Granola Sweet

I love it when something comes together with so little effort and then turns out to be just right.

It was a Sunday afternoon, about three and half months ago, back when Covid-19 was still something that was happening ‘over there’. I was hanging around the house, cleaning this and that, doing laundry, while keeping an eye on the various hook-up aps on my phone.  

I know some dudes hate the whole tap feature on Grndr. But I love it. Tap, tap, tap. For me, it means: hey, I appreciate something about your profile - a pic, a phrase, a kink… something. When I get a tap, I usually tap back, even if I have no interest, unless I suspect that they are the type of person I don’t want to encourage or I suspect they are nothing but a spambot (6,954 miles away? And you are seeking a serious, loyal loving soulmate? Gee… I, dunno. Seems like a long shot, but, hey… I’m all in!  Here’s my address, my cell number and my credit card info!).

But, unless you pay for the service, the number of guys one sees on Grndr is truly limited. That’s okay with me, because I really prefer to ‘eat’ locally, as I no longer enjoy Google mapping my way through neighborhoods I never knew existed (and will probably never visit again). What I really want is a fwb situation: no strings, but with continuity and follow thru and the closer to my house, the better. But that, so far, is not something that seems forthcoming.

On this Sunday, I’m in a mood, but am feeling pretty cavalier about the whole thing, just casually checking the app now and then. You never know, right? Midday, I get a tap from this cute guy, 28 years old, whom I have seen on-line in the past when driving through the uptown area. He’s actually adorable; curly dark blond hair, big magical frosted-blue eyes, cute nose, generous mouth, nice shape to his face. All his pics are face pics, each depicting a phase of eye wear and hair. There’s something about him that looks very comforting to me, but he lives in uptown and seems vaguely trendy, yet organic… so I am not sure he would really be that into me. His stats and brief profile seem agreeable, so I reserve judgement and tap him back.

We have the briefest of conversations. It includes some straight-to-the-point flirting accompanied by a faceless dick shot. It’s a nice dick! Because of the angle, I am unsure about the actual size, but it looks incredibly healthy and mouth-watering. I return the flavor with a nice shot of my ass and concur, that yes… I would very much like him to fuck me deep and hard. Being of like-mind, he sends me his location and address, explaining how to access his building and asks when to expect me. I dropped what I’m doing, clean up one more time, hop in my car and am on my way. Twenty minutes later, I am on his doorstep.

A hook-up the way it is mean to be… simple. Direct.

I love it when the person, personality, mindset, timing, location and desires all match up in a timely manner; a rare occurrence these days. I don’t know if that has to do with a change in my values, a change in my sex drive, or the death of Craigslist and the rise of apps like Grndr. These apps? They make hooking up seem both eminent and improbable. Eminent, because you know exactly (if they have their GPS on) where they are or approximately where they are (based on info garnered from the profiles to the right and left of them). Yet, improbable, because Grndr is full of blank profiles, faceless torsos, spambots, masseurs, rent boys seeking ‘generous’ and faceless time-wasters. So, when I land on something genuine, I tend to move quickly.

The other motivating factor? It was my birthday the week before, which happens to be on Valentine’s Day. And do you know what has NEVER NEVER happened on my birthday on Valentine’s Day? I have never gotten laid.

I dunno. I have tried. But zip, zero. It is like sex takes a holiday on ALL holidays, where I am concerned.

Needless to say, I am primed and ready for a serious deep-dicking.

I arrive in his neighborhood, and, despite it being uber trendy, I manage a parking spot immediately. Yay, my anxiety is decreasing rapidly. Parking in Uptown is a total bitch. I also easily spot his building. It is right across from where I used to take private voice lessons. I loved my vox teacher. She was jazz cool meets Rachmaninoff, and could create an arrangement that suited any singer on the spot, so I have fond memories of this neighborhood.

He buzzes me into his building and I climb the steps to his apartment. It’s a studio apartment, more or less… bright, white walls and sparsely furnished. I catch a glimpse of his bed, tucked away in a well-lit alcove just off the living space. My eyes are scanning my surroundings for two reasons: 1/ safety - like I said, I have anxiety issues, and 2/ now that I am in his presence, I immediately fear that he will reject me because I am older, or not what he envisioned, or because our pheromones don’t match, or the stars have failed to align… any number of reasons whipped up by my dog’s-breakfast of latent and active insecurities. Bottom line: I am looking anywhere but in his eyes because I dread that weird look of ‘how do I get out of this’; which is a look I have experienced on both sides of this particular equation.

Finally, I do look in his eyes and find them smiling back at me. Turns out he’s super sweet, nice. He doesn’t have on his glasses, but he does have on a sweatshirt and the tiniest pair of brilliant green briefs, sexy briefs which are straining at the front pouch because the man is amply filling them out. Just the front pouch, though. The rest of him appears within the HWP pre-determined coordinates and I haven’t looked at his ass yet (it turns out to be as cute and softly-furred as the rest of him).

He helps me with my coat and as I am taking it off I accidentally strike this over hanging arch lamp. This adds to the whole ‘fish out of water/whore out of practice’ atmosphere I seem to be going for at the moment. To deflect, I comment on how much I love his underwear, on him… not me. I don’t see myself ever wearing… and without much more than a chuckle, dude moves in and takes my head in his hands, kissing me deeply and passionately.

Okay.

We’re good to go.

He’s a great kisser. And as we kiss, I keep removing various pieces of clothing, kind of stumbling all over the place, caught up in my pants which are now firmly lodged in a ball around my ankles. You know how it goes.

I ask him not to take off the green underwear. Something about that bulge deserves some serious dick worship. He is sweet, and complies, but removes his sweatshirt. And then it strikes me… there is something very granola sweet about him. His bod is toned, but soft. He’s in great shape, but there is something comforting and laid back about him, and I mean that in the sexiest way possible. I just want to inhale him (and ask him to put on his round wire rim glasses, but I resist the temptation). He’s just so fucking cute. This is the kind of guy you want to wake up next to in the morning.

It’s that John Denver thing - NOT that this dude looks like John Denver, in the slightest, but going back to that granola crunchy thang. Note: I never found John Denver sexy until he was much, much older. At the height of his career I found him saccharine-sweet and annoying. His whole country boy schtick did nothing for me, nor did his squeaky clean looks. But I do carry a fondness for his dedication to the environment - and there is something about this dude that brings to mind my nostalgic yen for something so sweet, pure and simple.  

He gently guides my head toward the straining front of his undies. I rub that crotch on my face, taking a deep whiff of his man scent (very slight, he’d just showered) and then mouth the fuck out of that tantalizing mound. I feel subservient and privileged. This is one of my favorite moments in life. We have, on one hand, the obvious eminent empirical evidence that this man is excited and good to go, while on the other hand, we have the intense mystery of an unwrapped package that is firmly within my grasp.

Pulling the material aside, he unleashes his thick beast through the left leg hole. I waste no time taking him into my mouth… and it is as tasty as it is good-looking. Did I mention thick? Because my mind immediately begins to worry about tooth scraping. Oh, yeah…

Nothing is mood killer like a toothy blow job. It is one of the reasons I have stopped letting random dudes suck me. Sharp teeth running along the length of a hard dick is like nails scratching a chalk board - painful and a total mojo killer. It ends up being all about the angle. If a dude is too tall, I will have issues if I am on my knees in front of him. There is gonna be some tooth drag. So, unless that is corrected, it is going to make for an uncomfortable situation. I have had dudes bail because they would not compromise on the angle. And I don’t blame them. But had they, say, laid down, and allowed me to approach their dick from a more comfortable angle, then my jaw opens up, as will my throat and they would get to nut. But sometimes, like when you sneak into a dude’s parent’s house at 5:30 am so you can suck them off in the basement, but dude is (rightly) paranoid and kind of freezes in place AND complains about your teeth… well, yeah, like I said… problematic.

Fortunately, this man is the right height and my throat and mouth quickly adapt to his tremendous width and generous length. I get no complaints, but then we don’t spend a great deal of time with me on my knees… turns out he really would much rather have me on all fours.

He swiftly ushers me onto the bed and tells me to assume the position. His face immediately finds its way between my ass cheeks and dude knows how to eat him some ass! A generous, wide tongue with plenty of spit has me scanning the room for a bottle of poppers. All the best tops have a bottle handy and sure enough, there is a mystery bottle on his bedside table, well within reach. I don’t bother asking, I just grab it and take a smallish hit.

Now, don’t get me wrong - I had my own bottle; trapped in the pocket of my knotted up jeans lying on the floor near the front door. I could have taken a break in the action and retrieved them, but… umm, why? He’s got a bottle right there, so I assume he means to share. Also, during the course of our conversation on Grndr I sought out his position on poppers and he was definitely pro. So, I don’t believe I broke any rule of gay bedroom etiquette. Disagree? Put it in the comments section.

Now, that said, I must say there is a very good reason one should only snort the bottle of poppers that brung ‘em… er, use the poppers they brought with them. Because you never know what you are putting up your nose, dears. In my experience, frequently, the other person’s poppers are so old you might as well be huffing an empty bottle. You could inhale until your head caved in and not get the desired effect. However, there have been occasions when the surprise was all mine - as in, WTF is this? (And where am I?)(And why are my legs locked up in these leather cuffs?) Fresh poppers are a thing of wonder, but there are some things out there that are a tad scary, Mary. So, it’s always borrower beware!

His poppers turn out to be just the right kind of potent. I still don’t know what they are, but they were nice. I take a small hit, because I know that in order to accommodate that nuclear sub he’s got between his legs, I am probably gonna be hitting that bottle with a bit of regularity.

After I take a hit, I see his hand motioning for the bottle. I oblige. Nothing hotter than a top who does poppers. I am just in awe of them, especially if their dick stays rock hard. For, just as there is nothing hotter than a top who does poppers, there is nothing sadder than a top who does poppers, loses his erection and then, rather than refrain from more popper use, just keeps hitting that bottle with ever more-diminishing returns. You know what I am saying?

Not a problem for this young man, though. He takes a hit and continues to make love to my hole and I am just buzzed enough to enjoy the sweet liquid feeling derived while dancing my ass on a talented tongue.

After a bit, he comes up for air, moves up next to me on the bed and we kiss for a bit. I have no fear: my clean-up prep is very, very thorough, but it is also reassuring to know that I am not dealing with someone who is squeamish about body fluids, etc. Those squeamish types? Real boner killers.

As we kiss, he teases my ready hole with his finger tips. He left a good deal of saliva down there, and his touch is quite practiced, quite pleasurable.

Again, he guides my head to his dick, which I admire all over again. I tell you, 8.5 inches is just about the sweetest size for a dick. It’s like the story of the three bears… there is always one that is ‘just right’. Yes, length-wise he is the perfect catch. But my concerns regarding his circumference rush to the front of my brain once more. It is a thing of beauty, but woah! What the hell is that thing gonna do to my hole?

As I begin working my mouth magic anew, he moves my ass into position so he can continue massaging my aching pucker with his tongue. On occasion he bends my rigid dick back so he can suck it. Normally, this would be a no-go for me (I no longer like being sucked), but in the moment it works for me, so whatever makes him happy, makes me happy. We continue like this for quite some time, only coming up for air long enough to kiss now and then. After the third such break, I decide it’s time to take this magic man’s wand out for a spell.

Expecting that this will be the moment he breaks out the lube, I reach back for his dick, which is soaked with my throat juices. I straddle him, figuring that sitting on his fat cock, me on top, facing him, will be my best chance for success with the least amount of initial discomfort. I need to minimize any chance of excessive pain or (gasp) injury, for it’s been awhile since the last time I took dick and I wanted to play it safe.

But no lube is forthcoming. Turns out, (I learn later) dude never uses it… hates it. Instead, with his hands spreading my ass cheeks, he guides me onto his massive member. Sensing my hesitation, he hands me the bottle of poppers and waits while I take a huge hit. The combination of my saliva on his cock and his saliva on my ass prove to be all that is indeed needed as my hole dutifully opens up and welcomes his sweet mushroom head.

He grabs the bottle of poppers from me and also takes a hit. The euphoria sweeps over him, placing the sweetest smile on his face, his eyes, begging me make him happy.

I am in no hurry, and neither is he. We keep our eyes on each other, gauging each others’ reactions as my ass slips down his dick inch by delicious inch. Three inches in, he senses some hesitation on my part and holds the bottle up. I bend slightly forward and take a hit and then he takes one as well. The lid on the poppers secured, he spits into his other hand, rubbing his personal brand of all-natural ass lube on my widening hole. This simple, crude action, combined with the poppers, flips a switch inside me, and I feel myself opening up to him, wanting him all, in me… now.

I sink and sink, until I’m sitting securely on the base of his cock, he lets me take control. Slow and easy at first, still working it, getting used to his length and width, I move my way up and down the length of his dick. My knees are on either side of his hips, so this slow flex feels completely natural, completely controlled. But then I start picking up speed, very gradually, and I know exactly where I am headed. I’m building, I’m building; my next move firmly in mind.

He’s gasping a bit, already. And spewing a litany of filth, music to my ears. I want to make this man so happy. Getting my feet under me, I grab onto his shoulders. Using his torso for leverage, I start hitting his pelvis harder and harder until I am just hamming his dick into my hole, pile-driving it for all I am worth. I take it as far as I can, fast, harsh, hard, over and over again. The bed is jumping beneath us, shaking for all it’s worth, but I won’t, can’t stop.

Until I do.

Like a light bulb going out. Flash. I am done.

I am done driving.

Without a word of instruction, I am on my back and he is between my legs; my legs draped over his shoulders, his dick poised at my gaping hole. No time for poppers. No need. He fucks me proper, leaning in for a kiss. He feeds me oxygen, I need not breathe. He now does all the work as I Iay back, and take it… I take it just as good as I gave it.

Soon he has ramped up the pace… bucking into me, pounding me as if this were all that mattered, as if this is the only thing we were made to do. Now its my turn to spew obscenities, although it seems all I can manage is to cry, ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck…’ over and over again.

His posture is rigid, no more kisses, his torso upright, his hands pull my hips towards him and deep into his thrust. It’s electric and primitive, animal. But then the animal slows. He moves down towards me once more, his lips finding mine and soon kissing replaces fucking as the featured attraction.  

I’m thinking, this is it. This is enough. He must be done with me, but no.

This circus has three rings and I’ve only experience two.

For our third act, he positions me on all fours - as we began, so we shall end. He licks and suckles my used fuck hole with his tongue, before mounting me from behind. Slowly, he begins sinking his cock into me as deep as he can before pulling all the way out, re-centering and then pushing his way all the way in once more. Slowly. At first.

Then, like a locomotive just leaving the station, I start to fall into his chugging rhythm, sensing his pace, before picking up a little speed, a little power, just a little… then a little more. I start to push my ass back onto his cock. Before long we’re banging into each other; me fucking back on his cock like a pro.

He reaches around and plays with my dick. I am hard (thank you generic Viagra), and with all that motion in the backfield, I am so ready for a little release. I try to wait for him, but it’s too late. All that pressure in my ass, his hand expertly working my shaft, I let loose with a torrent of cum, all over his poor bedspread. (Though something tells me mine is not the only DNA spilled there.)

He pulls out and starts pumping his dick by hand. I consider letting him shoot on my back, but that seems like such a waste. So I whip around and lay down in front of him, my back now covered in my own cum, my face now under his seized ball sack, mesmerized by the sight of his fist working the length of his rock hard cock. I raise my head just enough to place my tongue on his balls and that seems to do it for him, resulting in a nice, thick, healthy load hitting the length of my body. It’s hot and as sweet smelling as he is.

We spend some time holding one another, heat radiating from our spent bodies. I’m covered in cum, but he doesn’t mind. It feels natural. He’s so comfortable to be with. Brief kisses serve as a kind of punctuation, putting an end to our session. I steal away to the bathroom to clean up as we make small talk.

I really would like to see him again. And we actually made plans, but then something came up and I had to cancel. I think that put a pall in the air between us. After that, I contacted him asking what he was up to. Nothing from him. Then a week later he sends me a smiley emoji. And then… radio silence.

A few weeks go by and I end up getting mysteriously locked out of my Grndr account. Because of that,  I lose our IM string and, due to the limitations of Grndr, he is out of my area, so I haven’t been able to find him on-line.

So, living in uptown, is this sweet, sexy young man with a gorgeous dick (and great taste in underwear and eye glasses)… and all I can do is pine away in my basement, wishing I’d made more of an effort to be something other than a simple Grndr hook-up.

Quality like that? It’s hard to come by.

I’d leave a note on his building, but that feels stalker-ish.

And, now… well, now, such a hook up is simply wishful thinking given our current circumstances.

Still. Maybe. Someday…