Post-Election Night: Erection Night and Breeding the Familiar

Election night did not go as planned. 

Oh, I am more than happy with the results: Obama won, the Marriage and Voter ID Amendment s were defeated in MN, Gay Marriage won out in Washington, Maine, and Maryland, while Graves gave Bachman a run for her dirty money.  The Dems kept the Senate.  Lots of the people that I hoped would win, like Tammy Duckworth, Tammy Baldwin, and Elizabeth Warren, came out on top and lots of people I hoped would lose, like Allen West (probably), Todd Akin, John Koster, Richard Mourdock, and super-putz Josh Mandel, had their asses handed to them.  My favorite part?  The reactions of those bigoted, ignorant, money-hungry, insane, self-important, egocentric, myopic, misinformed former celebs: Ted Nugent, Victoria Jackson, Donald Trump, Rush Limbaugh, Stephen Baldwin, Jon Lovitz, and – best of all – Karl Rove on Fox going apeshit over Ohio (Republicans never were any good at math).  

In the end, despite all the dire predictions and hyperbole put forth by the conservative right, the people of America decided to go with the one they knew had a good heart, good intentions, their best interest in mind, and a real plan (one where the math actual worked) for fiscal recovery.  Someone they trusted.  Someone whose message never wavered or morphed into whatever would get him elected.  Sure, he hadn’t delivered on all his earlier promises, but things are looking up.  In times of uncertainty, people tend to stick with the familiar.  And sticking with the familiar is not always a bad thing.

No, election night did not go as planned because, for once, I had real plans.  A fuck bud and I had joked early last week about ‘Fucking for Obama’.  Turns out we both have a thing for being watched by others and we imagined a crowd of supporters cheering us on.  He took the idea and kind of ran with it, and by Sunday had arranged a three-way with a bud of his.  Well, my day did not go as planned at work and when I got home things were not good either, so I had to cancel. My loss. Nope, I did not get to fuck for Obama, just vote for him. 

I avoided early election coverage because I knew it was going to be a long night and endless, pointless speculation tends to make me anxious. Instead I watched a documentary on LOGO, “The Most Hated Family in America”, about the Westboro Baptist cult.   It was a rather brilliant programming choice on the part of the network, in light of there being so much on the line for Gay Americans that night.  I think it’s important to know as much as possible about our enemies and those that spew hate in the world.  The documentary was done by the BBC, and while I found it informative – listening to the hateful rants and justifications of those in the cult, and witnessing the arrogance and evil that is Fred Phelps – I found myself wearying of the filmmaker’s attempts to make us feel sympathetic for the young cult members and his interaction with one of the younger adolescent females in the group.  I’m all for enlightening the ignorant, but that poor girl!  Even with his soft tones and soothing voice, the filmmaker still came across as nothing but a bully or a child pulling the wings off a defenseless fly.  I have little tolerance for the typical shtick that populates boilerplate documentaries of this nature, though I do recommend this one and hope you will seek it out.

At 9:00 pm, I fired up my laptop – checking RealClearPolitics, Huffington Post, and MSN - and then I chose to watch NBC for my election coverage.  I thought they called the election too soon, but I am glad they were right.  However, I went to bed believing that once rural Minnesota’s voice was heard on the matter,  the Marriage Amendment would pass, altering the constitution of our state in a way that would make legalizing Gay Marriage in Minnesota doubly difficult.  I can’t tell you how surprised I was when I woke the next day and heard the news.  It was like Christmas morning and I had just gotten that electric train set I’d always dreamed of.  Apparently there are a lot less intolerant, ignorant bigots in Minnesota than I had anticipated.

Wednesday marked the sixth day that I had not gotten a little something-something, so I spent a lot of energy throughout the day to correct that.  Actually, I had a date with a guitarist who not only wanted to sing and play music with me, but also wanted to get down and dirty.  Unfortunately he bailed at the last minute, sending me to my laptop and Adam4Adam.  I was only on-line for about ten minutes when I had two very direct possibilities.  They both opened with an email that stated: I want to fuck your ass (or words to that effect).  I quickly calculated the logistics involved and determined that I could actually do both.  It had been awhile since I had attempted such a thing, but given the close proximity of the two dudes, I decided to go for it.

Dude #1:

We have talked on and off ever since I joined BBRTS several years ago.  He has always been rather discrete (that’s a word for it) with his pictures, and when I agreed to meet him I had no clue what he looked like.  I knew that he was Caucasian, kind of Wiccan, kind of granola, in reasonable shape, had dark hair, and was a definite sex pig.  That he wanted to fuck me was kind of a compliment, given that he was pretty much a bottom himself. 

Thanks to the GPS Navigator on my phone I have no trouble finding his place.  I go up to his apartment and find the door ajar and slip inside.  It’s one of those old buildings; the apartments have high ceilings, original turn of the century woodwork, and that smell that all such buildings have (a mixture of curry, damp carpet, and cats).  I walk into his living room and he’s nowhere to be seen.  The familiar sounds of Florence + the machine are playing on his DVD player and I relax.  I start stripping and look around, wondering just what is up.  Turns out, the dude uses his dining room as his bedroom and is lying on the bed, naked playing with his dick. He says nothing to me; no greeting, nothing – and this is the way it is until right up to the moment that he says good-bye to me at the very end.  Silence is cool with me, as long as there’s music.  I spot him and join him after putting on my cock ring and grabbing a bottle of poppers (at his request). 

He’s got a nice head of dark curly hair and a little bit of scruff on his face.  His bod is okay and his dick, while not as advertised, is a good 7”.  I climb up between his spread legs and take him into my mouth.  He moans.  If I remembered his BBRTS profile correctly, he is into lots of kinky stuff, so I give his balls a few light taps.  Yep, he loves it.  So a little CBT is added to the mix.  I force poppers (very strong) under his nose and continue to do so throughout our play date.  His nipples get a lot of attention, and then we kiss.  He’s a great kisser.  We tongue wrestle, I spit a little in his mouth: it’s all good.  I sit on his face and grind my ass on his mouth really aggressively.  As I’m doing this, I lean over and start slapping his balls a bit.  I figure, if the dude is just going to lay there and make me do all the work, then I am going to work his shit but good.   Some 69ing, more kissing, I climb on top of him and rub his dick on my hole.  I don’t go in for the armpits and I end up avoiding his hole altogether, as his hygiene is not up to my standards and I’m not in the mood for any surprises.

Finally, the dude rouses himself up and takes my ass doggie style.  Yay.  I get to use the poppers!  Jeez, are they strong.  He fucks away and it is a pretty average affair; good, but nothing earth shaking. He gets off and then sits at the bottom the bed.  I turn over on my back and start playing with my dick, thinking… hey – I brought it, now it’s your turn.  In a gesture that I can only term conciliatory, the dude sticks his finger up my ass and finds THAT SPOT.  OMG, it feels great.  I haven’t cum in 5 days, so it doesn’t take a lot of encouragement and within minutes I shoot.  Dude hasn’t moved from the bottom of the bed, where he remains for the rest of my stay, though he does muscle up enough interest to get me a paper towel to clean myself up with. 

I go in the other room and dress in silence, for Florence + the machine is all done playing.  We say good-bye to one another and I head back to my car.    Okay, so not the most wonderful fuck, but a fuck nonetheless.   Will he remember me tomorrow?  Probably, but not for the reasons one would hope.  You see, I kind of didn’t get the cap put back on the poppers when he started to fuck me and next thing I know, there’s poppers everywhere.  The smell is super intense and I’m thinking, wow, this is great, they are really strong.  I secure the cap and carry on.  It’s not until I’m in the car and I check the bottle that I see that it is completely empty!  In other words, he’s going to be sleeping on a mattress and pillow that night that is thick with the stuff.  Do I feel guilty?  Eh.  I just regret wasting all that good stuff.

I check my phone for text messages and A4A for emails.  I need to get someplace and douche my ass if I really want to go see Dude #2.

Dude #2:

After arguing a bit with my GPS Navigator, I finally make my way downtown.  Dude #2 now lives in a real nice apartment.  He and I have a four year history.  He appears in Minneapolis each fall and then travels for most of the summer.   Considering his age, and his expensive tastes in shoes and clothing, I don’t think he foots his own bills.  We’ve always met on the sly, pretty much, and I doubt I will ever know his full story. 

He’s cute – beautiful, actually.  He has a pouty bottom lip, flawless skin, hard, piercing eyes and the body of a Hispanic gigolo.  His photos on-line are high quality, very exotic looking, and feature faraway places.  What he sees in me (he’s 24) I’ll never know.  I do know that he is highly sexual.  We had a falling out last year – he once asked me to pick up a pack of cigarettes for him, which I did, and then he never offered to repay me.  Of course, it’s not the money at issue, but the principal – it made me feel cheap(er), as if I was buying sex with cigarettes.  Two weeks later, when he wanted to hook up again, I told him I would be right over and he texted me back, asking that I pick up some cigs for him.  So, that was it for me.  I never answered back and began ignoring all his emails and phone messages.  Fast forward in time, and he’s hitting up on me again, though this time I think he knows better than to ask me to pick him up anything. 

He comes down to get me.  He glowers at me (he always does), it’s that sexy Latin thing that make women swoon.  I’m over it.  Now, I’m all; are we going to fuck, or what?  We go up to his apartment and I slip into the bathroom where I douche my ass and disinfect what I can (yay, Clorox Wipes).  I then head into his bedroom and strip.  I get up on his bed, on all fours, spreading my ass for him to see as he walks in.  He does and says, “Don’t you have a jock strap?”  I’d forgotten.  He doesn’t like to see my junk – again, it’s a Latin thing, I think.  Fortunately I have my Pistol Pete in my bag.  I slip it on and he orders me to suck his dick. 

I like him standing over me, always have.  There was a time when he used to spit on me or in my mouth and choke my neck, but for some reason those activities have fallen by the wayside.  He likes my hole.  He likes my mouth.  That is all.  Oh, and he tells me that we have to be quiet?  Why?  Hang on, we’ll get to that.  So, he gets a giant towel and lays it on the floor.  Lying on it, he tells me to get back to sucking his dick.  His dick.  It’s nice, about 6.5 or so, but good looking and easy to take.  I take a lot of pleasure in watching his face and bringing him to the edge time and again.  Then he tells me he wants to fuck my ass.  I stand, bend over and he takes his time entering.  Then he starts pulling all the way out and diving back in.  Next up, a good old pounding.  At the 20 minute mark he shoots, he scores.  I get dressed and believe I am on my way home having taken two dicks up the ass.  What a slut!

But hold the phone!  Just as I’m slipping into my pants – the front door of the apartment opens up and someone comes in!  It’s his boyfriend? Partner?  Roommate?  WTF?  I finish dressing, he slips back into his silky shorts, his hard on sticking out like a divining rod, and heads out to greet whomever it is that just got ‘home’.  Oh, Lucy, I think… you got some ‘splaining to do!  And what the hell have I gotten myself into?  I wait.  And wait.  His other half is asking him “What’s wrong?”  And “What’s going on?  You seem different?”  And “Are you mad?  Why are you so different?  Last night you were so bubbly and happy.” 

Fearing that this other half is going to put two and two together (I’m sure I’m not the only guy Dude #2 is fucking around with behind this dude’s back), and come barreling into the bedroom at any moment, I try to think of where I can hide and make a quick getaway.   I choose the closet as it is to the right of the bedroom door.  It has a door that, when open, I can hide behind, or shut if the bitch comes for me (yeah, I know, I’m the one fucking around with her boyfriend, and, yet, I have the nerve to call her the bitch – not lost on me at all – got it.) 

While in the closet (?) I am overwhelmed by the boy’s taste in clothing.  EXPENSIVE!  And lovely.  I am so out of my league.  I contemplate stealing something; you know, as a souvenir and as a means of being compensated for being held captive against my will, but I believe in karma, and after picking a few things out, decide against it.  What I really want is a pair of underwear, but I don’t see any. 

Well, Dude #2 returns, smiles at me, and reassures me that it will only be a few more minutes (they are arguing about what to watch on television), and to hang tight.  Another ten minutes pass, and I am starting to feel much better about my decision to pay for that additional hour on my parking meter.  Now I’m eyeing his dresser.  Maybe I could open it up and find a nice pair of designer undies.  But it’s an antique dresser with really snug drawers, so opening it would cause a bit of noise and it would be difficult to close, so I nix that as well. 

I slip back into his closet and wait, hoping to sprung sooner rather than later.  Dude #2 reenters.  He smiles.  “Suck my dick.”  Well, when being held captive in Rome…. Do as the Romans say. 

He drops his satin shorts and I get on my knees.  He loves it.  This power over me.  I can see it in his smug little face.  I am kind of getting off on the fact that his… whatever, is in the next room watching television.  He’s close to shooting when he tells me, “I want to see your ass again.”  Well, I’m not stupid enough to undress again, so I shuck down my jeans and bend over.  The Pistol Pete nicely frames my globes, so I’m pretty sure he’s getting a good view.  Then I notice the mirror above the dresser and decide to move so I can see myself in profile.  He likes this idea, steps up behind me and starts fucking my hole, which is dripping with his first load.  He loves stirring the batter and is about to shoot when, he pulls out and orders me back on my knees.  I comply.  Then he lies down and we alternate between me sucking his dick and him jerking off.  This goes on for what seems like an eternity.  Finally, he fires off another round, right into my big, open mouth.  Very hot.   And then, he disappears again. 

Just as I start to eye the i-pod on his night stand, he returns and tells me to follow him.  Out the door we go.  Did his partner see?  I don’t know.  Nobody yelled at me as I scooted down the hall and down the back stairs, so I assume we got away with it.  Once outside, I make a beeline for my car and drive home as quickly as possible. 

That was an hour and a half of my life.  Considering I was done after 20 minutes, I kind of want that hour and ten minutes back. I think about stopping at McDonalds and rewarding myself for my bravery, as I am want to do when I am feeling like a totally used slut (isn’t that why all Americans eat at McDonalds?), but think better of it.  The poppers from earlier in the evening are giving me a sinus headache and there are lots of good, homemade leftovers awaiting me in my fridge. 

As I’m eating, I mull over my night.  It was all right.  Being trapped in a back bedroom because someone’s lover came home early?  That was a first.  But the rest?  It was all too mundane.  I really need to ask more of myself and my tricks.  I need to keep the quality bar up there, held high – otherwise it messes with my self-esteem and makes me think sex is not worth all the bother.  In the end, I try not to beat myself up too bad.  How was I to know? 

How could I not? 

I’ve been at this a long time.  You see, with the guitarist, or the promised three-way that I missed out on the previous night?  Those dudes I really know, because I have invested some time;  talking with them, getting to know them.  That knowledge leads to a sort of intimacy that is always going to be lacking when hooking up with someone on-line who doesn’t have a picture, or has a lover that he lives with that he sort of never mentioned.  I don’t blame them.  They don’t want any more than a place to deposit their load. 

I blame me, because I do know better.  And having articulated that, I will really try to remember that the next time five days go by and I haven’t gotten fucked, and I find myself on-line trolling for strange.

Yep, sometimes strange can be too strange… and familiarity? 

Well, maybe instead of breeding contempt…

…the familiar should simply be breeding me.