Notch 46: Mack

By now I’d noticed a peculiar phenomenon among gay men: Some guy would hand me his phone number or stuff it into my back pocket, apparently expecting me to call. It struck me that guys doing this had no idea how to be a gentleman, whereas straight men did it right. What I mean is, a gentleman interested in a woman will ask her for her phone number (taking the risk of being turned down), then calls her; he does not hand a woman his phone number and expect her to do the calling—the interested one, be it man or woman, properly does the work. So where did gay men get the idea that it’s the other way around? Man up, guys.

 

One weekend afternoon I was again in Lambda Rising browsing for sexy greeting cards and of course, the new issue of Bearmagazine. As I browsed, I noticed a guy with long hair and a big beard half-way down his chest. We made eye contact once or twice.

After a few minutes I browsed (browsing becoming the new sidling) over to him and said hi. We talked for a moment more and he said his name was Mack. I needed to go meet some friends for a movie, so I excused myself, saying that it was nice to meet him.

I thought Mack was attractive even though I don’t usually care for long hair on a man, and as I walked up the street, kicked myself for not asking him for his phone number (being the interested gentleman). I got to the theater, bought the tickets for my friends and me. And since I still had some time, ran back to Lambda Rising. But Mack was gone.

Not knowing what else to do, the next day I called the Washington Blade and placed a “Glances” personal ad about meeting Mack at Lambda Rising. (The era of Glances in the Washington Blade was fun, like buying a lottery ticket, whether you hoped to get a reply from someone you Glanced, or if you checked the listings to see if just maybe you got Glanced. I posted several Glances over the years, usually without result.)

That Friday, shortly after the Blade came out, I called the Glances hotline, not really expecting to get a message that soon. But to my great surprise, Mack had already left me a message plus a number to call him back at. I dialed immediately.

He answered and as we talked, he said he had never been Glanced before and was quite flattered, adding that he might not have seen my Glance at all except a friend of his spotted it in the paper and recognized the (apparently accurate) big-beard description I wrote.

Mack and I set up a date for brunch on Sunday to get better acquainted. Over brunch, we talked about the usual things of what our interests were, what we did for work, and so on.

A few days later we got together again for dinner and I asked Mack if he would like to come over to my house for ice cream. Later, as we relaxed on my couch with some all-natural vanilla and a Star Trek rerun, we gradually got closer and closer and I tried a kiss. I wasn’t sure if I would like working my way through a beard as big as his, but I managed to get past the feeling of being smothered in hair.

We made out on the couch for a while and when Star Trek was over, I took Mack’s hand and led him into my bedroom. As we undressed, he uncovered a wonderfully hairy chest and slim body that had been hidden under layers of fall clothing. I thought he could have shown his very nice chest to better advantage by trimming his beard a bit but didn’t say so. I don’t remember the details about having sex, except that he was rather reserved. I wondered how comfortable he really was (I know the feeling), though he seemed happy enough to stay the night.

In the morning I made tea and drove Mack back to his apartment. I had meant to just drop him off and go, but he invited me up to see the place. As he showed me around, I sensed that he was starting to get horny again.

But I wanted to leave as I had other things already planned, and he walked me down to the street. When we got there, however, he confessed to being horny and needing to jerk off. I chuckled and suggested (gently, I hoped) that next time to say so before leaving the apartment. (I KNOW, I KNOW, I suppose I could have gone back upstairs with him. And Mateo would have agreed.)

I ran into Mack occasionally downtown and even once when he dropped by my house for a visit, though we didn’t have sex again. He was a nice guy and now after all these years, I no longer remember why I didn’t follow up, or if I should be a little sorry I didn’t.

Notch 45: Will

It was another long, holiday weekend and a friend and I were staying with another friend and his housemate in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, a pretty town with a charming, old section where we spent the afternoon.

My friend had said I “needed” to meet Will the housemate, about whom I became, of course, curious when he said Will was cute, as my friend knows my tastes. As foretold, Will turned out to be very cute, also young and thin, with pretty eyes and a closely trimmed beard.

That evening, we four settled in to watch a movie on VCR, after which my friend and our host went up to bed, leaving me and Will alone. Will was a quiet guy and hadn’t seemed particularly interested in me. I decided anyway to try a last-minute overture in case he secretly wanted me to join him in bed.

Looking squarely at him, I asked where guests slept.

Maybe I didn’t bat my eyes enough, for to my minor disappointment (and minor amusement), he said in all seriousness that the best place was the sofa bed in the living room, and he’d get me some sheets.

Ah.

Will helped me make up the sofa bed, and I brushed my teeth and began to get undressed. He hung around, watching as I got into bed, and I wondered if he was yet going to put a move on me. But then he said good night and went upstairs to his room.

Or so I thought. As I laid there flipping through a magazine and getting sleepy, Will came padding back down and sat on the bed next to me, trying to keep some conversation going. We chatted for a few minutes while I got sleepier and sleepier.

Once again it didn’t seem like he was ever going to make a pass at me, so I said suddenly that I was getting sleepy, and why don’t you just take off your clothes and get in bed with me? I watched with some satisfaction and more than a little swelling interest as he stripped down to his shorts and climbed in.

As Will laid down, I turned off the light, reached over, and ran my hand across his shoulders and chest as we began to kiss and cuddle gently. Before too long we tugged off our shorts and tossed off the covers to exchange blow jobs. He wasn’t very aggressive, and I wondered if maybe Will didn’t have much experience with men. (I could relate.)

Him feeling me up was keeping me hard and horny, but after a while we still hadn’t gotten any further and I was starting to think I really ought to get some sleep. So I rolled over onto my back and started playing with my dick. But also, I didn’t see why Will shouldn’t be involved, so I got him up and sitting astride my hips and got him started by playing with his dick too.

After a few minutes we jerked our respective loads all over my stomach and chest, wiped off, and he padded up to his own bedroom for the night.

The next morning Will rushed off early for work, barely saying good-bye. When our host came downstairs, my friend and I lingered over breakfast, then left for home.

Will and I traded a few emails for a while and though he suggested that he would like to visit me in DC, we never got together again.

Aside: Around this time, friends and I discovered Bardo Rodeo, a brewpub in Arlington, just across from DC, that made probably the best beer I ever had. One afternoon there, I went to the restroom. The building had been a car dealership, and the restroom still had its large round, workers’ hand-washing station in the center, one of those deals where you step on a bar to turn on a large fountain of water. But—it looked like one huge group urinal and men peed in it all the time. I had just zipped up as some guy walked in, whipped it out, and started peeing. He might have noticed my glance because he said suddenly but casually, “Isn’t this thing great? You can check out other guy’s dicks.” Bardo wasn’t gay bar, and this struck me as a rather forward thing to say to another man in a restroom; or he was just making a joke.

Only later did I think that should have responded by pulling out my Prince Albert and invited him to check this out.

Notch 44: Bobby Bear

One weekend in the middle of a hot August, a friend invited me to his house in Maryland for a backyard cookout. Since I arrived early, I put myself to work by helping to either set out hors d’oeuvre or eat them. Guests started to arrive, one of whom was Dexter from Philadelphia with a friend in tow. Dexter’s friend was a nice-looking, brown-haired bear, slim and a little on the short side, whom he called Bobby Bear. I tried not to gaze into Bobby Bear’s pretty eyes.

As we waited for the burgers and stuff to be called, I mingled with the others or wandered in and out of the house for another beer or to offer to help more. At one point I was killing time by checking out our host’s CD collection when Bobby Bear came over and stood next to me, also looking at the CDs. I smiled and gave his shoulder a friendly scratch and as he looked at me, I mumbled something deep like, “nice.” Bears are supposed to be friendly, so I was being friendly.

A little later when we happened to be in the house together again (was I being followed?), Bobby Bear caught me in his arms and gave me a hug and a quick kiss. I was flattered and not a little breathless, but I figured it was just an even-friendlier bear-hello in return.

Shortly after this, Dexter came up to me and said he thought Bobby Bear seemed to like me. I smiled and said that I thought he was nice, too. Apparently Bobby Bear had asked him about me, but it didn’t occur to me to ask Dexter in return if they were dating. I assumed they were, and that Bobby Bear wouldn’t act as if they weren’t.

Nevertheless, throughout lunch I glanced down the table at Bobby Bear but never caught him looking back. I gave up and figured he was indeed just being flirty and nothing more. From down the table I overheard Bobby Bear say he was, in fact, moving shortly to St. Louis to live with his actual lover-partner-person.

Ah.

After eating, everyone hung out in the back yard. I got up once to go into the house for something from kitchen, and saw Bobby Bear walking toward the kitchen, too. Or so it seemed, because just as we passed the bathroom door in the hall, he paused and looked at me as he turned to enter. I paused too, and without anything more clever to say, jokingly asked if he needed help in there.

To my surprise, Bobby Bear said he did and continued into the bathroom, looking back at me. Thinking I was only following through on a not-too-funny joke, I ducked into the bathroom with him and he shut the door. But then I grinned and now feeling slightly awkward, turned to leave, explaining that I was just kidding about helping.

Bobby Bear, however, wasn’t kidding. He grabbed me and pulled me back for another kiss, telling me I wasn’t going to get away without him seeing my dick.

Oh.

He reached over and unzipped my pants and pulled out my becoming-alert cock. He bent down and proceeded to suck my dick hard as I stood there, running my hands over his back and feeling vaguely illicit. Bobby Bear stood up and we kissed again. I tugged his pants open and leaned down to get his cock in my mouth, wanting the feel of his cockhead on my tongue, quickly getting him hard and slick. Everything was delicious.

Finally I had enough and stood up, put one hand around his shoulders and began to jerk myself off with the other. Bobby Bear put an arm around me, too, and in maybe a minute we both leaned forward, our bodies shaking as we dropped our orchids into the toilet.

We wiped the remaining cum off our dicks with toilet paper and flushed, and Bobby Bear pulled me in for a kiss. As we turned to leave, he peeked around the edge of the door and we tip-toed out of the bathroom into the empty hallway.

We traded phone numbers before leaving the house later that afternoon.

However, it wasn’t until days later I found out our host somehow knew all along and did not appreciate men (us, anyway) fooling around in his bathroom. But at the time, neither our host nor Dexter said a word, or ever asked me about what happened. I felt bad they were unhappy but also felt they were content to blame me alone for the crime, that I “stole” Bobby Bear. Dexter was cute, true; but Bobby Bear made his own decisions.

In the meantime, Bobby Bear called me (swoon!) to set up a date to meet at the DC Eagle that Saturday night, around midnight up on the second floor. I was looking forward to seeing him and I got nervous when he didn’t show up exactly at 12 (nerd, remember).

But I saw him arrive before he saw me and I ducked behind the crowd, then patted his arm as he walked by. I was not expecting the sudden relief that flooded over me when I saw him and he caught me up in a hug, like when Diane Keaton finds Warren Beatty at the end of Reds.

At that moment all I wanted to do was drag his body home and get it naked, but he wanted to stay and talk with some other friends first. As Bobby Bear wandered off into the dark, I saw Dexter a little way away, standing alone. Screwing up my courage, I went over to find how pissed off he might really be at me, as by now I had learned of my guilt.

Dexter smiled very sweetly at me and talked only for a minute but didn’t say anything about it. I still felt bad he might have thought I deliberately diverted Bobby Bear’s attention—right, my masculine wiles. But I least I asked. Burying anger is not the same as not being angry; and anyway, I wasn’t about to press the question if he had nothing to say to me.

Bobby Bear and I finally left the Eagle and I drove us back to my house. For once I didn’t even think of sitting on the couch to get a little more acquainted with a man I brought home. I wanted Bobby Bear’s naked body next to mine right away and felt he wanted the same. In fact, as soon as we were in the door, Bobby Bear grabbed me in a big hug and kiss. Oh, fuck.

I led us into my bedroom and we started to pull off each other’s clothes. Bobby Bear turned out to be a wonderful, sensitive kisser and knew how to use his lips, and also to not just stuff his tongue down my throat.

We laid down on the bed and slipped into each other’s arms in a way that was natural, our bodies and legs fitting together perfectly. His body was wonderful in my arms, warm and strong and manly, his breath on my cheek and his hands gently moving on me. It was like how I thought of the Men Loving Men book, about the strength I felt being with men.

We were together like that for a long while, just holding, kissing, and chewing on each other’s beards. And we didn’t do much of anything more exciting than jerking off and falling asleep together. But it was nicest just being next to him. Everything was delicious.

I gave Bobby Bear a ride home the next morning. I saw him by chance many years later and he was still pretty cute, maybe a little heavier, and still living in St. Louis.

 

Epilogue: Months later I was in Chicago on business and met up with a guy I met online. Over dinner we swapped man stories, and I began my story of how I once “stole” some guy at a cookout. I was just getting to the bathroom part when suddenly my new friend froze, his eyes huge, and he all but shouted, “YOU’RE THE ONE?!”

Wait. He knew?

It turned out, and I had no idea, Dexter had moved to Chicago for a job, by coincidence, at the same place as my online friend, and apparently quite shared around his story of me and Bobby Bear. I added that all along Dexter seemed more angry or bitter or whatever than he cared to share, at least with me.

But I was famous.

Notch 43: Dexter

A friend of mine got a group together to rent a house for a few days in pre-season Cape May, New Jersey. Mid-May in the mid-Atlantic could be a little chilly but it was also a good time to enjoy the ocean and the restaurants (breakfast margaritas!) that opened before the summer crowds swarmed in for real. One of the guys had invited his friend Dexter from Philadelphia to join us. Dexter was cute, had a lovely beard, was witty and charming, and through his T-shirt one could sense a very good body.

The first day we were in Cape May, I glanced many times at Dexter, wondering if he might be interested back. He didn’t seem interested, so I decided to not let something as trivial as unrequited lust ruin my trip.

But on the second day, as I was putting on some sunblock, I realized Dexter was lying alone on the bed in his room. I took the sunblock bottle and some hope and asked if he would do my back.

He sat up on the bed and spread his legs and I sat down between them, handing him the bottle. As he rubbed sunblock over my back he leaned forward, nuzzling my neck and reaching around to finger my crotch. I reached behind and pulled at his crotch in return. But he played shy and moved out of reach, complaining that he didn’t want to have a hard-on showing.

However, when Dexter was done with my back, he stood me up, turned me around to face him, and quite unexpectedly tugged my shorts down around my knees. He caught my mostly hard dick in his mouth as it bounced free and proceeded to give me a more amazing, sensual blow job than any I had ever received. He used his mouth with great skill, tonguing the underside of my cockhead like no one had before, very nearly getting me off right there.

I stopped him before it was too late, then pushed him back onto the bed and went down on him, wanting to return the feeling. But he stopped me after only a few licks, got me back on my feet, and began to suck me off again.

I was close to cumming and began to make noises about safe sex. But he had grasped the base of my dick so (he said) he could feel what was going on inside me and assured me he knew what he was doing.

And sure enough, just a second before I popped, he took his mouth away and jerked me off into a tissue, while I stood there, gasping and trying keep my eyes from rolling too far back in my head.

Dexter got to his feet and gave me a hug, and helped me stagger, spent, out the door of his room. I asked him about his technique for giving head, but he only smiled and murmured something about not wanting to give away his secrets. I wondered if Dexter liked things to run his way.

The next morning, I wandered past his room in a towel, trying not too obviously to advertise that I was about to take a shower. He didn’t say anything, so I started my shower. I had just turned the water off when I discovered Dexter had come into the bathroom. He had quietly undressed and was now climbing into the shower with me. He didn’t really ask, but I was OK with it. I wondered if Dexter liked things to run his way.

He stood under the warm water facing away from me, his arms up against the shower wall like I was going to frisk him (hmmm, idea…). I worked the soap into a lather, then started slowly down his back to his butt, sliding slid my soapy hands around his armpits, chest, belly, and balls, quickly getting him hard. He turned out to be a sensuous kisser, too, brushing his lips against my cheek, my eyes, my beard, again knowing when and how to use his tongue.

He dropped to his knees, water pouring down on him, to give me some more of that expert head. This time, however, I tried to see exactly what it was he was doing with his mouth that felt so incredible. Before he had me too far gone, I lifted him up, then went down on my knees and began to suck him off, trying to put extra effort into my tongue action on the underside of his dick. Maybe I did it right because he came pretty quickly when I jerked him off, with soapy water as lube.

After toweling off, Dexter peeked around the door to see if the coast was clear, and we headed to our respective bedrooms. (Would being seen with me really be so bad?) We dressed and went downstairs to join the others.

We didn’t play again that weekend. I thought Dexter was a nice guy, and us playing around was one of those sexy, spontaneous moments that just happen between men.

Notch 42: Max

In August I flew from DC to Boston, rented a car, and drove down to Maine for a few days of summer hanging out with some friends who had rented a lakeside cabin in Oxford. Before I left DC I made some notes about a couple of gay bars in Lewiston, a town about a half-hour drive from the cabin, and decided Saturday evening to check them out.

As well as to give my friends a few hours of privacy, I told them I was going bar hunting and not to wait up, but I’d be back before it got too late. I drove out across the darkening Maine countryside, first to Auburn, then over the bridge to Lewiston, trying to follow my printed-out map to the far side of town where the first bar on my list ought to be.

I stopped at a bar in what looked like the right location, went in, and ordered a beer. But after a few moments, I realized that it was, in fact, not a gay bar; or if it ever had been, not anymore. For one thing, there were too many men and women together, and no men in groups or singles standing around looking at or for other men there for the same reason.

Anyway, to not look entirely conspicuous, I mostly finished the beer, then headed back into town, got lost, and finally asked a policeman where the bar was. Friends in DC once told me whenever they’re in a new town, they just ask a policeman where the gay bar is. The police always know.

After getting the officer’s directions, I found the second bar on my list, the Sportsman’s Grill. I didn’t know what to expect but as I entered, I noted that small-town bars all seemed to look alike: Cycles, the Deer Park Lodge in Maryland (now just The Lodge, at last fact-check), and this place. They all had no particular theme or décor, no one dressed in a certain way (such as cowboy hats), the patrons a mix of mostly men but also women, but little mixing between the sexes.

I fell into my usual, pass-the-time bar routine of sucking on a beer, skimming whatever was the local gay newspaper, and trying to stand fetchingly in different locations, all the while scanning for someone to cruise. In the middle of the bar was a tiny dance floor, maybe ten feet by ten, with tables around the sides. No one was dancing but I thought the music was really good, much better than the faceless noise they played in DC dance clubs. After a while, there was a decent-sized crowd in the Sportsman’s Grill but no one I was really interested in.

A little after midnight I began to think about heading back to the lake when a bear, the first one all evening, walked in. I was going to hold back, as I felt like being choosey and not diving after the first bit of facial hair that walked by on three legs.

But this guy was actually pretty cute, maybe middle-aged, and I thought if I didn’t go over soon, someone else might get him first.

I had figured out a while back that the important thing to remember when attempting a pick-up, is to not worry about the answer, but to just go over and say hello. You might get a yes; you might get a no. But either way, you find out what you need to know—it’s that simple. Like the great Frapkin said, “The nos don’t count, only the yeses.”[1]

And I got what seemed to be a yes. He introduced himself as Max and we chatted for a while. We seemed to be hitting it off.

To my surprise, the bartender then made his last call, which I thought was early because it was only 1 a.m., but Max explained this was the normal closing time after I said DC’s closing time was 3 a.m.

Max and I walked out together and once outside, he asked me if I wanted to come over to his place. He said he lived in Gray, about a twenty-minute drive. I agreed, adding that I might need to get up rather early and leave. So much for telling my friends “before it got too late.”

We got into our respective cars, and I followed him out of Lewiston to the Maine Turnpike. After only few miles, we got off at Gray, then turned down narrow, dark country roads, each narrower and darker than the last, and through increasing ground fog. Then we hit dirt roads.

Max’s house, however remote, was a pleasant surprise: large and roomy, and with a hot tub right off the living room. As we chatted, he gave me a glass of wine and a tour. He turned out to be really nice, well-spoken, and interested in architecture. Eventually he asked if I’d like to try the hot tub.

Max fetched a couple of towels and we helped each other out of our clothes and settled into the water. The hot tub was very warm and we got pretty heated up. After only a short soak, we got out, toweled off our steaming bodies, and he led me up to his bedroom. He set the alarm early for me and I joined him in bed. I forget exactly what we did for sex, but it was probably a lot of nice cuddling and cumming. Max’s body wasn’t spectacular but it was compact and manly, and Max was easy to like.

After only a few hours, the alarm went off and I dragged myself out of a sound sleep which required almost more will power than I possessed. Max and I did a quick good-bye hug and kiss, and I drove bleary-eyed up Route 26 to my friends’ lake cabin. I might have easily slept longer at Max’s, but I had to get back to pack and then drive up to Boston for my flight to DC later that day.

As soon as I stepped out of the car at the cabin, however, I realized that I left my jacket at Max’s house. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I needed that jacket, and I didn’t have Max’s address or phone or even his last name to look him up so I could ask him to send it to me.

I threw my stuff into the duffel bag and said a quick good-bye to my friends. I left the cabin much sooner than originally planned, to give myself time to find Max’s house again, which I did by somehow remembering the feel of each hill and turn from the previous night. (I have a pretty good sense of direction, did I say?)

Max seemed pleased that I had come back, and I wondered if maybe he thought I left my jacket accidentally on purpose. After thanking him and getting another good-bye hug and kiss, I left for Boston.

I wrote to Max once, as this time on my way out I was clever enough to note the house number on his mailbox, but I never heard back. And on subsequent visits to Maine, for some reason, it never occurred to me to again re-trace my steps to Max’s house. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

---

[1]Levinson, Len. The Last Buffoon (aka Frapkin). Belmont Tower Books, 1980. Highly recommended.

Notch 41: Julian

One day near my house, while returning from an after-work bike ride, I passed a nice-looking blond bear on the sidewalk. We exchanged backward glances until finally I rode back to ask an excuse of a question about if there was a grocery store nearby―a question to which I perfectly well knew the answer.

We started walking toward a store he mentioned (it was very close) and he said his name was Julian. I noticed he was even more handsome up close. Before he ducked into the store to get a six-pack, he invited me home for a drink.

At first I accepted the invitation but while I waited for him to come out, I remembered that I had to be home soon to meet another friend. I explained and apologized, traded phone numbers with Julian, and biked home. That evening I called Mateo, who called me an idiot and said I should have gone for it with Julian anyway. Oh, well.

A week later I was about to go out for another bike ride (I bike a lot, did I say?) but instead, for the heck of it, called Julian. I fibbed, saying I was already out biking and was about to head home, and… He asked I wanted to stop by for a beer―what bike ride?

I went up to his apartment with my bike and propped it against the wall, my obviously-not-sweaty (oops) T-shirt tucked into my dick-outlining spandex bike shorts. Julian handed me a beer and we sat on the couch talking. On a shelf was a picture of him taken a few years earlier and I was struck again by how handsome he was, then and now, with his runway-model cheekbones and strong eyes.

As we sat there, he drank two beers quickly and it occurred to me that he’d probably had at least one before I got there. I forget how we started getting more comfortable, but suddenly he was out of his shirt, then out of more clothes, then started to get me out of mine.

We made out naked on the couch for a little while until he jumped up, rummaged in a drawer, then came back with a little bottle. Julian opened the bottle and held it out, asking me if I wanted “poppers.” I declined. He held the bottle up to his nose and inhaled deeply.

I started to feel a little uncomfortable with him drunk and sniffing something that smelled like paint stripper (I didn’t know what poppers were). He said he wanted to watch me jerk off and held his face down close to my dick as I got busy. I wondered if he would try to suck me off as I came. He didn’t. And after my little show was finished, he seemed to want me to go, so I got dressed, wheeled my bike around, and left.

Although I often walked or biked past his apartment building, I never saw Julian again but I think I was OK with that.

Notch 40: Kane

One warm Saturday afternoon I dialed into GLIB. I did a check of who else was online and saw the handle of Kane, whom I knew as a friend of a friend. I tapped a hello greeting to his handle and he responded, referring in turn to me by my GLIB handle, “cronjob,” even though he knew my real name. I’d met Kane once or twice and thought he was a good guy, and pretty good looking.

We messaged briefly, talking about how our day was going, until I decided to just be bold and ask what he was doing “now.” He wasn’t doing much so I suggested that I might be up for, you know, a bike ride across town although I would probably get very hot and sweaty.

He tapped back that sounded interesting, and to hang up the computer and call him, providing his number. When we were finally talking for real, I got directions to his building, hung up, and jumped on my bike.

To make a good head of sweat, I rode hard and fast, and took off my shirt off when I got to Kane’s. After locking my bike and having a little trouble with his building’s intercom, I finally got in and headed up to his apartment.

He offered me a glass of water and we sat on the couch, me slowly cooling off and he is talking about his work as an engineer (oo, math). After we had sat for a little while, I hoisted my legs up into his lap and he began to rub my feet. I asked him if he wanted to get more comfortable (more comfortable than with my legs on his lap). He responded by asking if I knew he was HIV-positive and that if I wanted to leave, that would be OK. I said that I wanted to stay and anyway, I wasn’t planning to let him cum in me.

We went back to his bedroom, pausing for a moment by the bed to take each other’s shirts off (I’d put mine back on) and laid down in each other’s arms. I couldn’t recall having seen Kane shirtless before but was immediately bowled over by his big arms and heavy, hairy chest. Admiring his build, I asked how long he’d been working out, and he admitted that he never worked out; he was just naturally built. Damn.

We got on to more and better making out, and he was one of the most gentle and caring men I’d ever been with, given the soft, sexy things he said or the way he held me. I forget most of what we did for foreplay and sex, but I enjoyed the afternoon delight very much.

In the following days, I thought often about Kane. I invited him to a movie the next week, intending to ask him to sleep over afterward. He accepted my invitation and after the movie we sat in my living room and talked for a while, then went to bed.

We didn’t do anything but cuddle together and fall asleep. But being next to his wonderful body must have got to me because I woke up around 4 a.m., horny as hell and not realizing the time, started to crawl all over him until I finally jerked off on his chest and fell asleep.

The next morning, although he didn’t say anything in particular, I got the feeling that Kane was a little put out at having become my cum towel in the middle of the night. We didn’t go out again though I would have liked getting to know him better.

I tried sending a few messages via GLIB and he always replied politely but without any further interest, but I finally decided I wasn’t going to be given another chance. Because we had some mutual friends, I ran into Kane occasionally and he was always nice enough, but it seemed to me he kept a bit of a polite distance. Or maybe it was just me.

Can’t win ‘em all.

Notch 39: Goatee

To coincide with DC’s annual gay pride in June, a “Dungeon Dance” was being held at the WUST building at the corner of 9th and V Streets. I’d been to Dungeon Dances before and decided to go once again wondering if, unlike at previous Dungeon Dances, there was any luck (read: sex) to be had, either there or by picking up someone to go home with.

It was around 11 p.m. when I got to WUST and the place was already hopping, the front entry brightly lit like a Hollywood movie premier and swarming with dozens of people in leather greeting others in leather. I didn’t own any leather clothing, so I did my best in blue jeans and an old flannel shirt that I had (floozy!) ripped off most of the buttons.

Inside, the cavernous auditorium was mostly dark and filled with the familiar trappings of sweaty black leather, cigarette smoke, laser lights, and very loud, pounding New York-style club music. There was a lit stage at one end with people setting up a giant cross shaped like an X and other stuff I couldn’t really see. The main WUST floor was ringed by a dark balcony lined with men staring down at us on the main floor, or groups in various stages of anonymous groping.

I fell into the usual routine of standing in line to get a plastic cup of beer, standing in line to pee, or slowly working my way through a sea of warm, seminude male bodies. As I went, I said hello to a few acquaintances or watched the demonstrations of various sadomasochisms on the stage.

At one point I was both amused and repelled by the appearance on stage of a short-haired woman who looked uncomfortably like one of my former housemates, except this woman was naked, tied to the X cross, and getting whipped by another woman. (My former housemate would never have done this, I carefully reminded myself.)

But after a couple of hours slowly wandering in circles with my plastic cup, I wasn’t having much luck making eye contact with men I thought were good looking enough to try to pick up. I’d just about had enough of drowning in the men and loud music when I decided my best chance for fun would be to join the concupiscenti up on the balcony and find a busy corner where I could get my dick played with.

I found the staircase in a corner of the building and went up, taking my shirt off and tucking it into the back of my belt. It was much darker up on the balcony, the only illumination was coming up from the main floor. I made my way toward a crowd of a dozen or so men in a corner, mostly twisted around each other, a few turning to eye me. I reached up to give a friendly scratch to the bare chest of a man in front of me. He looked around at me, looked away again, then put one arm around me.

But I wanted to get deeper into it and moved on, gently shouldering my way through the dark knot of men, hoping to find someone hot-looking enough to bother with.

Someone bumped me hard from behind which pressed me up against the side of a good-looking, young, shirtless guy with a goatee who was making out with another good-looking, young, shirtless guy. Goatee paused in his making-out and looked around at me, leaving his friend to stare blankly into space. The music coming up from the dance floor below was too loud to talk or hear, so I just mouthed Sorry! but not feeling at all sorry for bumping into a hottie.

But before I could intrude further on Goatee and his space friend, Hands from Nowhere began fumbling with my belt and zipper, yanking my pants open and pulling out my half-hard dick. It was pretty dark but when I looked down, I could just barely make out a fat guy on his knees, naked except for his briefs, slurping away at my cock while he held the also-springy cocks of Goatee and friend.

I looked back at Goatee, and as I pushed my face nearer to his, he leaned forward and gave me a quick kiss, politely keeping his tongue in his mouth. I kissed him back, then rubbed my beard across his neck, smelling his warm skin, and ran my fingers across his chest and into his armpits, damp from sweat.

While Slurper was having his way with our cocks, Goatee turned back to his friend. However, I stole Goatee’s attention once more. (Jesus Christ, dude!) I took his hand and moved it down to my cock, which I had pulled out of the Slurper’s mouth, moving Goatee’s arm until he (duh) got the idea and began jerking me off.

It was all working just fine until Slurper ruined everything again by knocking Goatee’s hand away and stuffing me back into his mouth. I was close to cumming by now and turned away from the Slurper, jerking myself off while I leaned against Goatee who thoughtfully bit my shoulder.

I put my mouth to Goatee’s ear and asked what his name was, but the music was too loud to hear what he said. He turned away and resolutely buried himself in his friend.

So that being that, I stuffed my half-hard, saliva-cummy wet dick into my pants, zipped up, and disentangled myself from Goatee, Slurper, and the rest of the dark, heaving man-mass. On my way out, just for the fun of it, I picked the cutest bear I could find to ask the time, put my shirt back on, and walked out through the cool night air to the car.

I would not have known Goatee if I saw him on the street the next day.

Notch 38: Buddy

Over the long, warm, Memorial Day weekend, I went on a road trip with several friends to do a series of bike rides out in the country. The whole weekend concept was kind of like a Pennsylvania cabin trip, but this time we stayed in someone’s home and with a rather more gracious (read: very gay) appointment plus a guest house down the hill from the much larger main house.

I was immediately attracted to Buddy, a muscular, hairy guy with deep eyes, high cheekbones, and a quiet personality. I spent a lot of time on the first day’s ride staring at Buddy’s bike shorts, wondering if I would be able to get him out of them. I confided my lust to a mutual friend and was informed Buddy was HIV-positive (so much for medical confidentiality, tsk).

Back at the house after the first day of biking, we all lounged around in the pool in the afternoon sun, cocktails on chaises longues and swimming nekkid, recounting the ride’s highlights; and in the cool evening retired by turns to the hot tub. I noticed Buddy mostly sitting off by himself, quietly drinking a beer, not nekkid enough for me and not unfriendly but also not really engaged.

Everyone got ready for bed and the sleeping arrangements got settled. I claimed half of the fold-out couch in the guest house and with no other takers, resigned myself to sleep alone. Then I saw Buddy, still by himself, seeming not to have a place to go. Carefully maintaining my poise, I went over and offered that if he didn’t have a bed already, he was welcome to share my fold-out.

This seemed to make Buddy a bit uncomfortable, so I just smiled and turned back to my couch, figuring, oh well, he wasn’t interested. But then he spoke up and looking right at me, said he was up in the main house and wanted to get going to bed. If that was a no-thanks message, I decided not to get it (Jesus Christ, dude!) and tagged along with him up to the main house. He explained that he was already doubled-up in a bed with someone, and we’d have to ask if this other guy minded swapping places with me.

Wait. Buddy was on my side about this all along?

We found the bedmate fortunately not yet in bed, and who said he didn’t mind swapping (love you! whoever you were).

I retrieved my stuff from the guest house, and Buddy seemed to relax after we were alone in his, now our, room. We undressed to our shorts and got into bed, and he said something about just wanting to go to sleep, making me wonder what, if anything, he had thought he wanted. I mean, fine, but why did he even suggest we ask his previous bedmate to switch with me, only to go to sleep?

We turned the light off and I tossed and turned for a while in the dim light, my shoulder just brushing against his warm, sexy shoulder, as my dick got hard. We eventually ended up in a loose spoon position with my stiff dick brushing up against his butt.

I decided I couldn’t take being so near to Buddy’s hot body anymore, so I stretched out on my back, pulled off my shorts, and began to jerk off, deliberately bouncing the bed hard, just to keep him awake. I mean, he was the one who proposed we ask his roommate to switch, so deal with it. However, that only seemed to get Buddy going and he began pestering me, jabbing me in the side with his fingers, as I tried to focus on working my dick.

Joking, I mumbled that I’d tie him up if he didn’t behave.

To my great surprise, he picked up on that and said to find something to tie him up with: a towel, dental floss, anything. Huh.I thought for a second, then retrieved my belt from my pants, looped it around his wrists and buckled it up through the (how convenient) headboard latticework.

With his arms tied over his head, I straddled Buddy’s hips, gently twisting his pretty nipples and raking my fingernails hard through his pretty armpits, making him snort and twist. I slid myself down between his legs, lifting them onto my shoulders (I’m learning!), feeling him pull on his bonds as I gently nibbled and tugged on his scrotum with my teeth (a move I learned from Ernest). Buddy had told me earlier that his HIV medication had made him impotent and unable to get an erection (maybe as a subtle warning to me not to be disappointed if he didn’t get a boner).

As I worked my way around his body, sliding my fingers up through his forest of chest hair and broad expanse of nipples and luscious armpits, I accidentally bumped my cock up between his legs, and he mumbled something about fucking him. I thought about it for a moment, like, to give him something he appeared to be requesting, but I but really didn’t feel like going to all that bother. (Open secret: it’s messy.)

So instead, I put him down and moved up to straddle his chest, lifting his head and shoving my cock against his lips. He gave a submissive grunt and asked if I was going to make him suck my cock and cum on his face.

My answer was to jam my fingers between his teeth like I meant it, pry his jaw open, and slip my cock into his warm, soft mouth. Yeah, dude, you’re gonna suck my cock.

Buddy didn’t disappoint. He gave another submissive grunt from between his upraised armpits and rolled his tongue over and under the fleshy head of my dick, bringing me to the edge of cumming. I pulled my dick out and after only a couple firm jerks of my own, shot my load on his face. Yeah, dude, I’m gonna cum on your face.

He laid there quietly, his arms still tied over his head, my cum running down one cheek. I laid down on his warm chest for a moment to catch my breath, then got up, grabbed some tissue, and wiped his face and unbuckled his hands. I went to pee, came back to bed, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and we fell asleep. I wondered what he was feeling.

In the morning I was awakened by Buddy already out of bed and getting dressed. As I laid there trying to smile nicely and say good morning, he announced that he had to go get coffee and fled the room, leaving me to wander down alone.

Buddy seemed to carefully avoid me all that day during biking and during meals. I smiled at him when I could, but he didn’t smile back, and I decided that if he wanted to withdraw, feel guilty, blame me, or whatever, I wasn’t going to worry about it.

That evening he got a bit drunk. He came over and began a long, awkward apology for abruptly deserting me in the morning and how he liked me but didn’t want to sleep with me again that night. I smiled and told him thanks for saying something and that it was quite all right. I swapped back with Buddy’s original bedmate and reclaimed the fold-out couch.

The next day I smiled and tried again to be friendly, but Buddy kept to himself, still seeming remote or maybe nervous, not just with me but with everyone there.

I never saw Buddy again, and later heard from mutual friends that he now had a partner and was still around but didn’t get out much. Several more years after that I learned Buddy had died, but the person who told me didn’t know why. I remembered the quiet guy who kept to himself and entertained me for an evening.

Notch 37: Evan

Every Thursday night that March was underwear night at the DC Eagle. I was interested in seeing this but couldn’t find the time until the last week of the month. I called Mateo, who was always up for fun, and he jumped at the idea. He picked me up later that evening and off we went, intending to shed our jeans at the Eagle and stash them in a locker.

We got to the Eagle not particularly late, but for a weeknight, there was already a large crowd. Since all the lockers were full, we just left our jeans in the coat check room. I tucked some beer money in the waist band of my shorts, and we went up to the second floor to see what was going on. I was in a dark sweatshirt, work boots and nothing but flannel boxers between my cock and a crowd of I hoped grabby men.

There were many more guys in the upstairs bar already, also in various stages of undress, but I didn’t see anyone I knew. Mateo wandered off in search of his own fun, so I sipped my beer and leaned against the wall to watch the crowd. As usual, there were guys who looked really hot, guys who looked like whatever, and guys who—not to judge—should have known better than to be out in public in only their underwear.

After a while of leaning against the bar or sauntering around in my shorts, I ran into Evan, the particularly handsome bear I’d met a couple of times before, most memorably at the Bear Hugz party in Baltimore the previous year.

I instantly perked up, as I still had the hots for Evan, with his unaffected demeanor and make-you-cum baritone. He gave me a big smile and I gave him a hello kiss and inquired politely after his lover-partner-person, who was apparently both very well and out of town.

Oh.

We continued to talk, and I began to wonder how much of a playful mood Evan might be in. Forging ahead as appropriate, I unbuttoned his shirt enough to gently rub my knuckles across his hairy chest, leaning in for a better kiss. To my great delight, he responded by slipping one hand around my back (Oh my god, what a wonderful feeling!) and his other hand in through the fly of my boxers, gently tracing his fingers along the shaft of my dick and pretty soon getting me hard (also a wonderful feeling).

I countered by unbuckling his not-doing-the-underwear-night-thing pants and slipping my hand down his shorts, rubbing past his own deliciously half-hard dick and grasping him by the balls. Literally holding a man by his balls is an intoxicating mix of power and compassion. Although we were leaning against the wall right near the bar, the room was crowded and dark, and the spectacle we were making wasn’t all that distinct from the other spectacles being made all around us.

After a little while of kissing and ball holding, I decided to try for something more than power and compassion, but in a better location. I suggested we go over to a corner in the room where it was even darker. I was sure he knew what I wanted but I wasn’t sure he wanted to play, with me, in a bar, possibly seen by friends who also knew his lover-partner-person.

But he seemed good with it, for he buckled his pants and followed me as I squeezed through the throng into the darkest corner I could find. The corner was already crowded but I was so heated up by the thought of jerking off with Evan I hardly noticed anyone else. I positioned him against the wall, my back to the room, and he pulled my cock out of my shorts. As he began to lightly stroke me, I unbuckled his pants again and pulled his cock out, stroking him to hardness.

I was only vaguely aware of the crowd of men we were buried in. There was only Evan’s mouth and beard against mine, his hairy chest under my fingers, and his hand working my cock. I couldn’t tell how close he was getting to cumming, but pretty soon I began to feel the familiar pressure between my legs build, and build, and build, all the stronger due to the delirious feeling of my cock in a public place and Evan’s handsome, bearded face brushing mine.

He must have heard me gasp and felt my body stiffen because he moved his leg aside just as I leaned against him, spilling my orchid seeds on the floor. He continued to stroke my cock as I emptied out, and then with a grin, scrubbed his fingers cruelly over my now-hypersensitive dick, making me twitch and gasp out loud. I continued to jerk him but he stopped me before he got any closer and zipped up.

After a few more moments of leaning against Evan’s chest to catch my breath, I tucked my spent, deflating dick back into my shorts. I gave Evan a thank-you-that-was-fun hug and kiss, then slowly turned away from the dark corner. It wasn’t quite as abrupt as that sounds (use someone for sex, moi?), as I fully expected Evan also would walk off in a different direction now that we (me, anyway) were done. I was surprised when he grasped my hand and followed me and kept me company―and pleased, as I thought it was actually quite nice of him to want to linger with me.

I don’t recall much else except that I suddenly really liked Evan a lot and wanted nothing more than to spend the night sleeping next to him. But after enquiring delicately, it didn’t seem like that was going to happen. (I hoped Evan’s partner knew just how lucky he was.) And anyway, I found Mateo also ready to leave, so we said good night and took off.

For months afterward, whenever I walked past that corner on the second floor of the DC Eagle, I thought happily of my Evan cum puddle.

Notch 36: Leo

One afternoon I was coming out of Metro in DC’s Union Station, walking through the food court on the lower level. I suddenly decided I needed coffee because my radar tripped when I spotted two interesting-looking bears at the bar, also having coffee. I sat down at the bar, staring but not staring, mainly at the younger and cuter of the two. After what seemed like a long time, I made brief eye contact but could not get their attention again. As they didn’t seem interested back at me, I finished the coffee and left.

That night I went to the DC Eagle and through the usual dark, noticed a bear playing pool. When I went over for a closer look at him, I saw it was Younger Coffee Bear whom I had tried unsuccessfully to cruise at Union Station. I sat on a stool watching for a while as he played pool, impressed with his long winning streak, and said hi when he paused his game and (deliberately?) stood near me. He introduced himself as Leo and then sat on my lap while his challenger racked up the next game of eight-ball.

Leo took advantage of losing his turns to come over repeatedly and sit on my lap. To let him concentrate on his game, eventually I got up and did a circuit around the bar, said hi to a few friends, then wandered back toward the pool table. Leo was a pretty good player and I began to think won’t he ever lose and therefore be in need of some manly comforting back at his place?

When I got back to the pool table, he had, in fact, just lost his game. Oh, sorry to hear it. We hung out at the Eagle a while longer, then I invited myself back to his place.

I forget what the sex was like, though I vaguely remember feeling uncomfortable for some reason. Whatever the sex was, Leo’s chest was thickly covered with hair that was wonderful to sleep next to. We got up the next morning and I went home (triumph!) hoping I might see him again. I found him interesting as he loved mathematics, which I wasn’t very good at; and camping, which I was very good at.

But even though I tried calling or saw Leo occasionally at the DC Eagle, often shirtless, we didn’t spend any more time together.

Notch 35: Dean

In January, Mateo and I and new friends (one, a Parisian who taught me, “moguls are your friends”) went out to the Winterfest Gay Ski Week in Park City, Utah, being held in place of the long-standing Gay Ski Week in Aspen, Colorado. Colorado was being boycotted because voters there had recently passed Referendum 2, an attempt to ban protections for LGBTQ+ people from discrimination. Utah, with equally magnificent ski resorts, stepped up, and masses of gay skiers instead spent their masses of disposable income on Utah hotels, lift tickets, cocktails, and generous tips for service workers—take that, Colorado voters. (Colorado’s bigoted Referendum 2 was later ruled unconstitutional by the U.S. Supreme Court. Years later, I went to a re-born Gay Ski Week in Aspen, which I found to be a beautiful little town I totally loved.)

I was extra excited about my first ski trip out West because I’d heard all my life about the skiing. I’d been skiing since I was a child but only back East and therefore, I thought crusty, icy slopes were normal. Skiing in the West was a revelation. The mountains were (are) huge, like skiing on an entire mountain range, the “champagne” powder dry and fresh. While skiing, Mateo and I even ran into “Stuart,” an exceptionally handsome centerfold from a recent Bear magazine—issue Number 20, I think it was—and a very good skier; and his sister, who introduced herself while we were trying (without success) to chat up Stuart. She laughed and told us that wasn’t his real name (but I forget what it was).

Anyway, during one afternoon near the end of Gay Ski Week, Mateo and I had just ridden the chairlift to the top of Park City Mountain, and I somehow lost him in the crowd. But there was another group of guys off to one side looking at a map, deciding which trail to ski down next. In that group was a middle-aged (I could see flecks of gray) bear who, from what little I could see under his goggles, was pretty good looking. I waited furtively nearby, ready to follow them (him), provided they weren’t such good skiers I couldn’t keep up.

They weren’t. (I’m a pretty good skier, did I say?) Before too long I managed to sidle-ski over to Ski Bear and say hi. His name was Dean and we shook hands though our gloves. After chatting a few minutes, I skied the rest of the way down with him and with his friends. He was from Los Angeles and up close, had a friendly smile and crinkly blue eyes.

At the bottom of the ski run, Dean hung back, letting his friends get on the chairlift in front of us, so he and I could ride up together. We skied part-way down with his friends but then we peeled off and the two of us skied down alone, me on the lookout for moguls. As we approached the base, I got a bright idea to get Dean alone: Let’s take the gondola!

We skied over to the gondola base, took our skis off, and hobbled into the next car which was (thank you, Goddess!) empty except for us, and we sat down facing each other. As the gondola took off up the mountain, I reached down and lifted Dean’s ski-booted foot between my legs, pulling the sole of his boot up against my balls (or wherever they were inside all my ski clothes). After a few more minutes of watching the scenery and Dean’s eyes, I put his foot down and moved over to his side of the car so I could try making out with him.

Now that I had better access, I reached down and somehow got Dean’s bulky ski pants unzipped, then felt my way inside, all the while kissing him, his fingers in my beard, and parting the layers his long johns down to his dick. I had just gotten my mouth down onto his stiffening cock when ALL OF A SUDDEN the gondola car gave a heavy lurch and began braking for the slow approach into the mid-mountain station, looming right ahead of us.

I totally—understandably—forgot the mid-mountain station was coming. In just another second, other skiers would be standing on the platform RIGHT NEXT TO US as we slowly glided in like some perverted “It’s A Small World After All” tableau, and everyone would suddenly have a front-row view of FELLATIO ON PARADE.

I shouted Oh, shit! and sat instantly bolt upright, yanking my hand out of Dean’s ski pants, both of us snorting and stifling our laughter so we wouldn’t attract even more attention, me praying that no one else got in our car with us. In my panic, I had only folded Dean’s ski pants over, but his stiff cock still needed to be tucked away and his pants zipped up. Just why that would be needed in a gondola might take some good explaining, even during Gay Ski Week. But no one got on the car with us, and I didn’t try anything again.

After a couple more runs, we somehow found Mateo and we three skied together for the rest of the day. After the gondola failure I was kind of horny (however still in a hilarious mood, especially after telling Mateo about it, and who kept jabbing me with his “why dontcha suck on this” ski pole). I was more than ready to get Dean naked and cum on his chest.

Unfortunately, Dean’s and my respective plans for the rest of the day didn’t mesh, to my erectile frustration. But we found each other the next day (I didn’t have a cell phone then) at the Gay Ski Week lunch tent, skied together the rest of the afternoon, then went back for some après ski in his room in the condo he and his friends had rented.

We got naked, and I did some of my expert back rubs and butt rubs, my stiff dick happily doling out a little pre-cum on Dean’s ass crack. We shared orgasms though I don’t remember the details now (but I’m sure I resumed Fellatio on Parade).

Based on his somewhat muscular handling and dominant approach to being naked, I figured Dean was into leather and rougher play, and I wished we had more time to try something with bondage or other sexy stuff. And much later I thought I should have invited him back to my hotel to play with Mateo and me, who of course instantly agreed it would have been fun to show Dean a double-good time. Darn.

But Gay Ski Week was now pretty much over, and Dean and I didn’t have any more time. We said good-bye, here’s my email address, and went back to our lives.

I heard from Dean once during the spring, and much later ran into him at a leather dance in New York City though we didn’t do anything more than say hello and exchange a quick kiss. He looked as good in leather as he had in ski togs.

 

Aside: Also in New York, I was out at the Lure bar really late and muckled onto Shaun, a thick-bearded bloke from New Zealand. He was absolutely fuckin’ handsome with his beard, beautiful eyes, and a blond, hairy chest in which I repeatedly rustled my fingertips. We spent at least an hour groping and making out but also chatting—finding I liked him.

But when it came down to it, fuck fuck fuck, I couldn’t invite him back to my hotel room due to roommates, and he felt he couldn’t invite a stranger back to his hosts’ home. In despair, I went back to my hotel, the smell of Shaun’s warm body on my T-shirt as I (quietly) jerked off.

Shaun and I traded info and we stayed in touch for a while. Once he wrote that his New York hosts had been wildly amused and said he should have dragged me home anyway. Damn it! I would have loved waking up on their couch, naked and smiling shyly over the edge of a blanket at indulgent hosts offering a cup of who-the-fuck-are-you coffee to their beloved friend’s trick.

Once again, no sex happened; but Goddess, next time: Shaun, please.