Total Pageviews

Friday, July 30, 2010

When did sex become a group activity?

So when did sex become a group activity? I’m not asking in the historical sense. I know all about those nasty Romans and Greeks (God bless them, every one). I’m asking in the personal sense, because, as of late, for me it has all sort of stopped making sense.

In light of my years on earth, I’m something of a neophyte when it comes to group sex. It’s only in the past ten years that I have allowed myself to go to bathhouses, not that it happens with all that much frequency; nine occasions, to be precise. Those experiences weren’t all that fun (although I did manage to have fun) and at no time did I engage in group activities; I just stuck to the basics of one-one-one. Granted there were multiple one-on-one encounters during those visits, with breathers in between, but no actual group activity per se. This year I have been to three sex parties and hosted one group scene in my basement. At the sex parties I continued to play one-on-one, with the exception of a single, 20 minute scene that involved about ten guys. Even then, I only played with two out of the ten. The details of the scene I hosted were shared in a previous post:

I have done my share of three-ways, but I don’t consider them group sex because at least two of the guys know each other, whereas anonymity plays a big part in the appeal of group sex. Minus identity, we’re more likely to hand ourselves over to the experience rather than spend time worrying about what others will think of us before, after and during. Or at least that is part of the appeal for me.

The thing is, the idea of group sex kind of populates all my fantasies lately, but not in the way that I would have thought. The idea of being part of some sweaty pile of male flesh, having my orifices probed by a bunch of dudes whose faces I can’t see does not appeal to me… much. It is more the idea of being watched by others while I am being used in some manner. I imagine some dom dude taking my hole doggy-style encircled by a group of six other guys, some of whom are cheering us on while waiting for their turn at bat. In all these fantasies, my dom top is very verbal and in control of the situation, deciding who gets to use me when. This scene will never happen – not to me anyway. It only happens in porno films and to the young, buff and pretty. Still, there is part of me that clings to the hope that one day I could be the object of so many erections.

I think this scenario is at the heart of why I have been seeking out sex with more than one person. It’s like one person isn’t going to be enough. I will need more. So I put out these ads on craigslist, not promoting a group scene, but one-on-one scenarios that my little devil-heart secretly hopes will be booked too closely together and morph into a totally “unintentional” group scene with me as piggy center stage. Not that it ever works that way; at most, I have had two guys show up at about the same time. We had fun, but it’s not what I actually (secretly) hoped for, although I do enjoy the thrill of being walked in on during the middle of something.

So when did sex become a group activity, in my mind? When did one become not enough? The idea began somewhere and like a train bound somewhere fast, it has just continued to gain speed. This ideology probably has its roots in LA, although the tea room scene became part of my mode of operation during the year that I spent in Iowa prior to moving to California. However, LA would have been the first time I experienced the high that came from serialized sex. I recall one sunny afternoon in a park at a cruisy mens room where I managed to make out with and get off six guys before I lost my own load. It was crazy, but intoxicating.

This restroom was a popular place. I remember spending a number of afternoons poaching men from other dudes in the stalls, luring guys in from the tennis courts, or watching on a park bench, looking for signals as men walked into that dank abyss of sexual iniquity. The place stank and was filthy, but that did not prevent business men in expensive three piece suits or preppy looking jocks from strolling in there in search of some quick head. There were three stalls. My favorite stall was the one at the end because it was hidden from those walking in when the front entrance door was open, leaving one plenty of time to recover or move quickly into the middle stall. None of the stalls had doors, so if somebody was sitting on the can with his pants around his ankles for any length of time, you knew damn well what he was there for.

In the year and a half I played at that park, which was situated near a Jack-In-The-Box off a main drag in Santa Monica, I never saw a single cop anywhere. With no cops in sight, people, moi included, became pretty brave and foolhardy. I remember there was this gorgeous Hispanic man who claimed to be married. He was younger than me, with a full head of beautiful black hair, a great body featuring a small waist and a big bubble butt. He loved to take it up the ass and I was more than happy to oblige him. I fucked him several times behind that open door, doggy-style while standing. He would make such a racket; it was amazing that no one called the cops. On more than one occasion we actually did attract a crowd. There must have been about eight dudes crammed into that little space, most of them working their dicks while my Hispanic Bottom sang the praises of my tool ramming his tight hole. I loved putting my hands on top of each mound of his butt cheeks and pushing down with all my might as slammed in and out.

On another such occasion, a sweaty, out of breath jogger came leaping in. He apparently knew what to expect because his face registered no shock whatsoever at the sight of me porking a Hispanic dude in a mens room with a bunch of guys watching. The jogger’s body was perfection kissed by the sun. All he was wearing was his shoes, socks, a jock and a tiny pair of jogging shorts. Taking in the scene and not missing a beat, he whipped down his shorts and pulled out an already hard cock from his jock. He jerked away, his eyes wide and intent on the sight of my dick working the fuck out of that Hispanic dude’s hot ass. In a matter of moments the jogger’s cum was spewing everywhere, hitting the filthy concrete floor of that little hellhole with a satisfying series of splats. It was enough to send me over the edge and I let loose my own load, ramming and jamming at full throttle. I didn’t even have time to catch my breath before the jogger had repackaged his spent dick and vamoosed. It was definitely one of those – Who was that masked man? – kind of moments.

I’ll save the details of my day of six in Santa Monica for next week’s post; to include them now would make this piece run long and dilute my point. I mention it this week because my activities there, with all of those strange men – one after another, left me on a high unlike anything else I had ever experienced. I never had that kind of luck in Iowa, where I was lucky if I stumbled on one dude willing to play, let alone six. That day in the park in Santa Monica was the beginning of my obsession with multiple encounters. My desire for more than one followed me to downtown Minneapolis, where the skyways beckoned and visits to certain restrooms became part of my daily routine. However, I quickly discovered that Minneapolis’ attitude toward this type of fun was highly prudish, and learned to be much more guarded when pursuing sex in non-traditional places. Once I left downtown and began working elsewhere in the twin cities I discovered the various parks that I now haunt and my hunt continued.

During my recent sexual downtime I have been pondering whether some of my practices and habits should be altered. My apparent emphasis on seeking out multiple encounters and partners is one such preference that needs to be analyzed. I don’t know if it’s healthy, but then I can’t say that it’s not. Part of me asks, “Who is it hurting?” And the answer could very well be: me. As I reach the end of my self-imposed sexual exile, I tend to want to lean toward the “Why fix it if it’s not broken?” school of thought. But, as with a lot of my recently developed (within the last ten years) sexual habits, practices and preferences, I remain on the fence, unsure in which camp my foot belongs; one camp being safety and common sense and the other sexual liberation and adventure. I’m very aware of the risks involved in what I do and while I want to play it safe, I also want the thrill. It’s like that breakfast cereal commercial: the adult in me knows what the sensible thing to do is, but the kid in me wants to be sexually intoxicated as frequently as life will allow. It would seem I want my cake and to eat it, too – which is an apt analogy, since it’s the frosting that’s so damn dangerous. It’s the age old problem of: how can it be so bad when it feels so good? As adults, we all know that too much of a good thing can be bad.

Or is this not such a black and white issue? There are certainly enough polarized views out there, some of which are based on common sense, some of which are based on science and history, and some of which are based on the fact that a dick wants what it wants. My inner slut definitely has an opinion about which way I should go, but then so does the guy with the job, the guy who is responsible to his family, and the guy who has to visit his physician three times a year for STD screens.

Can I get by with a foot in both camps or am I only fooling myself? Is it simply a matter of time before I’m found out? And when that happens, can I live with the consequences? Will I be ostracized by both camps?

I know the right thing to do; I just don’t want to do it – or, more to the point, I just don’t want to stop doing it.

As the Duchess said to Alice in Alice in Wonderland: Tut, tut, child! Everything's got a moral, if only you can find it.

Well, I am searching… probably in all the wrong places, but I am still searching: in the bushes, and the woods, and down by the river, and the prairie, and that parking lot, and that mall…

My inner slut probably deserves a good spanking.

Friday, July 23, 2010

Sex on the Brain: Trading Two in the Bush for One in the Hand

Sex on the Brain? Guilty. And if you’re reading this blog, then I assume you’re as guilty as I am. Well… maybe not quite. You see, I think I may have jumped the shark into a whole new bag of crazy when it comes to the pursuit of sexual encounters. The time has come for me to take a breather, come back down to earth and reclaim a couple of things that should be important in my life, but have been pushed aside while I’ve been searching for a little something-something.

I’m taking a two week sex sabbatical. In truth it works out to be more like 19 days total and my use of the term sabbatical is a little misleading. I’m not taking a break from all sex – just sex that involves other people in a physical sense. Porn via Xtube and masturbation are still on table.

I used to masturbate all the time. As a teen it became my number one preoccupation. Even into my late 20’s and early 30’s I would have to say that jerking off was my modus operandi of choice when it came to getting off. To say that I actually preferred it to physical contact with other people would be a bit of a stretch – I love kissing (and am damn good at it), but at that time in my life I was simply too shy to hit on other people (guys). I was socially-sexually clueless. Women, on the other hand, hit on me from time to time and I ended up having sex with them in spite of myself. Still, sex with others remained a relatively infrequent part of my life. Living in L.A. would change all that, though it was actually in Iowa that my current school of thought took root.

Tea room sex was something I accidently stumbled upon at a wayside rest in the middle of Iowa, a full year before I moved to California. Iowa was fun. Farm boys. Grrrr. But I wanted and needed more. I soon found it. In L.A., living in isolation and awash with an anonymity and autonomy I had never before enjoyed, I was free to let my freak flag fly. Soon, hanging out at a local park and getting sucked off by total strangers became my way of coping with the loneliness. I had no friends. Just people I worked with and people who sucked my dick.

Upon returning to the twin cities in the late 90’s I discovered the internet and began to explore the art of cyber-dating and hooking up. It became my new addiction and just like any really good addiction it began adversely affecting my relationships with others and negatively impacting my life. My need became overwhelming, at times taking precedence over everything else; family, home, personal safety, etc. After a point, one partner a day was not enough. I’d set challenges for myself – sex quotas – and I would work the net or the park or that skyway or that restroom or that parking lot or that prairie until I was satisfied. Only I never was. I know I fooled myself for a long time, telling myself that it was a game and that it was fun. And frequently it was fun – which was never the problem, but it was just as frequently not-so-fun – which has become a problem.

Life kept trying to warn me. It would throw up roadblocks in the form of events and occurrences that would demand and capture the attention of anyone living a full and happy life. However, I’d strayed from the norm quite awhile ago, so all these things – these events and occurrences - happened while I was busy elsewhere and with as little input from me as possible. I have been cheating life and missing out on the really important stuff. To say that I’d lost a sense of the appropriate and that my sense of proportion is out of whack would be a bit of an understatement. Yep, I was really out of touch and moving at a speed that made remaining detached from reality very easy, if not mandatory. I think I could have headed down that highway and disappeared into that good night without a trace.

Fortunately, something unfortunate happened, and it stopped me cold. I shook it off and tried to resume business as usual, but then life threw down another spike strip, ripping the shit out of my tires and then… one more. They say death comes in threes, so it’s always been a number that I respect. So I stopped. I stopped going to the Prairie. I stopped sun bathing. I stopped having sex with other people. I pushed the button and have put that part of my life on pause.

I’m not quite sure what this break was going to be all about, but I am determined to find out what it could mean to the quality of my life. I immediately began dismantling my sex kit and cleaning out the trunk of my car. It felt so good to wash those towels, those jeans, those shorts, and that blanket, to put away the poppers and cockrings and condoms and lube. I look forward to not douching. Or trimming my pubes, my chest hair, or shaving my ass. Well, I might keep up on the fur maintenance, but I look forward to a break from all the rest.

Still, every brilliantly sunny day screams at me like a wasted opportunity. I keep telling myself no. Then I decided, like I do with most things in my life that seem overpowering, to make a game of it. I set a predetermined, self-imposed amount of time and began to hold my breath. Quickly realizing that isn’t a very good coping tool I have decided to substitute something else – masturbation!

You see, in my rush to gain intimacy or an approximation of intimacy with others and get my cookies, I lost a sense of self. I can’t think of a better way to get back in touch with that self than… well, actually touching that self – in as deeply personal and dirty a manner as possible. Madonna got it wrong… screw future love - there is no love like self love.

I’m sure some addiction expert somewhere is shaking their head – you can’t beat a sex addiction while still remaining sexually active. And that is probably true, except beating my sexual addiction really isn’t really what this whole sabbatical thing is about. I like to think of this as a time where I’m pushing my chair back, away from the trough at the sex buffet, long enough to catch my breath and check the weather. This is a healthy break, not an action plan to maintain abstinence. This is to serve as an opportunity to learn a bit more about myself, my life, the choices I am making and what impact my behavior and choices are having on those who depend on me.

It’s also an opportunity to get back in touch with that kid in that small town who used to jerk off everywhere he went. There was a joy to it back then (mixed with generous amounts of guilt and desperation) that I have since lost. I’d like to reclaim that joy. Sure, it won’t be the same, but it will be similar.

Based on my fun last night, there is one thing that has changed; my reliance on props, gadgets and chemical enhancements. I used to just use my imagination. Now I need a little visual stimulation, in the form of Xtube to get me going. And cock rings. I’m increasingly attracted to the idea of ball stretching – certainly not in its extreme forms, but I do have a couple of cockrings that help out in this department. Last night I discovered that by using multiple rings and stacking them on top of one another, it can make it even more intense. The strained, bulgy-veined, turning purple erection that results by the use of said rings is not my favorite thing in the world and I have noticed that playing this way has a negative impact on my capacity to actually spew cum – it more or less just spurts out, but the sensation of the balls being constrained in such a manner remains pretty awesome. That and a hit of poppers? Whew! It’s a whole new ball game (pardon the pun).

So, do I plan on becoming one of the nightmares on Xtube, displaying my corseted ball sack for all to see? No. Number one, you’ll never see me on Xtube (unless I’m wearing a full-head covering leather mask) and number two; I really don’t like gadgets and doo dads. They detract from the basics and in this case the basics – a hard dick and a sensitive, but firm grip – are all one really needs.

And all that I want.

I want to excite myself again. I want to be able to excite myself sans other dicks, orifices and touch. Sans gadgets, doo dads and costume pieces. Sans scenarios, locations, situations and scenes. I want to get off by myself – by getting off on myself; the way I’ve become used to getting off on other people and situations.

This is not permanent. This is temporary. That I choose to do so in the middle of the one of the most wonderful summers ever is not lost on me. I have to fight my desire for woodland romps mightily and frequently, but sacrifices must be made for the greater good. I think in the end, whatever the reward, whatever I learn; it will be worth it because I’m worth it. I’m worth more than the activities I have been pursuing and participating in as of late. This whole sex-at-any-cost mentality has got to change. It’s not healthy. It’s not me. And most importantly, it’s not all that fun.

I guess I’ve scared myself once too often.

So, at this time (I’m on day 10) I am choosing to heed the signs. To slow down. To regroup. To reexamine. To get back in touch.

And to masturbate.

Hell, yeah.

Friday, July 16, 2010

Going Nude: Having the Balls to Do It and Knowing How to Handle Other's

I’d been at the Prairie for about an hour and half and very little seemed to be going on. Sure, there were a few guys around, but nothing that really captured my imagination. As the late afternoon grew to a close my little spot of paradise seemed desolate and devoid of any possibilities for human contact. In a last ditch effort, I decide to beat the bushes in order to find a means of getting off. I move down one of the familiar paths, into the main wooded section on the west end.

As soon as I enter the calm and cool of the forest, my eyes catch sight of the back of a well-defined male torso moving swiftly away from me. Is he naked? I can’t tell, but my spidey-senses are tingling big time. There’s something sexy walking the fringes of my web. Figuring that it’s probably someone who is not going to be interested in me or in having any fun, at first I dismiss the notion of pursuing him, but my inner slut has a very firm agenda in mind (pun attended) and that means exploring any and all possible male sexual contact. In short order, I find my body moving in the general direction where the potential object of my erection has just disappeared. Part of me is pretty sure that even if I do catch up with him, he won’t be interested in playing with me. Still, you never know unless you try and as I come to a three-way fork in the path, I spy, to my right, a tall, thin, dark-haired man, at least twenty years my junior. His nude, well-defined body is decorated with a series of tattoos, none of which interest me at the moment. On the other hand, his features seem dark and a tinge exotic and that excites me big time. I so rarely get to play around with this type, let alone one so young. I stand there for a moment, admiring my prey. Even though I’m about ten yards away from him there’s no mistaking the magnificence of the hard-on he’s sporting. It is rock hard, straight as an arrow and pointing toward the sky at a near-perfect 45 degree angle. I’m mesmerized.

Debating whether or not to make a move toward him, I take time to enjoy the thrill of the hunt. For it is a hunt; one for sexual fulfillment and that’s what makes all of this so damn fun. He’s like a deer caught in my scope. Such a sight is pretty rare, for me, here on the Prairie. It’s like walking upon a beautiful buck. I don’t want to spook him or inadvertently scare him off. However, my desires soon get the better of me; I make a move and, my timing off, watch helplessly as he’s off in a flash, stopping only after I halt my pursuit. He now stands on the threshold of one of the entrances to the Prairie. Before I can even contemplate my next move, he’s out there, striding off into the middle of the open field. I run to where he last stood and gape in awe as this beautiful man struts his stuff down the main pathway.

I’m frozen in place. What to do next? Follow him or… really join him? As in, get in the spirit of the event and demonstrate that I am not just some troll in pursuit of young flesh, but the sort of troll that actually has the balls to strip nude and really commune with nature.

You see, throughout the summer, I have been experimenting with nudism. I have baked in the sun shrouded by tall grass in the buff, walked the back trails of the woods sans shorts and even walked through the middle of the Prairie as dusk fell. But now? This is no where near dusk. It is in fact, brilliantly sunny. As I contemplate my choices, the nude dude pauses in the middle of the Prairie, turning just enough to offer me a picture perfect profile of his proudly erect member. That does it; off come my shorts as I, too, stride into the bright sun and open field. Catching sight of me in motion, he wastes no time making his way to the east side of the Prairie, vanishing into the relative safety of the woods.

Given that there’s no one else around and hasn’t been for quite awhile and given the slim chance that the nude dude will actually be waiting for me somewhere within the privacy of the wooded area he has just disappeared into, I take my time crossing the Prairie in spite of the fact that a cop car or stray cyclist could happen on me at any moment. I am completely exposed for all to see and care not a bit. The sun feels great on my body and it's liberating.

Following the nude dude’s exact path, I enter the shade of the woods, proud of myself for going the distance. On the off chance that mister tall-dark-and-handsome is still hanging around, I make my way back to a secluded area where there is a bit of an opening among the trees. And what to my wondering, wandering eyes should appear?

Hmmm… so there is a God, after all.

Standing in the middle of the clearing, he’s expertly working his dick. I don’t think there’s an ounce of body fat on him and even in the shade of the trees one can see that he has a deep, dark tan. His brightly colored tattoos stand in sharp contrast to the tone of his skin, but, once again, I can’t be bothered deciphering what they actually are or represent. My eyes seem only interested in that magic appendage he’s expertly working over with a smoothness that only comes from lots of practice. Soon I’m standing a mere three feet from him. Does he even notice me? I can’t be sure. Will he bolt the moment I make a move for his dick?

Weighing my options, I finally figure, what the hell? I’ll go for it. Stepping directly in front of him I grab his balls with my left hand, wrapping my index finger and thumb tightly around the top of his sack. I pull down on them just slightly, as my other hand sweeps up his mid section and over the expanse of his chest. He is thin, but not too thin. My fingers make their way to his left nipple and softly squeeze it. Our eyes finally meet. Yep, tall, dark and handsome. And young, so terribly young.

Letting loose the grip I have on the top of his ball sack, my left hand moves to just under his hanging fruit. I pat them deliberately, but ever so lightly. A slight moan of appreciation escapes the nude dude’s lips. My right hand swiftly grabs his rigid cock. In my other hand I cradle his balls, giving them a little pressure every once in awhile. As I take over his dick, his hands make their way to my equipment. We stand very close to one another, our dicks meshing at their bases. Like his body, his dick is thin, but not too thin. It’s about 7.5 inches in length and I really like the feel of his skin in my fist. I work that baby like it’s my own, enjoying the tension I’m able to create. He’s used some kind of lube – maybe baby oil – but has managed to work it into the skin of his dick long before I came on the scene. That’s part of what gives his dick a really interesting feel. I take care to work the palm of my hand over the head of his cock, pressing down lightly as I do. All my efforts seem to be having the desired effect.

“You’re going to make me cum”, he gasps.

I encourage him. “Yeah, do it, man. I want you to shoot your load all over me.”

The idea of helping this young stud spray his baby batter has me keenly focused on improving the nude dude’s pleasure; maintaining the same motion and intensity that I’ve established with my right hand, my left index finger moves back, behind his balls, to the tip of his hole. I probe against it slightly and that does the trick.

“I’m losing it. I’m gonna cum.”

And he does. The first shot flies through the air and lands right between my pecs with an awesome splash. The second shot fires off even fiercer, hitting the top of my right pec. My nipple comes alive as his juice runs down, washing over it. The next three volleys hit my stomach with a satisfying splat. The remaining three manage to coat the head and shaft of his own dick. It’s an awesome sight and working his cum into his dick makes his skin feel all the richer. I don’t want to let go of his cock and it remains hard even though it’s completely spent.

“Careful with the head. I’m really sensitive,” he cautions.

With my left hand, I wipe his cum from my chest and grab my own equipment. Fuck, I want to shoot. Using it as lube I work my load up, spurting it all over the dark, damp ground. It looks like tiny pools of mother of pearl as it catches the light of the forest floor.

“I have to go,” the nude dude announces. And he’s off, his shorts still in hand, his dick still hard. I watch as he walks out of the woods and across the Prairie – his fuck stick out there for all the world to see. Feeling a bit more humble, I put my shorts back on and follow him to the center of the Prairie where I stored my gear earlier in the day.

Wow, that was short, sweet and highly unique; I think to myself as I watch mister tall-dark-and-handsome recede into the wood’s foliage.

Ah, yes… every once and a while God throws you a curve ball or two.

I guess it’s all in how you cup ‘em.

Friday, July 09, 2010

The Girlfriend Experience

I’m very upfront with my potential tricks regarding my market status; it reads: unavailable. Not looking for a boyfriend. Don’t want one. Every profile I have includes the acronym NSA, as in, No Strings Attached. This way they have nothing to fear from me in the long term, discretion assured and I want to avoid all possible stalking scenarios. Don’t get me wrong – I tried the boyfriend thing, a lot. It just wasn’t in the cards for me, so I let it go. I’m in a good place with that decision, which is why I make a point of calling attention to that particular aspect before I even begin to contemplate hooking up with someone.

Given that, it always surprises me when someone opts for, what I term, The Girlfriend Experience. This is a term hookers use when their johns insist on more than just a fast blow job in the cab of their truck or some hot doggy-style in an alley, behind the dumpster of the local Chow Mein shop. Such an evening usually involves eating out, and not just the kind most ladies of the night are used to getting paid for. This is how J.D. Hoyt’s on Washington Avenue in downtown Minneapolis stays in business. The Déjà Vu girls drag their new boyfriends down there for a pricey steak dinner for which the john pays the bill and of which the girls hardly take a bite. I’ve always wondered if J.D. Hoyt’s offers those ladies a kickback for each trick they sucker in.

Throughout a TGE meal there is a lot of hand holding and flirting. Questions are asked, lies are told and the world spins ‘round and round. Everybody is on their best behavior, pretending to be much classier than reality would reveal. The whole charade is carried off with the end point firmly in mind, that being sex, Bob (Dat be in da butt, Bob). TGE sex also deviates from the norm (and were not talking Hot Carls here). In this case there is more kissing and more eye contact, with a concerted effort on both parties to make the experience more sensual. It’s a form romantic role play where the romance reigns supreme.

I don’t really have anything against it, other than the time and the wardrobe it takes (jeans and a tee do not satisfy the requirement), and… the potential for misunderstandings. For me, drama and sex do not mix, unless it is part of a really well choreographed role playing scene where the parameters have been well-defined before play begins. However, unwanted drama is exactly what can inadvertently result when giving some dude The Girlfriend Experience. Wires get crossed. Looks are misread. The lines of fantasy and reality blur and that’s when the stalking may begin.

Early on, in my quest for slutdom, I made the mistake of blurring the lines of reality and fantasy over and over again. I’d meet a dude on line, we’d hit it off, we’d decide to get together and the next thing I know the evening includes drinks, the symphony and a late night dinner. In these cases I was smart enough to pay my own way (except for the symphony – he had season tickets), which helped to take the ick-factor out of the equation. The resulting sex was always at least okay (any sex is good sex?), with those initial sparks counting for something, but it was the follow-up questions and after-glow emails that ended up haunting and troubling me. More offers of evenings out would be forthcoming, each one a little more elaborate, involving friends and more time and… the truly dreaded request for OVERNIGHT STAYS. My loathing of such would seem to indicate that I have an issue with intimacy, but that is not the case. I love intimacy, as long as it does not exceed two hours and I have most of my clothes off for the duration.

Extraditing one’s self from a TGE gone off the rails is a tricky, guilt-inducing trial; a real nail biter. Somebody’s always going to get pissed off; somebody’s feelings will end up getting hurt. Things will be said that are ugly – some of which will be complete falsehoods and some of which will be dead on truths (you know, the kind nobody really wants to hear about themselves). So how one handles this situation is important. Simply choosing to block the dude’s profile and ignore his emails will find you face to face with said dude on your very own doorstep at 2:00 in the morning (true story).

I am currently having a bit of problem with one of my regular tricks. We’ll call him Wednesday. It’s not off the rails yet, but lately he has been pushing for something more than what we agreed upon when we first met. We met on Craigslist. That should be a big clue. He answered an ad of mine looking for a top with no strings. The first time was good (maybe even exceptional) and we both agreed that it was deserving of a repeat performance. It quickly became a regular thing. Sure, on occasion he would be travelling or I would have an appointment I couldn’t change, but for the most part we got together on a regular basis.

In the beginning, I would go over to his house for a nice throw down and thirty minutes later be back in my car on my way to some other assignation. There was no kissing, no shower, and very, very limited small talk. In fact, due to his seeming aloofness, there was a time when I was afraid he would lose interest and find himself a real boyfriend. Not that there is anything wrong with that and not that I would deny him a more intimate relationship if that is what he wanted, but I would miss his dick, which is quite unique. I would also miss his technique. Equally unique and frequently gasp inspiring.

We’ve been seeing each other on and off for over two years now. His work only allows a certain amount of time to satisfy his baser needs. It just so happens that our schedules jive and I’m usually available. For the first year our sessions were fairly brief and to-the-point. It was good… and simple. Then things began to change. Little things at first… he began to ask questions. I began to supply answers. Sometimes I’d tell him the truth, sometimes I would just make shit up. What difference did it make? This is a no strings thing, right? So why lie? To throw him off my path and to make me feel better about myself. No harm, no foul? The jury is still out.

Wednesday then began to volunteer things about his life. I would pay attention. He’s a sweet guy with good values and a kind heart. I like him, so I care about what he has to say.

Next, kissing came into play and I could feel the walls of emotional reserve shift. Such a shift can be a good thing; it does in fact make the sex better (at least for me), but it also makes me wary. As much as I like to dabble in the romanticism of kissing and as much as I love the physical sensation of it, something in this case caused tiny, distant alarms to sound in the back of my head. Suddenly, I had to be on my guard – not because I was fearful that I would fall in love, but due more to the fact that the whole kissing thing was highly uncharacteristic of Wednesday. Once kissing became part of our repertoire, lingering soon followed. After sex we would watch the news or Oprah together while making small talk. Then he started to invite me to take a shower before leaving. Then he started getting into the shower with me before leaving.

So I decided we needed to take a break. Only I didn’t tell him, well, not directly. Instead, I broke dates, with adequate notice (48 hours), of course. When I returned to the fold, kissing was off the table (his choice). As was showering, but the lingering and small talk crept back into our routine.

One day he asked me out to dinner; for some upcoming weekend. I was interested; I mean I could definitely see myself having dinner with this man. I had a lot of questions for him. Primarily I wanted to talk about relationships and find out why he wasn’t in one. I could also use it as an opportunity to underscore the fact that a relationship was the last thing in the world that I wanted for myself. Feeling that my motivation for accepting his invitation was a little too self serving (hidden agenda); I put it off, never committing to a time or place. He stopped suggesting it and soon we were back where we started – the perfect thirty minute fuck (minus kisses).

During our post-coital musings, I think I might have mentioned something about enjoying camping. Summer arrives, and suddenly the front entryway to his apartment is choked with camping equipment and strapped to the top of his SUV is a canoe. In swift order, the kissing, the showers, the lingering – they all come back into play, along with a request that we find a weekend to go camping. Sneaky. And freaky.

I freak. A little. Inside. Fortunately and not so fortunately a series of very unfortunate events happen in both our lives during the next two months, putting talk of said camping trip on hold. Circumstances conspire and we don’t see each other for over a month. When we do get back together the kissing is withheld, etc.

That all changed this week. This week, not only does the kissing return, but there was now something really sweet and passionate behind those kisses. I was swooning too much to question the source or motivation. Also his dick was working my ass like you cannot believe and in that way that only he can, so I was distracted to say the least. Later, we linger, watching the news. I get up, dress and am just about to make my getaway when, again, discussion of a camping trip comes up. I beg off and escape. For now. But it’s still there waiting for me, along with all that camping equipment clogging up his entryway.

I feel bad. And maybe I should. This is a nice guy. Way too nice to be involved with me. He is sweet and quirky and handsome and intelligent and has good taste. I want to fix him up with one of my other fuck buds, but none of them are good enough for him either.

Why do I balk at going out to dinner or go on a camping trip with such a nice guy? Well… I can offer two explanations. First – I don’t want to hurt him, I don’t want to encourage him, and I don’t want to lead him on. Maybe I’m wrong and it is not his intention to make any change in our current situation, but having had the Girlfriend Experience blow up in my face in the past, I don’t want to risk it. Second – going to dinner is one thing, a safe bet – three hours max and either you’re on your way home or you’re headed back to his place for some hot, passionate, food-bloated, wine-inspired sex. The risk of revealing too much about yourself in those three hours? Minimal. But a camping trip? Roughing it? Without the privacy of a real bathroom? Morning breath, whisker burn, body odor, sweat stains, food stains, and the occasional (?) whine? Topped off by the fact that I would be stranded somewhere for over 48 hours with someone I don’t really know all that well? While the idea of getting fucked in a tent all night long does have its appeal, that appeal, for me, is limited to three hours, tops. And when I take into account just how used my hole feels after being fucked by him for a mere 45 minutes, I can’t help but wonder how I would ever fill the remaining 47 hours and 15 minutes. One can tap dance only so long. But what really terrifies me is all that he could potentially learn about me in those 48 hours. I don’t want ANYONE knowing that much about me. Up close and personal? Trust me, there are things NO ONE wants to know about me.

Also: What if going on a camping trip and learning things about me that no one wants to know ruins what we currently have? Flip side: what if not going on the camping trip ruins what we have - for him? Foot? Other shoe.

Of course, I never really envisioned myself having a fuck bud that I play with for two years. That’s a long time.

The obvious solution, of course, is to simply talk to him about it.

But it’s not that kind of relationship.

And there it is. That’s the joke. That’s the punch line.

Except… I’m not laughing.