Total Pageviews

Saturday, January 29, 2011

Acquired Tastes, Chapter III : Tea Rooms

Nothing makes my heart beat faster than the anticipation of exploring an established tea room; and considering how much I like poppers, that’s saying a lot. Just planning the trek to one gets my Spidey senses all a-tingling. Which is a good thing; keeping alert and on your toes is very important considering all the risks involved with this particular Acquired Taste.

For the uninformed, a tea room refers to a public bathroom where gay men go to cruise one another and have sex under the stalls, in the stalls, or side by side at the urinals or trough. Like going to gay bars and cruising in general, it is an activity which many gay men may dabble in for a period of time as a sort of rite of passage before seeing it for what it is and then moving onto something else. This is true of all Acquired Tastes – just because you dabble in it for a period of time doesn’t mean you become a hardcore devotee.

There is a history to this whole thing, so let’s start there…

Tea Rooms
Scope of Activity:

- having gay sex in a public restroom
- cruising a public restroom for the purposes of having sex there or taking your trick elsewhere

The Official Line:

Tea room is an American slang term. In Britain this practice is known as ‘cottaging’, because at one time public restrooms there resembled small cottages. From Wikipedia:

"Cottage" is documented as having been in use during the Victorian era to refer to a public toilet and by the 1960s had become an exclusively homosexual slang term. The word used in this sense is predominantly British (a cottage more commonly being a small, cozy, countryside home), though the term is occasionally used with the same meaning in other parts of the world.

Although the term is often associated with gay men, it can apply to anybody. The term cottaging is rarely used outside gay communities and as attitudes towards LGBT people become more tolerant, fewer individuals find themselves limited to covert and illicit ways of meeting others.

I still like tea rooms. I like the idea of them; the reality of them? Not so much. Maybe that’s because of our very sexually uptight society and in particular the stringent laws in Minneapolis and St. Paul. Even more than that; I think it is due to a change in my life; I no longer work downtown Minneapolis. When I did, it was a very, very active time for tea rooms in Minneapolis. The skyways were like cruisy parks. All one had to do was know where to go and what to look for.

There are certain telltale signs that help you determine if a restroom is ever used for those purposes – graffiti, peepholes, and glory holes being the most obvious, condom wrappers, cum stains on the walls, and hidden messages written under or on the sides of the toilet roll dispenser or written in the grout of the tile or on the frame of the stall door being less so.

Alas, the internet, a blessing to all gays craving sex, actually turned out to be the undoing of the whole tea room scene. Once sites like Squirt and Cruisingforsex began listing all of the places a gay man could go for a quick blow job or some under-stall action, law enforcement, security companies, and business owners were clued in as well. So in a way, we were our own worst enemies on this one (and glory holes – that scene dried up at the exact same time, but that is the subject for a different post). Of course, without the internet I would have remained fairly clueless, unless I happened to stumble onto an existing scene - which is still totally possible.

Thanks to highly publicized incidents involving George Michael and former Senator Larry Craig, tea room sex came out of the closet with all the grace of a drunken sorority girl - but then tawdry does as tawdry does. The only reason the tea room scene evolved in the first place was due to the general population’s disapproval of gay sex (and because some of us liked the notion of sucking cock in public). Like anything unfavorable, if frowned upon it just goes underground. Things have changed for the better, just not completely (the general poplulation still thinks gay sex is ‘icky’). Still in light of the relative acceptance that greet a portion of the gay community, this practice persists for two reasons – 1/ closet cases and straight men need this type of outlet to fulfill their sexual needs and 2/ some of us faggots still get off on it.

As for those of you who say those of us who engage in this kind of behavior do the gay population a great disservice by perpetuating the idea that gay men engage in perverted shit – I say, get over it. The general population believe even the most vanilla of gay sex is perverted, so if you want to be judgmental, go find yourself a beauty pageant.

Psychological Aspects:

What is the appeal? Getting away with it, of course – pulling the wool over the world’s eyes is always titillating. The very covert and risky nature of this activity lends it an allure impossible to resist for some. Anyone who frequently seeks out and participates in anonymous sex – be it via glory hole, backrooms, bathhouses and the like has most likely visited a tea room to see what it’s all about.

There is also a degree of exhibitionism involved. Sex in a public place always touches upon that part of us that wants to show off or be viewed by others as a total slut. Yes, sex is dirty fun and when we engage in it in a non-traditional manner we become for the moment (however far from the reality of our regular lives) a filthy, dirty little whore. Good for us!

And speaking of filthy and dirty – hey, we’re talking about public restrooms – ones frequented by straight men. Straight men, with rare exceptions, are pigs when left to their own devices. So, I’m thinking those who like watersports and get off on the funkiness of that kind of kink are also attracted to the despicable condition of most public mens rooms – the filth, the smell.

I always think of cruising as “the hunt”, particularly when in a mens room. “The hunt” refers to a cycle of events (Arrive, secure space, seek contact, make contact, engage in sexual activity, reach orgasm, clean up perimeter and leave or remain on site seeking further contact.) that once commenced must be completed or the safari ends in complete frustration. This drive always feels urgent and primal. And sometimes frenetic.

My Experience:
So, it all began in 1995. I was in Iowa, bored out of my freaking skull. I was so bored I took up long distance running, doing a minimum of three miles a day. Despite living at that time in a small town with provincial values and a closet full of closet cases, I was out of the closet and while not rubbing it in their faces, not hiding either. There was a gay bar in Stillwater I began to frequent after about six months of seclusion, but before that my pent up sexual frustration was taken out on a little outhouse at this wayside rest stop situated half way between one middle-of-know-where town and another. I worked that motherfucker like a Coke machine that I had stuck a quarter into and still owed me a Coke. It rarely paid out anything but the slimmest of rewards, but hey, it was all I had. Had I known anything about Iowa, I would have realized there was a big homofest called Des Moines only two hours away and saved up all my loving for one of the bars there. Instead, I did what I could with whom I could at that little rest stop. It wasn’t always pretty and sometimes… (shudder). Let’s put it this way - I did who I had to in order to survive.

After my year of self-exile in Iowa I went to Los Angeles and within a month stumbled on three really hot and happening mens rooms in three separate parks. I was instantly smitten with the whole scene and did all sorts of nasty things in those restrooms (such as this: resulting in me leaving all sorts of nasty goo on those stained cement floors.

At one of those restrooms I ran into the tallest man I have ever played with. I was standing in an open stall (the only one in this particular restroom) with my back to its door pretending to pee. I glanced over my shoulder and in walked this giant of a man. He had to be at least 6’7”, as he had to duck his head in order to clear the door frame. His posture seemed to indicate a man who was used to bumping his head on the ceiling. He paused, eyed the guy standing at the urinal, eyed me, and then walked into my stall, pushing me on my shoulder to indicate I should move to the rear. Moving, my eyes grew big with fear, but he remained oblivious. He had a full head of wild, wispy light-brown hair, a full beard and a manic look in his eyes; the perfect vision of a muscular mountain man who just rode into town to unburden his pent-up nut sack. He leaned against the partition wall separating us from the urinal, opened his jeans, and whipped out a very impressive (10+), half hard, extremely thick, dick. He was like something out of a gay erotic cartoon. The thing that impressed me the most was his attitude. It was raw, direct, and a bit angry.

I should point out that at this particular time in my sexual development I was a hardcore top and wasn’t all that crazy about sucking dick, so, I hesitated. The man then bellowed, “Well do you want to suck my cock or not?” This brought me out of my muted state long enough to drop to my knees and pay the man some lip service. His dick just kept growing and getting harder as I did my best. In a matter of minutes he pulled his dick out of my mouth and spewed a big fat load that shot over and onto the top of my head. After about eight volleys, he bent his dick down, rubbing it ferociously all over my upturned face (punishment?), packed up his stuff, re-buttoned his jeans, and stormed out. I was still on my knees blinking like Tweety Bird as the first stream of his jizz began to run down the back of my neck.

At that same restroom I met this cute, rather average, black-haired guy with the longest set of lowhangers I have ever set eyes on. He was a lot of fun. We kissed and sucked on each other, undisturbed, for a long time. The one thing I learned from playing with him is that there are limits to just how hard you can tug and how long you can stretch a dude’s testes.

Not that my adventures in La-la-land were limited to public parks. Department stores were my second go to source for anonymous restroom dick.

Once, I was at this mall with a friend of mine, we were sort of on a dinner date at the time (I know – I am always SUCH a class act – roll eyes here). He wanted to shop for pants, so we ducked into one of the major department stores. Having to take a piss, I excused myself, telling him I’d be right back. I located the mens room, which was situated at the end of this long, winding hallway. Opening the door I assessed that there was a single sink, a single urinal and a single toilet. At the urinal was a dude a few years my junior. He had bright alert eyes, a mass of dark curly hair, and a mischievous smile. Something went off in my head the moment our eyes met, so rather than head to the stall and shut the door, I decided to “sweat him out”. Sweating someone out in a mens room means standing directly behind them, staring at their backside as they stand vulnerably at the urinal. This is particularly off-putting for the one standing at the urinal when it is obvious that the guy waiting could just as easily use the stall. It’s a dicey gamble, but then that’s true of any mens room cruising. In this case it paid off (it doesn’t always – sometimes you’re just viewed as an annoyance and all you get for your troubles is a heated sigh, an abrupt zip up, the evil eye and a hasty exit), as apparently this guy was just waiting for somebody-anybody to come in so he could show off a bit. It was a lovely show, featuring a nice-sized dick with a lovely upward curve. My offer to give him a hand was refused with a polite, but insistent shake of his head, so I dropped my jeans and began to work my own. He liked what he saw and the two of us worked away at our own dicks with our eyes glued to the progress of the other. It was a hot, sexy, quick scene that ended with two good-sized pools of cum on the floor.

Now this is where I differ from some of my fellow tea room enthusiasts. My cum buddy zipped up and, without washing his hands, stole out of that mens room as swiftly as possible, while I stayed behind to clean up the messes we’d both made, perhaps savoring the sight of his a bit before sweeping it away with a wipe of a couple dampened paper towels. That’s just the way I was raised (not). I rejoined my friend who was at that moment on his way into the mens room to see what was keeping me. I told him the towel dispenser was empty and that it took me forever to dry my hands. Say no more - he bought it, and I never had to.

Three years later I was called home to Minneapolis. After landing a job in downtown Minneapolis, I discovered the internet and it changed everything. Now I could hook up with anybody, anywhere, anytime. It was also a means of tapping into the gay network in order to learn all sorts of useful information, such as which tea rooms were active. For about six years I was in hog heaven. Downtown Minneapolis and the Minneapolis Police Department were on to us, but boy did we cottage queens give them a run for their money. Sadly, one by one,

the really exciting tea rooms sprouted security cameras (right in the restroom!) and coded, locked doors. We got around the coded door thing for awhile; as soon as one of us learned the combinaton we would share it with others by posting it on Squirt and the like. But the locked doors, frequent sweeps, sting operations, and security cameras finally took their toll. Bye-bye third floor Gaviidae (scene of some the most outrageous orgy-like behavior ever witnessed and participated in by yours truly). So long beautiful hotels (The Radisson, The Hyatt, and The Marriott – all the epitome of piss elegance). Thanks a lot, Daytons/Donaldsons, Saks Fifth, and Needless Markup.

During my tenure downtown, I explored every nook and cranny of those skyways, stumbling on probably every restroom open to the public. It was a lot of fun – crazy, stupid fun. I met a ton of really nice guys, a lot of trolls and some not-so-nice guys. One of the not-so-nice guys actually tutored me on how to suck cock. He was this little, short, fair-haired guy with a hot body, nice face, and ghosty eyes. His attitude was a total turn off (he was a total dick), but the size of his cock almost made up for it. Hung like the proverbial horse, I only got to swing on that instrument once, but I learned a lot when I did. He kept telling me what I was doing wrong and actually spent a good deal of time teaching me the ins and outs of cocksucking, lessons which I took to heart.

Gaviidae on the third floor was a real hot spot for a time. All sorts of crazy shit went down there. For some reason I had a number of regulars that I attracted from that spot who all just happened to be black men. Most of the time I would entice them to follow me to somewhere more private (at that time I had all sorts of behind-locked-doors places I could play in downtown), but once, one of my regulars, a really tall black dude with a football player build (defensive lineman) fucked my ass silly in front of about a dozen other guys.

When I arrived, there were tons of guys in the restroom, standing around. The urinal was busy. Both the stalls were occupied. I was going to do a quick sweep and leave – crowds in those types of environments always make me nervous as crowds tend to attract the attention of the authorities. I took a quick peek in stall one; no one I knew, and moved onto stall two. Immediately I recognized my football player and gave him a wink. He was sitting on the can with his dick in his hand. As I turned to leave, the stall door swung open and the football player grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me into him. Towering over me, he peered into my eyes and said “I wanna fuck you.” With that, he spun me away from him. He pushed me hard on my upper back so I bent over just slightly. “Drop those pants.” I was titillated beyond belief. Suddenly I lost all sense of where I was and just obeyed. Sex with this dude was always an artless affair; rough and to the point, and this instance was no exception. By the time he filled his condom, I had caught my first breath and the reality of what I was doing dawned on me like a bad hangover. Brevity in this case was a blessing and once he was done with me, he quickly retreated behind the closed door of his stall, leaving me with my pants around my ankles.

As you probably realize, there are other active tea rooms in Minneapolis that are not downtown and I’m pretty sure I’ve checked them all out: executive centers, shopping malls, gas stations, highway rest stops, etc. If you have the time (for it is a lot like fishing – you wait a long time in between bites, and even when you do get a bite that doesn’t mean you’re going to land that fish) and patience these places can be worth your while. I can’t tell you the number of hours I sat in a stall waiting for Mr. Right Now only to skulk away as horny and frustrated as when I arrived. But thems the breaks, folks. Disappointment is part of the game.

Be sure to limber up before venturing out for some under stall action. Those stalls are cramped, the floors are usually quite filthy (except for the hotels). It’s easy to pull a muscle or twist your back when maneuvering to get that cock from the next stall into your mouth or ass. Although I never had the pleasure, I’m sure that it was much easier and more comfortable back when tea rooms featured nice sized glory holes, but those days are history.

Keep in mind, in Minneapolis and St. Paul tea room sex is not only frowned upon, but it is also illegal. I know for a fact that there is one police officer in particular who despises this activity so much he spends his days off trying to entrap the clueless, working downtown Minneapolis like a meth-head hooker. This officer is also under the mistaken impression that all homosexuals are pedophiles. You can talk until you’re blue in the face and point out all the statistics that say otherwise, but this motherfucker believes what he wants and treats us all accordingly. So be careful out there. By sharing a few experiences about my time as a tea room queen I am in no way endorsing this activity. It’s dangerous and unlawful. But then, so are most of the activities I seem to be attracted to these days.

My Conclusion:
I am not sure why I grew out of my fascination with tea room sex, but I’m fairly certain it had to do with my change of jobs – lack of outlet/lack of proximity. I’m now fairly isolated and stuck in my office throughout my work day. Occasionally I get to steal out and hang out at a nearby park known for cruising, but that’s the extent of it. That particular park keeps all its restrooms locked year round (dicks). Yes, tea rooms still exist. They are just not what they used to be and I don’t frequent them much anymore.

Next Week: Exhibitionism/Voyeurism

Saturday, January 22, 2011

Acquired Tastes, Chapter II : Armpits

The intoxicating, all-consuming musk of a fresh, ripe, armpit is what I’m talking about today, in this second installment of Wonderland Burlesques “Acquired Taste Series. Last week we explored the wonders and wonder-why-they-do-it of watersports. This week let’s dive deep into the mysteries of a moist, manly armpit and come up with a face full of delicious, manly, earthiness.


Scope of Activity:


- the licking, kissing, smelling, and nuzzling of armpits.
- the insertion of a rock hard dick into the fold of flesh created at the intersection of the inner, upper arm and pectoral area of the upper chest (
axillary intercourse)

The Official Line:

The axilla (or armpit, underarm, or oxter) is the area on the human body directly under the joint where the arm connects to the shoulder.

The term "underarm" typically refers to the outer surface of the axilla. However, the terms are sometimes used interchangeably in casual contexts. Colloquially (according to the Merriam Webster dictionary), armpit refers to an object or place which is smelly, greasy or otherwise undesirable.

The sexual attraction to the underarms is called axillism and/or also known as Armpit Fetish. Armpit fetishism (also known as maschalagnia) is a paraphillia in which an individual is sexually attracted to armpits.
The attraction is mostly involves the strong, pungent odor of the armpit. The odor of the armpit is the most powerful in the body, sufficiently powerful to act as a muscular stimulant even in the absence of any direct sexual association.

Psychological Aspects:

I think the act of licking another person’s armpit or breathing in their odor are a means of striving for intimacy, on a very base level. A person’s musk is very distinctive; very much a product of that individual and how their body processes various consumables. Just as one might consume a dude’s cum in order to feel closer, so might one dive in and lick a man’s arm pits as a means of capturing another individual’s primal essence.

Or it could be a physical reaction having to do with the taste and smell of a man’s underarms, in their natural form: minus cologne, antiperspirant, and the like. Pheromones, commonly believed to trigger a social response in members of the same
species, are produced by the skin's apocrine sebaceous glands, secreted via armpits and found in sweat.

My Experience:

As a child I associated sweat with my father working hard and then with my older brother, who was mean to me. Because of my contentious relationship with my older brother, I always had an aversion to sweat, its odor and origins and for a time was a bit prissy about it. I also recall a time when sweat made me uncomfortable and made my skin itch in winter.

As a football manager I embraced it – I had no choice. I had to handle player’s equipment and sometimes that equipment was brilliantly ripe. Still, I did not fetishize the aroma, at that time. That changed once I was free of my family and began working-out on a regular basis (about the same time I came out of the closet). Just as I fell in love with locker rooms and jock straps, so, too, did I come to have something of a fetish for the smell of fresh sweat and its primary origin – a manly underarm.

I can’t recall the first time I licked someone’s pit, or had mine licked. I do know that when armpits are on the menu there is a potent type of animal energy involved. Armpits are commonly listed in on-line profiles as something one is ‘into’. However, I don’t recall a single instance when that was part of the negotiation process when arranging a hook-up. There have been a number of times when I’ve had conversations with people who are into body smells, fresh sweat and armpits, but that type of dialogue, while titillating, has never led to any actual meeting. In short, all talk / no action; yes, Virginia, for some a fetish is exciting only in theory.

After a particularly lustful session that included some armpit love (see #1, below), I stopped using cologne (never really liked the stuff), bathing with harsh soaps (I now use a homemade, all-natural soap with just a hint of an earthy essential oil), and eliminated deodorants and antiperspirants. Now, the only time I use such things is when going on job interviews. Instead, I shower and change my clothes frequently. No, I’m not a stinky hippy. I don’t try to disguise my body odor by covering it up with patchouli and the like. Rather, I practice really good hygiene, very frequently.

I wish more men would. I can’t tell you how many times someone has offered up their armpit to me only to have me discover it caked with some odor-preventative. There was a time when I dove first and checked later – usually too late. Trust me, there’s nothing worse than a mouthful of antiperspirant. That chalky stringent has a taste that lingers long, rendering your taste buds useless, placing a pall over any romp.

Three men come to mind when it comes to armpits.

One is this guy who has the perfect otter’s body – compact, thin, wiry, with just furry enough to qualify. Shorter than me by about four inches, he has dark, wavy hair, a close-cut beard and absolutely no body fat, which makes his dick seem much larger than it is, although it should be noted that he has a really nice dick (8.5 and thick). With a no-holds barred approach to hook-ups, the dude is into just about everything imaginable. I don’t think he’s ever met a kink he didn’t like. The first time I met him, I showed up at what I assumed was his place – only it wasn’t. When I walked in he was wrist deep inside another dude’s hole. That was my first exposure to fisting (a future Acquired Taste topic) – I didn’t participate, I just watched. A true versatile in the sack, he is also into leather, light bondage, poppers, cock rings, natural body smells, 420, group sex and making total pigs out of the willing. I like his attitude; open, blunt, and very masculine. I recall once meeting him in St. Paul, smoking a little and then hitting the sheets which were made of leather (another first). Initially I was so into humping the bed I forgot why I was there. Fucking each other every which way but loose, we ravaged on another’s bodies in a frenzy that lasted almost two hours. We both came four times and it remains one of the most intense sex sessions I have ever had. Thing is, I think it was all-in-a-day for him. I envy his drive. We loved the smell of each other. Diving into his pit was like laying my tongue on a ripe piece of mango. So earthy and rich, I could get lost in it (and on several occasions, did – or was that the 420?).

Another guy that comes to mind is a tall, muscular, bald bartender that I played with. His physique is like something out of a magazine – a very, very naughty one. His huge chest is covered in a reddish kind of fur, which also covers his bubble butt, Adonis legs, wide shoulders and contoured back. He’s total dom and within minutes of having our clothes off, I was calling him ‘Sir’. Actually, my clothes were already off and I was wearing a blindfold when he walked in, but after playing for about 30 minutes, he removed it. It was like an act of blessed kindness and I felt elated as my eyes lit upon that which my tongue and hands had explored so thoroughly. We played for another hour after that. I know he fucked me several times and actually wanted to fist me (I begged off). A hyper-masculine dream machine with a coke can cock, it seemed only fitting that I should lick his pits clean as he flexed his great biceps. I’d like to climb that mountain again one day (I still have his phone number), for I know it would be well worth the journey.

The third gentleman is a short, bald dude, with a distinctive nose, a quick smile, bright, alert eyes and a body covered in delicious black fur. I met him this summer, at a park. We went into the woods, got naked and went wild on each other. It was very primitive. He’s into arm pits, body smells, rimming, and placing his tongue in places that never occur to me (my nose!). We’ve only played twice, so to tell the truth I’m not really sure all of what he’s into, but I’m thinking some of it might be a bit extreme for my taste. But that’s cool – he’s very affable, charming and sweet. Last time I saw him he was wearing these really ratty, faded, yellow briefs with a stretched out pouch and a couple of tiny holes here and there. He apologized for them, but needn’t have – he looked hot as hell in them. I spent the first five minutes of our session worshipping that stretched out pouch.

So, from the three example I’ve given you would think that being a furry little (or big) varmint would be a prerequisite to the enjoyment of armpit love, but it ain’t so. My most recent encounter of the underarm kind, came in the form of a slight, randy little gent with nary a hair on his entire body. The man is smooth as can be, and sexy as all hell. Granted, he has one of those bodies without an ounce of body fat, but at the same time, the word muscular would never be used to describe him. His handsome/cute boyish face is topped with a thick swirl of dark, auburn hair. His energy is relentless and even though he’s only a few years younger than me, I did struggle at times to keep up with him. I only hope I get another chance to ride his train. There was something mischievous about him that I am really into.

That said, I think the only thing that all these men have in common is their incredible energy levels. They are all Super Troopers in the sack and I can think of many types of merit badges these hot tops have more than earned. So maybe that’s the take away on the topic of axillary deep-diving; animal energy is key.

As for
axillary intercourse, I can’t recall ever having been treated to or attempting it. If there was ever a time when such a thing might have occurred it would be during the near two hour marathon I enjoyed with bachelor #1 (the hot otter with the leather sheets). He could have very easily slipped his slick willie in my armpit more than once, heaven knows it has explored every other crevice I have on my body

My Conclusion:

Yeah, yeah, I get it…. armpits stink; one man’s sweet cologne is another man’s revulsion. That’s why it qualifies as an Acquired Taste. In this case, I think it’s the animal chemistry that takes place between two men that drives one to partake in this particular fetish. I appreciate the primal, especially in bed. Not everyone makes love this way, or has sex in this manner. Say no more. But that is not to say there is not something tender, intimate and romantic about sampling another man’s earthy essence. To say that I am an armpit enthusiast is to put it mildly. I only wish more men would forgo society’s insistence on the use of antiperspirants, colognes and deodorants and were open to this kind of lusty expression.

Next Week: Tea Rooms

Friday, January 14, 2011

Acquired Tastes, Chapter I : Watersports

Throughout 2011 I will be writing a series of entries concerning various aspects of sexual behavior that fall outside the mainstream. This series will be titled, “Acquired Tastes”; and detail my experience with, understanding of, and reflection upon preferences and activities that enjoy a niche/cult fervor in the gay community. In an effort to remove my personal bias from the mix, I will approach each topic as impartially as possible and not pass judgment on those who partake and enjoy a given activity. It is not my intention to promote or condemn, but to explore and enlighten. Given my many sexual experiences, I think I’m in a unique position to lend some insight. I’ll try to remain as objective as possible and keep in mind that what qualifies as kink for some is pure vanilla for others. Whatever I have to say on a given topic is pure conjecture on my part (outside of my personal experience) and my comments are totally subjective in nature.

Why am I doing this? Because I like writing about dirty, sexy, filthy stuff and this allows me a new outlet and forum. It’s all for kicks and giggles.

Let’s dive in. As a jumping off point, I choose…


Scope of Activity:

Watersports involves urine and can include any of the following activities:

Pissing on yourself – wearing jeans or jock straps, on your chest, or naked
Pissing into your mouth and swallowing or spitting it out
Pissing on someone else - in their mouths, on their body, or in their ass (piss enema)
Being pissed on by someone else - in your mouth, body or ass
And, to a lesser extent: Pissing on buildings, in the woods, on automobiles, etc.

The Official Line:

Urolagnia (aka: urophilia, undinism, golden shower and watersports) is a
paraphilia in which sexual excitement is associated with the sight or thought of urine or urination.

This activity is somewhat common, engaged in by both heterosexuals and homosexuals and is categorized as a type of BDSM, although not all urologic sexual activity is BDSM in nature.

It should be noted that some people drink urine as part of a cleansing regime, without any sexual connotation.

Psychological Aspects:
The BDSM tag is not as misleading as one might first think. When two or more people are involved there certainly is an aspect of submission on the part of the person being pissed on, as well as a tint of domination on the part of the pisser.

I also suspect there may be, for some, an aspect of humiliation for the one being pissed on, especially if the pisser is dominant, verbal or if there is some type of role play involved where there is an inequality of power or the pisser is being ‘subjected’ to the whims of the pisser.

An observation: there seems to be a lot of older (read over 40 years of age) men participating in this activity. It may have something to do with the evolution of a man’s sexual development in relationship to aging. Like, cum, piss is a bodily fluid that is emitted from the penis. Perhaps proximity and association is enough to cause one to view urination as a sexual act. I think part of the reason it appeals to older men has to do the ease in which one can engage in it. In the same manner that a man is more likely to bottom, rather than top (personal observation) as he ages – perhaps he is also more likely to seek out new avenues for sexual expression due to physical limitations that inhibit typical/standard sexual activities previously and commonly engaged in prior to aging. Everybody pees (watersports), everybody has an asshole (to bottom) – those are constants no matter how old we become, but not everybody of a certain age can achieve a hard-on consistently (to top). I realize that there are those older men for whom urination is a challenge, as well as those who are unable to bottom, but in such cases those activities would not options for them, and again, I surmise, they will find some new means of sexual expression.

An email photo group that I belong to recently had an influx of watersport photos come down the pike. Some of the members were outraged, as the photos featured previously had (generally) been rather vanilla in nature. In response to the photos, member asked for someone to explain the appeal of watersports and the answers were quite enlightening and entertaining (and subsequently derided by those who refused to entertain the notion that someone might view urination in a sexual light). Among those replies that spoke favorably of watersports and attempted to define their appeal, the general consensus was that it brought two people closer together and that it simply felt good. The notion that piss play could be an intimate activity was rather new to me. In many of the photos that I have seen depicting it, the environments typically featured men in leather harnesses, bondage gear and the like, surrounded by slings, and bondage devices. Upon further reflection, I can certainly see how this activity could be viewed as a shared intimacy and part of a couple’s regular sex life in an ordinary home environment, such as the bathroom.

My Experience:
On the essence of urine: I have an appreciation for its warmth and that warmth pouring forth on my body and face. I also enjoy its fresh, musky, earthy, tangy aroma. Yellow is a healthy, happy color.

However, urine gets loses its heat fast. I don’t like being wet and cold and I do not like the smell of old, stale urine – in those circumstances, I do not find it sexy in the least.

Chewing on the pouch of a lightly urine-stained jock strap does have its appeal, but only if the jock is filled with a cock, the cock is getting hard, and the jock strap does not reek of stale urine

There is something sexual about unexpectedly walking up on and catching someone peeing outside. I have always enjoyed peeing in the woods. To this day, I still get a cheap thrill out of it.

Animals piss on things in order to mark territory. I’m sure that is what is at play when humans do it as well. In fact, on several occasions, people pissing in public in my presence have referred to it as such: marking territory.

In the late 90’s, during my first forays into the world of the internet, I met a man in a chat room who asked that I come over on my lunch hour and piss on him while he lay in his tub. Afterwards, he would gladly suck me off. I was curious, so I traveled to South Minneapolis and met him. He was a short, dumpy middle-aged man with a big droopy mustache. We got right down to business. Normally I am quite pee shy, so I saw this as an opportunity to prove otherwise. He undressed, keeping on a jock strap, and laid down in the tub. I unzipped and let it flow, hitting him on his face, open mouth, chest and the pouch of his jock. The entire time I was pissing on him he moaned. When I was done he took my dick in his mouth, got me hard and sucked me off. After I came, I picked up my stuff and walked out of his house, leaving him in the tub. It was short and sweet and rather… unremarkable. I thought it would be more fun. It wasn’t.

After that I would catch glimpse of the occasional watersports photo, but in general they did very little for me.

Several years after my first experience, I met a man on the internet who also expressed an interest in watersports. This man was at least 10 years my junior. I went to his apartment to tie him up. He had leather wrist and ankle restraints fitted to his bed. I bound him as he lay face down and then was supposed to fuck him, but before commencing, I mentioned that I had to take a wicked piss and he requested that I piss inside his ass. I was flummoxed. Hard as a rock, I was pretty sure I couldn’t piss with a hard-on and I knew I probably couldn’t get my dick in his ass without it being hard. It also meant entering his ass without a condom, and that was something I was not going to do at that time in my life. He convinced me to put on a condom and piss in the condom while in his ass. I slipped on a condom and into his ass and… I tried. I really, really did, but as I suspected, I simply could not piss with a hard on. After a period of about 10 agonizing minutes, I gave up, withdrew, and retreated to the bathroom where I willed my dick down to a semi so I could eke the urine out. The whole failure thing colored me with shame and the remainder of our session together was rather less than I’d hoped.

There was a period of time in the early 00’s that I had an on/off affair with a very attractive graduate student near the U of M. When I first met him I was under the impression that he was Middle Eastern; he had a dark, exotic, handsome look about him that made me swoon. However, during subsequent conversations, I was to learn he was, in fact, Hispanic. He was extremely athletic, with broad shoulders, huge calves, a well-defined chest, nice arms and the sweetest, cutest ass. Our sessions were filled with passion and vigor. Never certain of what he saw in me, I enjoyed being manhandled by him. He was quite dominant in both a physical and psychological manner and our sessions frequently bordered on the violent, leaving me with teeth marks, scratches and minor bruises. We almost always showered together after sex and that is when he would usually ask me to get on my knees before him so he could piss on me. In this context, I found the whole thing highly erotic, and while it wasn’t an activity that I necessarily looked forward to, expected or requested, it didn’t put a pale our interactions. Rather, it was the physical abuse that was part of our play that soured me on the relationship and, after a year of semi-weekly trysts, we fell out of touch.

This summer (?) a rather short, squat, balding, older man approached me as I was sunning at the prairie. He had been stalking about my blanket for some time before finally stopping and talking to me. Our conversation was stilted and polite, until he told me that what he would really love is for someone to piss on him. I played stupid and told him I didn’t have to pee, so I couldn’t help him out. Even if I had been attracted to him I doubt I would have granted his request because to this day I remain rather pee shy.

After discovering Xtube, I quickly noticed the preponderance of amateur piss vids featuring individuals pissing on themselves: in their mouths or on their chest, while wearing a jock strap or a pair of jeans. Sometimes these jeans and jock straps appeared reserved strictly for this purpose as they clearly showed signs of having been used repeatedly without the benefit of washing. Watching several of these vids did nothing for me, and now I don’t bother with them, in spite of their proliferation.

Within the past six months I met a man on-line who seemed good to go for any number of activities. His basement was equipped with all sorts of playthings and equipment, including an open shower. I had to pee and he desperately wanted me to pee on him. I complied, but again, other than being proud of myself for being able to in front of someone; it did very little for me and actually seemed to dampen any future enthusiasm I might have mustered concerning this individual. We’ve never met up again.

When the warehouse first began hosting parties, they had an old claw foot bathtub in one of the rooms. I think its intended audience was those wishing to engage in watersports. But, as it was not hooked up to a water source, or drain, I never saw anyone use it and it disappeared after about a month.

A friend from the prairie told me of a night club in Chicago (Hole) where, in the main part of the bar, where an anything goes attitude presides, individuals would serve as human urinals – kneeling while keeping their mouths open for anyone who cared to use them.

Recently, and I’m not sure what prompted this, I experimented with pissing on myself, in the shower - at home or at the gym. Initially it took the form of urinating while showering, but then I began to piss on my feet and then my legs and torso. Then, for about a week’s time, I would race into the locker room after a work out, strip out of my work out clothes, and, provided no one else was around and that there was little chance of anyone catching me, I would lie down on the shower floor (big open room multiple shower heads) and pee on my chest, face and in my mouth. It was thrilling, in a juvenile sort of way, but quickly lost its appeal. In a way, I knew I was exploring watersports as a possible a substitute for jerking off. Once this occurred to me, I stopped. Quitting also may have had something to do with the aftertaste of having piss in my mouth which I didn’t enjoy, for even after brushing my teeth and gargling with mouth wash, the aftertaste, at least psychologically, seemed to linger.

My Conclusion:
So, as you can see, my personal experience with watersports is quite limited, although sufficient enough for me reason that this is probably not an activity that I have a great desire to explore further. If some big, dom top wanted to piss on me, or for that matter, a whole group of them, I would probably be titillated as hell, but I can leave this world without fulfilling that vision all the same. That said, watersports remain an acquired taste that I have not acquired, though I do think I have a good grasp of both the physical and psychological mechanics involved. Whether aging has any impact on my desire to participate in such activities some time in the future remains to be seen, but at this time I have very little, if any, interest.

Next week: Acquired Tates, Chapter II: Arm Pits

Saturday, January 08, 2011

Work-Out Update: Closing out 2010

It’s been a year since I took a look at the amount of time I spend working out.

Figures for 2009: Worked Out for an hour plus 220 times or 4.23 times a week – averaging 18 times per month.

Figures for 2010: Worked Out for an hour plus 206 times or 3.96 times a week – averaging 17 times per month.

So… a slight dip from the previous year. There are a couple of reasons that might explain that dip. I was out for a week in June due to injury; some type of pulled muscle and pinched nerve. My entire left side kept going numb on and off, and I had a sharp pain in the back of my left shoulder; I couldn’t lift my arm over my head. All together, I missed out on 5 days when I could have worked out due to injury.

Also, I went on four vacations this year: San Francisco, Duluth, and Las Cruces. The fourth vacation was a mandatory week off from work during the holidays. This year they went so far as to shut the gym down during that time period. All together that represents 11 days I missed out on due to vacation time.

Still, not bad. But not great.

I don’t count any of the hiking/walking time that I put in, figuring that is part of routine life and doesn’t really count as exercise. On the weekends or during holidays, I never exercise, except for push-ups and a few dumb-bell exercises – but only if going out somewhere where my upper body would be scrutinized.

There was a considerable difference in my workouts this year. I made a pointed effort to change things up every 3-4 months in order to alleviate boredom and challenge my muscles. I attended classes (aerobics and strength/core training), did quite a bit of work on the elliptical machines and stationary bikes, and developed a core/aerobic workout that I call “boot camp” which I did once a week for four months. The boot camp work-out is now my fall back routine: the work-out I do when I don’t feel like doing anything at all.

My typical weight/strength workouts concentrated on a given area of my body each day: chest, legs/gluts, core, lats/shoulders, and arms. Each day’s work-out typically began with a series of stretches (incorporating what yoga I have managed to pick up), a minimum of 40 consecutive push-ups, 50 glut maximizers and 100-200 crunches of various types. I really got into doing squats this year, jumping rope, jumping in place, and added running (indoors) during the past two months.

Still a creature of habit, I tend to get into routines that quickly become ruts, but I did my best to get out of my comfort zone and mix it up. It’s my plan to continue to do so this year. I also gave myself permission to drop back on the amount of weights I was lifting on days when I was not feeling my best. On several occasions when there were others in the gym watching me, I purposely made myself lift less – choosing to concentrate on form rather than simply striving to impress others – really trying to get over that whole macho mindset that more weight means you’re more… male?

I’ve started to bring mix CDs and play them on the gym’s sound system so I don’t have to worry about dropping my I-Pod. That has been very freeing. The only time I still use my I-Pod is when I am on the elliptical machines or run. On my I-Pod, I recently discovered the play option for songs, rather than having it on shuffle. By using that setting I can pick anyplace in the alphabet to begin. Hopefully, eventually I will hear everything on my I-Pod. I actually seem to be listening to more variety this way, although I still have to find the time to upload some newer music.

This year I discovered the lost and found box at my gym. After three weeks items are up for grabs. Needless to say I have a new pair if sneakers – well, new to me – and some interesting underwear. I still can’t bring myself to wear shorts at the gym. My legs are simply not impressive enough. Perhaps pumping up my legs is something I should concentrate on at the gym this year

I’m okay with my body. There are contours I never appreciated or noticed before, but my problem areas remain. The concentration on working my core is helping with those, though it is a long, slow process. Given the strides I have made this year, I wonder what I will think of my body next year. One of the benefits of working-out consistently for the past two years has been the number of comments others make about my body, most of which are complimentary. This summer, on one of my first days at the prairie when it was warm enough to walk around in just a pair of shorts, I ran into an acquaintance from the previous year. He immediately commented on how much my body had improved and was particularly impressed with the change in my mid-section. Again, thank you core work-outs!

Speaking of the prairie, it may well serve as the lone beacon of light to help me navigate this bitter, snow-filled winter. Only a month and a half into our snowy season, I’m already battling my tendency towards seasonal depression - working out definitely helps. So does the sex. But I yearn for the days when I will be able to escape into the woods, strip down to next-to-nothing and hunt me some strange. My skin sure misses the sun and moisture, while my soul misses the sanctity of the woods; the strength and majesty of the trees.

As for an update on my sex stats, that will happen in March. I have to say, I struggle a lot with myself about the type and amount of sex I’m having. This may be the last year where I keep track of the stats – mainly because I’m concerned about the influence the recording of those stats is having on the sexual choices I’m making. What exactly am I trying to prove? Sex certainly eats up a lot of my time and energy. It also seems to add a lot of anxiety to my life that I would be much better off without. Then again, without sex and the possibility of sex, would I be so diligent about my work-outs? Faulty thinking? House of cards? Perhaps.

Recently I reread the entry I wrote last year at this time. It mentions a lot of things that I planned on pursuing, such as working on a new musical, taking my dogs for more walks, and seeing my friends on a regular basis. Guess what? I failed pretty badly on all fronts. I also never made it to Chicago or the club I mentioned. Eh, someday.

One of my New Year’s resolutions has to do with playing the piano an hour a day. That has yet to happen. I would also like to get back into writing music again. Playing guitar. But something tells me at this time next year I will be commenting on how those things failed to take root and blossom. Granted, the year is young. I could surprise myself.

I frequently do.

By the way, the pics included in this article are, in fact, me. I’m not ready to share my face with the world. Once you see it, I think you’ll understand my trepidation. Well, that, and the fact that in order to be forthcoming while writing this blog a little discretion is necessary.

Happy New Year! And welcome to 2011. Let’s all have a great one.

Well, time to hit the gym.