Sometime in autumn I was back at the Frat House, sitting at a cocktail table near the pool table and watching the big gay porn screen with the club dance music. It was the usual crowd of twinks, none of whom interested me, but I didn’t know where else to go to be around gay men. I don’t know how long I sat there sipping beers before I noticed a tall, thin, and (of course) bearded guy in the doorway, setting off my dick alarm. He turned and walked back into the other room but after a few minutes reappeared in the doorway.
I made eye contact and repeated my (floozy!) German Guy eyes, looking pointedly at him and then pointedly down at the empty seat across from me. After a couple of minutes, Beard walked over, said hi, and asked if the seat was taken. (Oh my god, manners.) After he sat down, I said I thought he’d never come over and he laughed. He had a nice smile and introduced himself as Mason. Up close he looked like a young 40-ish.
More interestingly, Mason confessed that he’d followed me in here earlier from the other room but felt too shy to come over and say hello. It was new to me and strange to feel noticed, but I liked it and smiled back. We chatted, and after a while I said that I was going to have to leave as Metro would be closing soon. He countered by saying that he had a house in Georgetown that we could go back to, if I’d like, and he could give me a ride home from there.
As we drove across town, Mason explained that he was just moving into the house, and I shouldn’t be alarmed that it still had no furniture. I wondered what exactly this was really going to be about, but it turned out like he said. He gave me a tour of his echoey, vacant house, me mostly eyeing his lean, graceful body. We ended up on a futon on the floor in an otherwise empty room and continued talking, edging closer to each other.
We sat there, gradually touching more, undoing various bits of each other’s clothing, and getting more turned on (cue my pre-cum hose).
He also began to tell me about how he was in the middle of a divorce from his wife of over fifteen years. He had decided to finally admit to himself and his family that he was gay, always had been, and could not live a dishonest life anymore despite all the upset this would bring on. He made it clear he didn’t “choose” to be gay, still loved his wife, but chose to face the truth about himself.
I was amazed, trying to imagine what he had to deal with, especially the part about having to move away from his teenage children, whom he obviously loved deeply, and their home. He said he had been in therapy for months to deal with it all. (In the years since, I’ve met many men who came out as gay after long marriages and children. The reaction of former wives varies hugely, from unending bitterness to continuing love and acceptance. Children, however, seem generally to just go on loving their dad no matter what.)
Mason also told me his therapist said gay-straight isn’t an either-or thing, but that orientation is spectrum, an axis of gay-straight crossed by one of nature-nurture. Everyone falls out on the grid in different places, but you just have to be willing to find yourself in it. This was a new idea for me, and Mason was very enthusiastic about how it helped him understand who he was and what he was going through. I nodded every so often―but psychology really wasn’t on my mind at the time and I tried to steer the action back to us.
Mason’s interest in sex turned out to be rather traditional. At first he wanted to fuck me, which I wasn’t ready for at all. Then he wanted me to suck his dick and with the condom I happened to have (he didn’t have one), suck him off all the way. That part sounded OK, but Mason refused to reciprocate when I asked if he’d suck me off, too, saying he just wasn’t ready to do that.
I was a little put off by this asymmetry, which I didn’t understand. Are you gay or not? (I learned much later men coming out of a life of straight relationships often stayed stuck in their former, traditional male paradigm where “sex” is limited to being fucker or suckee.)
But I went along with that unevenness and unrolled my condom down over his cock, however, as I liked playing with his cock and wanted to make him cum. His erection was long but even more BENT than Lucas’. (Seriously, do a lot of guys have bent erections—see end notes.) I could not imagine how in hell he thought he was going to get that hockey stick up my butt, or for that matter, how he ever managed to shoot straight enough to father children (but I decided this wouldn’t be quite a civil question to ask.)
He was getting more and more worked up as he laid on his back, my mouth slipping up and down on his rubber-covered cock, the rim of the head of his cock sliding along my tongue. I did my best to keep my teeth clear without drooling out a load of saliva. (Open secret: a good blow job isn’t easy.)
Mason was holding the back of my head, then he gasped repeatedly as his whole body tensed up and his warm cum suddenly flooded the condom in my mouth. I liked the feeling of having pleasured him, but what I didn’t care for was the taste of the pre-lubricated condom. (No one ever died of it, but can’t they add a sweetener?)
Mason laid me back and jerked me off and gave me a ride home. I had moved out of my apartment and into a house-sharing situation. I was still feeling unhappy about again “indulging” in gay sex―it’s not who I am!―and asked him to drop me off “here” which was a couple of blocks away from my house so I could walk the rest of the way alone. He gave me his phone number before I got out. I didn’t think I’d call.
But about two weeks later, I did call Mason. I was trying to focus on not living my life through an endless string of what felt like pointless one-night stands and wanted instead to try to make a friend, maybe a lover for real. He sounded pleased that I had called, and invited me over for pizza.
This time his house was completely furnished and after eating, we sat on the couch talking. I was nervous and terribly conscious of the big, uncurtained, street-level window right behind us. Someone might see me and think I’m gay! Because sitting on a couch is so gay! Mason started touching me and after a few minutes we headed for the bedroom and started undressing each other, that big, bent cock of his waving around and my own pre-cummer drooling happily.
In bed he cuddled up to me and said in his best c’mon voice that he still really wanted to fuck me up the ass, and I declined again. But I did suck him off like before, feeling his cum warm and fill the condom in my mouth. (This time I had brought a plain, non-lubed condom, a definite improvement in flavor.) He jerked me off in turn, and we shut off the light to go to sleep.
But all of a sudden I was having my usual fit―it’s not who I am!―and was very unhappy about staying the night. I didn’t sleep right up next to Mason but scooted to the far side of the bed. Mason stayed on his side and at one point, dragged a bolster onto the bed between us. I wondered if this physical barrier between us was intended as a sarcastic or annoyed response.
Around five in the morning I woke up, peed, and instead of going back to bed, went into the living room and laid naked on a creaking wicker couch reading a People magazine. In a little while I heard Mason get up, pee, and come padding down the hall. He came over to the couch and sat down, the wicker creaking, and put his hand on my leg. I was hoping he’d do something like take me by the hand and lead me back to his bed, but he only invited me to come back to bed. I forget if we got cuddly and had sex again then, but probably.
One day I called Mason at work and walked the few blocks from my office to meet him for lunch. As we sat under the trees, he said he’d been thinking and wasn’t sure he understood what I wanted from him or why I had called.
He went on explaining how he felt, but I knew perfectly well what he was getting at: about how I seemed to like sex with him but how I then suddenly lost interest and made him feel used and rejected. I remembered Benjamin and felt mean all over again. I admitted I knew I did that and apologized, saying that I hadn’t meant to be hurtful. He said he wasn’t sure he wanted to see me again (and I didn’t blame him) but he’d leave it up to me. I didn’t think I’d call.
But a few weeks later, I did call Mason, and stopped by his house after work for a drink. He had gotten a new job overseas and was packing up and selling the house. I still felt bad about how I had treated him and told him I wanted to say a better goodbye. He welcomed me in with a hug and we stood in the hall talking. But I left without us doing anything further and went home.
We traded a couple of postcards after that, and even got together once for dinner when he was back in DC visiting relatives. We didn’t have sex after dinner, and I went home and we never got in touch again. All in all, Mason wasn’t a good experience but I was mostly to blame, I felt.