantly. That’s why I suggest that we go to the Dollar Store. It’s one of the safest places to take him. He can choose anything he wants and it only cost a buck. “Dollar Store?” he echoes back, like a wizened owl. “We can buy candy there.” I explain. That registers. His sweet tooth is always an active presence, a promise to satisfy it a great motivator. I also have an ulterior motive: it’s Valentine’s Day and this will give him an opportunity to pick out a card for my Mom along with some snacks.

After having spent a good two hours at the restaurant (it takes my Dad a long time to eat these days – even with us cutting up his food for him), we make our way to my car. The snow banks are quite high and there is no way for me to safely guide my Dad to the passenger side of the vehicle, so I place him in the backseat. “You can pretend you’re taking a Taxi.” No response. He dutifully sits where I tell him. On the way to the store I talk to him over my shoulder. He wants to know where we’re going. He is also worried about where “Mom” is. I do my best to ease his mind. These are questions and answers that will be repeated many times during the few hours.

We arrive at that store and the little kid in my Dad kicks in. This is reminiscent of the first time I noticed that there was something ‘wrong’ with my Dad. We were at a Walgreens. It was during the horrible winter of 1996 – my first since returning to Minnesota from California. That winter, trips to Walgreens became something I did with my parents. As we waited for prescriptions to be filled, we would each take a flyer from the front of the store and search the store’s aisles for coupon items. I remember that my Dad had this weird, uncharacteristic excitement in his voice as we shopped and that he kept moving along aside me, standing far too close for my comfort. It was like shopping with an awkward adolescent whose social skills are not fully developed. I kept looking at him with disbelief, my dismay not registering at all.

Several years later, when the diagnosis of Alzheimer’s was handed down, my mind crept back to that time, along with a litany of other odd occurrences: minor car accidents, an inability to follow even a short list of spoken directions, etc., and it began to make sense Though a whole year would pass before I began to accept the diagnosis as correct and know that my Dad wasn’t just pulling the wool over our eyes. By that time his behavior had simply become too inexplicable for it to be anything else. For example, he would put on layers and layers and layers of clothing before going for a walk outside on the hottest days of summer. It was his version of running away from home, I guess. On time he went missing and ended up at the woman’s prison in Shakopee. A guard there was kind enough to call the police, who escorted him home. The police, having been notified earlier by my Mom, escorted him home. My Mom said that he arrived home acting as if a police escort was a totally normal occurrence, just another day in the neighborhood.

Such incidents are the reason that when the house across the street from me came up for sale in 2008 I decided it was the perfect home for my parents. It took some convincing, but finally my Mom agreed. My Dad was becoming too much for her to look after by herself. She realized she needed help. I spent the latter half of that winter and most of the spring rehabbing it with the help of others. We spent the summer emptying my parents’ house in Shakopee. Years and years of ‘collecting’ made it a pretty overwhelming task. It was a very emotional time for my Mom, having to let go of so much, but she managed admirably. The move went pretty smoothly, though for many months after my Dad would ask anyone within earshot when was it he got to go home. He would also talk about a house up north he owned and a farm he needed to get to. My parent’s did have a cabin on a lake at the time, but the farm he was speaking of was that of his childhood. It no longer existed, hadn’t for years – except in memory and in his mind.

I do my best to spend time with my parents. Yes, I have siblings, but they many live too far away to be a weekly presence in my parents’ lives. Two of my sisters manage to visit once a month and an older brother manages to so once a year. My other sister is too involved in her own trials and has no interest in being involved. She has not seen my parents for three and a half years. If she showed up today my Dad wouldn’t have any idea who she is. It’s a strange turn of events. For years and years I was the black sheep of the family; funny how things change. Now, my folks come over to my house for dinner at least once a week. When it comes time to leave, my Dad will head out my front gate looking for his car, though he hasn’t driven for years. He still doesn’t get that he lives across the street. We don’t push it, except to reassure him.

We have to watch him constantly. Shortly after moving into their new house, with its fenced in yard and locked gates, my Dad got out via the garage door. My Mom called me, frantic, as she and a friend of mine searched the neighborhood. A half hour later, my Mom received a phone call from their new next door neighbor. He had discovered my Dad sitting at his kitchen table. My Dad had walked in, hung up his cap and coat and sat down. When the neighbor asked what he was doing, my Dad just replied, “Waiting.” We’re more careful now. He has a key to the house, but that is all. He had to give up his driving privileges a few years back and he has never had keys to the garage or the locked gates. Sometimes I look across the street and catch him standing at the front gate fishing through his pockets for keys and, not finding any that fit, taking the lock and yanking on it furiously. He hates those locks.

But he loves the Dollar Store. And riding in the car – which I decide will be our next activity, after he chooses a card.

I steer him over to a rack of Valentine’s Day cards, explaining who it is he needs to get a card for. I pick up a card and he says, “Yep, that one.” Fortunately it’s a very nice card with a verse about thanking the loved one for all the things they do for them. “Okay, let’s find some candy to go with it.” This eats up the next half hour, as the merits of various snack cakes, candies and chips are considered and debated. In the end he chooses 14 different items, though I suspect very few of them will be of interest to my Mom. We pay for our purchases and leave the store, but not before Dad begins to pick up loose price tags and other debris that litters the sales floor. He views such items as found treasures and it frequently takes a good deal to convince him otherwise. So usually we just let him put the stuff in his shirt pockets where it will reside until bedtime when my Mom undresses him and removes the items – tissues, napkins, pencils, pens, paper clips, price tags, ketchup and sugar packets and the like. I’ve told my Mom that she should start a website called “_________’s Pockets”, featuring a digital photo of the things she finds in his pockets on a nightly basis. Due to his proclivity for collecting things, I have to watch him closely when he comes to my house. I have a small collection of Buddhas and another of small glass frogs. Many times my Mom will call me once they are home to let me know that one or several of the items in these collections has made its way across the street. We also have to be careful with dog treats. Several times I’ve caught my Dad nonchalantly munching on something that wasn’t intended for human consumption. Sometimes I catch him in time, but you can’t win them all.

In the car, after we’ve paid for our stuff, I try to get my Dad to actually sign the card. Easier said then done. He still recognizes words, but he rarely makes sense of them or relates them to their meaning. Even his own name is a stranger to him now. I have to slowly spell it out, letter by letter. He still writes cursively, but none of the letters connect, each one suspended at a different angle as they float haphazardly near the bottom of the card. I write my Mom’s name at the top of the card and on the outside of the envelope and call it a day. I do this, not because I think she’ll believe for a second that he did it on his own, but because it will brighten her day just a bit. I also know that when she asks if he picked out the card himself, I will lie and say “yes”. In a way he did. And such a tiny white lie isn’t going to hurt anyone. My Mom deserves a valentine from her husband.

Having taken care of our shopping, we make our way along Wirth Parkway. Ejecting the dance music CD that has been playing in my car all week, I opt for NPR and some nice relaxing classical sounds. It’s not my Dad’s taste in music (he prefers classic country), but he doesn’t complain. It makes for a rather poignant soundtrack. It’s a beautiful, sunny day with lots of people out cross country skiing, tubing and such. I point out the people, dogs and the lakes as we move slowly along the winding road, but Dad seems interested only in his hands which lie lifelessly in his lap. For some reason this moves me; he seems so small, so shrunken in that passenger seat. All I want to do is make him feel safe. With my right hand I cover both of his in a gesture of comfort. It’s a tender moment. And not one that I think I would ever had with my Dad, if it were not for his condition; small consolation, but consolation none the less. True in more ways than one.

For now, all we can do is take things a day at a time. I try not to look too far into the future. Neither does my Mom. We’ve both done the research; we know what’s to come. For now, trips to the Dollar Store, rides in the car, meals out – they’re all still possible, so we take advantage of them. These small events link us back to life as it once was, before the heavy shadow of Alzheimer’s overtook the light in my father’s eyes.

He’s a good man; worked hard all his life. Provided the best he could. We will make what remains as comfortable for him for as long as we are able. I worry about my Mom: caring for one so dependent is a daunting task, but she claims she’s coping. That’s why I’m here: to offer a little relief from time to time.

After another 40 minutes have passed I steer the car toward home. “Ready to go home?” I ask. “Home?” he echoes, the word not having any connotation.

Yes, home. That safe place. Who knows? Maybe Tom and Jerry’s on.

Friday, February 12, 2010

What You See Depends on The Blindfold You’re Wearing

Reality TV sucks, for the most part. And not in a good way and certainly not in the way it would if I had a hand in scripting these shows. Take the Bachelor, for instance. In my version of the Bachelor, nobody gets a rose, although they do all get their cookies.

A couple of Saturdays ago I’m in a mood for something overwhelming. In hindsight, I’m pretty sure my thoughts and ambitions far exceeded my actual appetite, but at the time, the hole wants what the hole wants and I am only too happy to play along.

I place an ad on Craigslist and also patrol my favorite hook-up sites. The ad states that I am looking for tops only and that they should enter via my back door (literally and figuratively). They will find me at the bottom of the stairs, wearing a jock strap and a blindfold, on all fours with my ass sticking up in the air. It’s a cum and go scenario. No reciprocation necessary. Use my mouth and my ass. Poppers permitted. The time period that my ass is available is set, and having attached a couple of headless body shots, I let it sail out onto the net.

Having tried this in the past with mixed results, I decide to be really brave and just put it out there. If things seem legit within three emails I give them the address and ask what time to expect them. As these things tend to go the set up takes up the bulk of the time I had set aside for this assignation (pun well-intended). By 6:00 pm, I have a bunch of guys booked for around 7:00, with two guys coming as late as 8:00; and as long as it is all over by 9:00 pm (my bedtime), I will be happy. I find that it pays to overbook this type of event. People flake, or have no intention of showing. Sometimes they are just dicking around on the net with no intention of actually doing any actual dicking. I no longer take it personally. I have been at this long enough to recognize the email addresses of those who are must-avoids and the time wasters. I also decide to be a touch more picky this time around. No pic? No reply no matter how good the stats are, figuring if they can’t read the damn ad and follow directions then they are probably either pic collectors or just fucking with me (and not in the way I desire.)

As luck would have it, there are a lot of horny tops out there this night. I give out the address to about a dozen guys, knowing that at least half of them will flake. My luck also seems to run toward those who take care of their bodies. I know this because they are all kind enough to send me some very nice body shots. Since I am going to be blindfolded I tell them they needn’t bother sending face pics, though several do anyway.

I set everything up before getting on-line or posting the ad. The floor is covered with a blanket. A fresh bottle of poppers, condoms, two kinds of lube, wet wipes, and a bunch of clean hand towels are standing by. On the television, vintage porn plays – the kind where the men don’t shave their body hair or use condoms. The room is sufficiently dim, the only light coming from the stairs, a lava lamp, and the TV and computer screens. As the time nears I start the porn with the volume turned off and put Fusion Radio Chicago on the computer to set the mood. I’ve already cleaned up, so once I have my cock ring and jock strap on, and my blindfold at the ready, I retrace my footsteps just to make sure everything is in place.

At 6:25 pm I sit on my covered floor and watch the porn. 6:30 comes and goes. Someone said they will be there about 6:45, so as that time nears; I rewind the porn, get on all fours with my ass facing the door, my poppers at the ready. This is that awful/wonderful time when my heart veers like the swinging pendulum of a clock from gleeful anticipation to thoughts of doom. Will I be fucked royally? Will I be to their liking? Will I get stood up? Getting out of position, I rewind the porn to the beginning several times, my eyes darting to the clock while taking note of the music. I’m getting that sinking feeling that no one is going to show. Near 7:00 the music on Fusion Radio Chicago stops and two magpie gay guys begin to prattle on about – well, who the fuck cares – I want music, not gay banter. They blab on for what seems an eternity, and I am about to get up and shove in a CD when the door at the top of the stairs opens! I flip down my blindfold as I flip back into position.

The guy takes off his shoes at the top of the stairs before descending. I uncork my brand new bottle of poppers and take a deep hit in both nostrils. I always love this moment… the anticipation; when they assess the situation and plan their opening move. First contact usually happens one of several ways: sometimes they touch my hole tentatively and that sensation elicits a nice moan escaping my lips, or sometimes they will guide my chin to find their dick. This one is very quiet. He chooses a frontal approach. I find his dick without any help. I take the head in my mouth and hold it there, running my tongue over and around it. It’s somewhat thin, but very adequate. As I work my way to the base of his dick I determine that he is about seven inches in length. All in all, a very nice size for my mouth, and with width not being an issue, I am able to swallow him whole without much effort. After feeling him relax, I let my hands explore in order to get the lay of the land (so to speak).

Bachelor #1 – He has a small waist and a wide chest covered with some nice fur. He’s toned; in-shape, yet not worked out. No body fat. Young; maybe youngest of the bunch. I am also under the impression that he is short or at least six inches shorter than I am (this is difficult to gauge with the blindfold on and being on all fours). Turns out he’s a great, great kisser. In fact, he earns the honorary title of Guardian Angel. He is the first to arrive, and throughout the entire fuck fest, he always seems to have my back. For the first hour he either sits in front of me, kissing me or letting me suck his dick. Later, he just sits off to the side when someone else steps in front to use my mouth. He never seems that interested in fucking me, but after the first hour passes, I find my way over to him. He’s in a sitting position. I suck his dick – he’s been hard the entire night – and then work my mouth up to his lips. We kiss deeply, and as he’s kissing me I get up off my knees and straddle him. By this time in the evening I have no problem gliding his dick into my slick hole. I slide down and bounce up and down on it. We kiss the entire time, until he shoots his load. Rather tender, considering the sordid scene. Then I climb off of him and he departs. Although he’s the first to arrive he is the third to leave.

Bachelor #2 – Arrives about fifteen minutes after Bachelor #1. This one is a live wire. He’s tall, with a full head of curly hair. He has just a bit of fur on him, nearly hairless and overall he’s nicely shaped, nicely built. I’m thinking mid-thirties. He’s very flexible, highly sexual and the most verbal of the bunch. Once he arrives, he touches my hole sending waves of pleasure through me. Even with Bachelor #1’s dick in my mouth, I can’t help but moan and Bachelor #2 seems to like that. He strips and moves to my front. Bachelor #1 plays with my nips as I’m introduced to Bachelor #2’s cock. It’s a very, very nice one. Thick, cut, and about 8.5”, it curves upward topped with a delicious knob and the dude seems to be permanently hard. A nice pair of balls hangs underneath and I tease him early in the game, taking his nut sack in my mouth, giving them a nice stretch. He’s game. In fact, I think he’s pretty much game for everything and everyone. He’s the first to enter my ass, opening it up really nice. He gets me sloppy wet and begging for more, verbally encouraging me the whole time. As others arrive he takes on the role of director, making suggestions in order to keep the scene active and interesting. Much later, (at least a half hour after he arrives) he ends up shooting his load while fucking me. During the interim he’s very busy keeping everyone, including me entertained. When he’s not fucking my ass or mouth, he’s sucking on the other dudes’ or taking it up the ass. Dude is all over the place. He’s into poppers; very much looking after me in that department, helping me keep track of where they are and holding them under my nose as other dudes take turns using my hole. He’s also an excellent kisser. At one point, around 8:00 pm, I estimate, it ends up being just him and me. Taking advantage of the opportunity, he throws me on my back and uses me like a total slut, pounding my ass every which way right up until Bachelor #5 arrives. I loved this dude’s dick. It is made for my ass. He ends up coming a second time that night, but not for me.

Bachelor #3: Gets there maybe ten minutes after Bachelor #2 – who is banging me doggy style as #3 arrives. Bachelor #3 turns out to be taller and skinnier than #2. Totally hairless. He also has the biggest cock of the night – fucking wide motherfucker, at least 9.5 long with a pair of low hangers to grab onto. When he arrives, he has a prince albert in the head of his dick. I suck his dick with it on, but #2 is not having it and makes him take it out. This is probably more due to the fact that #2 ends up getting it on big time with #3 every chance he gets than any concern #2 has for my well being. With some encouragement from #2, #3 wastes no time, using my mouth and then taking over my hole. Later he and #2 get busy, but I’m the one that gets Bachelor #3’s load. He returns to fuck me deep and hard. He’s the first guy to lose his load up my ass and he’s quite verbal about. That seems to trip Bachelor #2’s trigger. All hot and bothered, he dives in as soon as #3 pulls out and fucks my ass until he unleashes his load. The entire time this is going on Bachelor #1 is sitting in front of me, feeding me poppers, deep kissing me and letting me suck his dick. Bachelor #3 stays a total of about a half hour. He never kisses me, so his body and his dick are all I have to go on. All in all, not something I would ever turn down for a second time around.

Bachelor #4: This is a bit of a let down. I didn’t like the way he smells – not fresh, stale cigarettes. He’s also not in as good of shape as the others. He has a big set of balls, and an okay dick, but he can’t get hard. Even though he’s there in the thick of it, with a lot of action going down, he ends up being pretty much a non-presence. However, once Bachelor #3 and then Bachelor #2 shoot their jizz, he gets inspired enough to force his semi-hard dick into my ass and fuck me until he cums (which is like moments later). He’s actually the first to leave, which is fine with me. The other three stick around and fool around. After Bachelor #4 leaves, that’s when I make my move on Bachelor #1, climbing onto his dick and working the cum out of his ball sack with my ass. As this is happening, Bachelor #3 hits the road.

Bachelor #5: This guy sent me full body and face pics. He’s answered my ads in the past, received my pics and then never bothered to email back. This time he does, and sets up a time for 8:00. I’m pretty sure he arrives at least 20 minutes after he’s supposed to. He walks in on Bachelor #2 power fucking me with my legs in the air. Bachelor #5 is a good looking guy, with a very nice body. He’s tall, worked-out, and handsome with a great head of hair. He has the best legs of the evening. His dick? Eh. Truly less than average. Bachelor #5 actually coaxes a second load out of Bachelor #2 by giving him head, while I am sucking on #5's dick. I think. I think this based on the sounds I hear. As those two play, I feel kind of out of the program. Once Bachelor #2 shoots a second time, he packs it up and is out of there. That leaves just me and Bachelor #5, who I guess figures he has to fuck me because that’s what the ad said. His performance seems perfunctory, too say the least. But you know what? There is no chemistry. I am just not feeling it. He makes a lame ass attempt to fuck me on my back, but his dick has trouble staying in my hole and eventually goes so soft, that I just reach through and yank the condom off his cock. He then sits back as I get between his legs to try and breathe some life into the little fucker. He finally cums, or at least what passes for cumming in his world. Once he leaves, I am so relieved.

And tired.

And used up.

As the door closes at the top of the stairs I remove my blindfold. Regret seeping in, I try to restore order. I pick up the used wet wipes, condoms and wrappers and flush them. I take the hand towels, my jock and blindfold and throw them in the washing machine. The TV screen, which went blue when the movie ended midway through the evening, goes dark with the click of a remote. I kill the music and check my email. Two guys send regrets. Four others want to know if I’m still available. I remove the ad from Craigslist and shut my computer down for the night.

I shove on a pair of sweat pants, a tee and some sneaks, so I can go out, lock the gate and secure the front door.

When did I come? I’m not sure, but I think it was just before Bachelor #2 took off. In retrospect, my climax seems rather anti-climatic. Back in the house, I drag my well-fucked ass into the shower and let the hot spray drown my heavy head.

This is what I wanted, I remind myself. This was a goal of mine, a fantasy to be realized. I sleep pretty well that night.

Days go by. Initially I believed there were six guys involved, but after replaying the evening, I decide there could only have been five. How could I have lost track? But then I figure when you have dicks being shoved in you from both ends it’s easy to get distracted and lose track of your surroundings. I fight the remorse and the bit of depression that settles about me like folded wings.

Bachelor #5 emails me, thanks me for the evening and asks me if I would be willing to send him Bachelor #2’s email address. Alternating between being totally offended and feeling that by granting the request, I will be risking the confidentiality of Bachelor #2, I decide not to respond, In the end, I choose to ignore the request and thus spare Bachelor #2 any of Bachelor #5’s poor quality fucking.

I go through my emails on the various sites and try to piece the evening together. Turns out, even if I wanted to oblige Bachelor #5’s request, I couldn’t, because I can’t be 100% sure which email belongs to #2. Finally, I just decide to believe that there were only five guys and delete all the emails from that evening; those that came, those that wanted to, and those that didn’t.

So, the reality of it all… what do I think? I end up filing this one under experience. Up to a point, I had a lot of fun; it was everything I wanted. But by the time #4 showed up, it was starting to play stale. In the end, I missed the intimacy experienced one on one and the visuals enjoyed minus the blindfold. Playing with some of these guys one on one, especially Bachelors #1 and #2, definitely appeals to me, but I don’t think it’s in the cards.

Will I try to repeat the experience? Oh, probably. But next time I am going to make sure I don’t jerk off the night before, maybe holding off for a whole week. If I’m extra horny, it will help to enhance the experience. Also I will get a ton of rest in the days beforehand so that I am in peak form. I seem to be searching for that perfect “ahhh”; that one sexual experience that will render even the mere thought of all future escapades nothing more than an exercise in futility.

Frankly, I’m not sure that group action is where it’s at for me.

Well, maybe – but without the blindfold…

We’ll see. Or maybe we won’t.

Depends on whether or not I’m wearing a blindfold.

Friday, February 05, 2010

Confessions of a Football Manger Part II: The Joys of an Empty Locker Room – Alice Unleashed

With the sexually inert Tim (see previous post) covering field time in the great outdoors, that left me pretty much to my own devices. This was especially true of the time period before the younger grades’ football practices ended, at which time I would have to focus on handing out towels and putting away their equipment. The younger grades did nothing for me. The sight of a bunch of nearly hairless, neophyte penises may quicken the heart rate of some future chicken hawk or pedophile, but not mine. The faster I got them out of the locker room the more time I had to play and explore.

There were several domains that piqued my interest. Among them: the training room with the coaches’ lockers, the lockers belonging to the players’, a little back hallway that led to the girls’ locker room that also housed the whirlpool, and the biggest temptation of them all – the phys ed coach’s office.

The training room was a rather small room divided into two halves. The main door opened into the portion reserved for the storing of the footballs, kicking tees and the like. Along one side of the room ran a waist high wooden bench where injured athletes would be placed and examined. The room was divided by a wooden wall with a half door in its center. To the left of the half door was a grey metal desk. The wall opposite the door was lined with lockers for the coaches of the younger grade teams. This group consisted of teachers who had an interest in football and fancied themselves as experts of the game. Physically, it was a mixed bag.

There were a couple of short, dark-haired men – the art teacher and the social studies teacher. One of them had a nice smooth bubble butt, the other a nice mustache and a blunt, uncut dick. They did very little for me, probably due to their personalities (or lack thereof), and the fact that they simply weren’t all that athletic.

My former sixth grade homeroom teacher was another matter. He was very tall, with a long square jaw and curly blonde hair. His piercing blue eyes were mesmerizing and he was about five years younger than any of the other coaches. He had a classic basketball player build and was in great shape – including a set of kick ass abs. His dick was long and smooth and set off nicely by a pair of low hangers – all of which figured prominently in many a jerk off session. This is the same teacher who sat me down in sixth grade and wanted to know why I was hiding in the library during gym class. I couldn’t tell him that it was because I was afraid to shower with the other boys, but I think he sensed that. I got over it and there never seemed to be any permanent weirdness between us, save the residual glow from the major boy crush I had on him.

One of the coaches – the assistant to the head coach, was a big brute of a German. A sour-faced, forbidding sort, he was a bit on the ugly side. His build reminded me of an old-fashioned, barrel-chested muscleman. Even his uncut dick was ugly, resembling something like a vulture’s neck with its long foreskin dangling at least an inch over the head of his cock. In spite of this (or probably because of it), he, too, figured prominently in my fantasy life. He taught German and had a very deep, guttural voice, so naturally I saw him as a strict disciplinarian and imagined him spanking me. I used to actually go to his classroom – located in one of the satellite buildings behind the school – strip naked and shoot the pike at the front of his classroom, no doubt leaving suspicious looking stains in the carpeting. But then the janitors at that school were no doubt getting used to the little DNA samples I had begun to leave all over the school.

Two of the science teachers were also coaches, both in their early thirties. One was a classically handsome gent, with a square jaw and nice reddish, close-cropped, curly hair. His body, which was very nice, was covered in fur, as well. He was something of an egotistical ass, but that just added to his allure. His dick was sort of on the small side (no doubt God’s way of evening the score), but he was also one of the wrestling coaches, so I definitely found him jerk worthy. The other was a curly headed blonde with a very interesting face – kind of Grecian, his chin sporting a wicked cleft chin. His milky blue eyes had a bulging quality and his lips were full, sensual and beautiful. He had this odd saliva issue and frequently had spittle in the corners of his mouth. In spite of that (or maybe subconsciously because of it), there was something very sexy about him. His body was hairless and there didn’t seem to be an ounce of body fat on him. Even his dick was pretty and pink. He definitely reminded me of a naked, white marble, Greek statue. Needless to say, he was a major creator of boners of contention.

One of the math teachers, the one I called ‘The Polish Prince’, was also a coach. With a mane of rich, black hair, he was a mostly negative, bitter man, with a mean streak a mile long. Crabby most of the time, he was difficult to deal with in the classroom, but in terms of fantasy material, it made him a lot of fun. The other thing that made him fun was the fact that he had a huge dick – a serious, cut, mouth-watering monster hanging between his legs. Basically I imagined him sneering and saying mean things to me as he shot his load all over me.

There was also a tall redheaded coach whose skin would have been very pale if it were not for all the freckles that covered his entire body. He was a little fleshy looking and his dick was odd, because the head of his penis was incredibly brilliant pink. He had a big red mustache, too – and that was the only reason he played any part in my fantasies. He always played second string to the other coaches, acting as a sort of hanger on in the stories I wove as I beat off.

My fantasies were populated by these men, but there was a very real part they unknowingly played as well. When these coaches were out in the field I would check out their underwear. This became something I did when I babysat, as well. When babysitting I would go through the dad’s underwear drawer and also the laundry hampers. Yep, a real sick pup in the making, for sure. Not sure where the notion of underwear being sexual came from (maybe those Hanes ads in the TV Guide), but it was definitely a boner inducer. On occasion I would be rewarded with something unique; a jock strap or a pair of exotic underwear. I would then have to strip down and try them on. I loved the feel of my hard dick as it pressed against the illicit fabric. I never came in them, though. That would have been a dead giveaway and getting caught was never part of the plan or kink.

During my three years as a Football Manager I only caught one of the coaches with a semi. That was the art teacher with the nice bubble butt. I could tell he was embarrassed – he blushed big time as he scrambled into his underwear, but that was the closest I came to seeing an adult hard during high school.

It should be noted, that at this stage in the game, all I knew about sex consisted of masturbation and, to a lesser extent (a great deal lesser) kissing. So those were pretty much the only physical acts that figured into my masturbatory fantasies. While I yearned for closeness and for touch, it was actually the psychological aspects, colored by the personalities of the objects of my erections that infused and broadened the scope of many of my fantasies. They always featured dialogue and there was always a story line. Sucking dick and butt fucking wouldn’t become a reality or cream dream material for me for many more years. So, basically, while I feared I might be ‘gay’, I really had no notion of what that entailed in a physical sense, although I do think that on some level I did understand its emotional component. I’m not sure kissing really figured into my fantasies though. Just naked touching and being told to do things, like jerk off. It was the idea of being alone with these men and the recipient of their attention that turned my crank (pun intended). I always liked the idea of them teaching me how to masturbate. I was also turned on by the fact that they were physically larger than me. In my mind, they were forever towering over me while comparing the size my dick to theirs in either an almost scholarly or disdainful manner. Such fantasies were my consistent companions, but sometimes all I needed was a little solitude, my dick and a goal. That’s where a locked door came in handy and that’s why the hallway between the boys’ and girls’ locker rooms where the big metal, portable whirlpool was set up caught my interest.

I know I sat in the whirlpool at least once, but it must not have much for me, because it never became a habit of mine. I did like seeing the players use it though. They seemed so vulnerable then. A favorite fantasy involved me helping them into the whirlpool. Once in they would spring a hard on and beg me to help them with it. What can I say? I was always there to lend a hand where needed. Another reason I liked that hallway was because there was a door at both ends and they both locked. Needless to say, countless loads ended up on that floor. I always cleaned up after myself with a towel, but I remember I loved the sound my cum made as it hit the cement floor in that mini echo chamber. I would also have contests with myself to see how far I could shoot, the cum gleaming and easily seen as it caught the light.

In the training room, on occasion I would get naked and hump the training table, sometimes wearing someone’s jock strap. I’d also strip down and take showers by myself in the big shower room, lying down on the cold, cement floor as the room filled with steam. But most of my naked play and showering were reserved for the office of the head coach, who was also the boys’ phys ed teacher.

His office was in the middle of the locker room. It had a large picture window covered with a venetian blind that looked out onto the locker room. Inside the office there was a desk, a metal file cabinet and a coat rack. Along the back wall ran a counter with four cupboards above. In a reoccurring fantasy, I imagined the phys ed teacher telling me that it was time for my annual physical. He would ask me to lean up against the counter and drop my pants so he could check out my nut sack, asking me cough just like in the doctor’s office. I would imagine myself accidently getting a hard on and him chuckling, asking if I knew what to do with it. From there, one thing would lead to another and it would always end with us clutching each other in a passionate embrace under the spray of his private shower.

Right next to the coat rack was a door that led to said shower. Here I would spend a lot of time naked and jerking off, usually after an extended period of snooping around and posing naked on the coach’s desk. If he had a spare jock lying around I would try it on. I remember he also had a nut cup and I would try that on as well. The head coach was a salt and pepper, flat-top wearing, beefy, furry, handsome, fantasy daddy. His dick was tiny, but his personality is what dominated and fueled my fantasies about him. He caught me in his office once. Fortunately I was fully clothed, but shamed none the less. This occurred in my third year as a Football Manager. That would also be my last, not because of anything I did, but my interests by that point were pretty well established and they did not include playing water boy.

During my second year as a Football Manager, the team actually went to State. My brother, a junior at the time, was on that team. The game was someplace up north and it required us to travel and stay in a motel. Going to state was a really big deal for such a small town. It was decided that Tim and I would need help, so the coach asked us to recruit our friends. Fortunately, we actually had some – a group composed of my class’ musicians and brain trust. There were six of us in all and we shared a single room with two beds. The weirdest thing happened on that trip. I was in the shower in our motel room when suddenly the head coach burst into the bathroom, scaring the hell out of me. He then proceeded to jump in the shower, wearing a polo shirt and a pair of polyester coach shorts and held me tightly under the water as he gave me a ‘noogie’. He roared with glee the entire time and left as quickly as he had arrived. I’d been playing with myself just before his arrival, so I am pretty sure I had a full hard on just before this happened. To this day I am not sure what that was all about. He had done it that one other time a year earlier in the locker room, but then I was fully clothed and he was naked.

Anyway, we lost our first game in the series and that was the only time a team from my high school went to State. Shortly after that, the Phys Ed coach apparently lost interest in being a teacher and coach. The next season, my last year as a Football Manger would also prove to be his last year as a coach.

But the coaches were not the only guys that fueled my masturbatory dreams. There were all those players… and watching as their bodies matured and changed was absolutely intoxicating to behold.

End of Part II
Coming Sometime Soon: Part III – Hanging with The Players – Alice Creams and Dreams