11/30/09

A couple months back, I'd corresponded with J. He'd posted looking for someone downtown who wanted to suck off two bi guys. OK, I know. It's got gamer/pic collector written all over it. Can't be serious. But I cut and pasted a quick response, and was astonished to get a reply. A sincere sounding one. He was going to check with his buddy and see if he could work it out for this very evening. This still had the feel of a guy off in fantasyland, but I'll play along as long as he's amusing.

And he remains amusing. Oddly, there's something sincere and steady about him that keeps me answering his emails. Tonight's not going to work - his buddy isn't available after all. J urged me, though, to stay in touch, because he wanted this to work out someday and was confident it would. Sure, bud.

We exchanged emails again, back and forth every few days. We'd been going that way, slow volleys of email back and forth, for two months. One evening I answered one of his emails and he shot directly back and sounded enthusiastic - for tonight. At this point, though, I'm losing faith in him. He seems definitely sincere and genuine and he's got staying power. But the scenario - two bi guys want a cocksucker - is implausible. He's definitely not just a pic collector. And he doesn't have the nasty edge of a game player. So I'll keep playing along - he remains amusing and sincere after all.

Ah, no, once again it's not going to work. He's neglected an obligation this evening - we'll have to try another time. Again. I'm feeling pretty much done with this. But several hours later, as I'm heading out of the office on my way home, he emails. He'd had a cancellation, and wondered if I was still available. Aww, geez. Yeah, I'm still available. He says he's going to scramble to get his buddy lined up. OK, OK. I'll play along again.

About the time I get home, I get the inevitable third-guy-can't-make-it message. Yeah, I know. Thinking, what the hell, I decide to test his sincerity: does he want to come over, just himself, no porno fantasy two-bi-guys-and-a-cocksucker scenario. To my great surprise he bites on the opportunity without hesitation. This is a switch. Does he think himself, alone, is inadequate, and he's pleased to get the invite? And by god, this time it does work. He arrives on time, and as advertised. Amazing.

As advertised, in this instance meant: 41, 6'1", 205, normal professional guy. Very square and dependable looking. Neatly groomed. Chunky build, but in solid shape. He's got really nice skin. I don't know how else to put it. But it makes him far more appealing than one would expect. He carries the IT guy backpack I somehow expected. The small talk is polite, as one might expect in a business setting, faintly stand-off-ish.

"How about we get out of our clothes?" I suggest, hoping to start up a spark. We move closer, face to face. I start in on his shirt buttons, one by one. He slowly keeps moving has face closer and closer to me as he fumbles my shirt buttons. I'm getting the feeling he's going to kiss me. Yup, he's turning his head so our noses won't bump. But wait! This totally doesn't fit! He's all bi and closety! He's even alluded to a fiancee! He's just here for a blo! Plain and simple?

But he's getting closer and closer and -- goddamn, yes - he really is gonna kiss me. And damn, he's good. I mean a really good kisser. A totally rare, one in a million good kisser - the kind of good kisser I hope I am. A few soft, glancing, exploring kisses evolve quickly into a bona fide lip lock/tongue swap. We both wind up looking all nerdy-guy-glasses-askew and scramble out of our clothes (and our glasses) and onto the bed.

Either he warned me, or I quickly intuited that this guy was a speedy cummer. So I took the edging approach. A few nice slow wet strokes, and then some ball polishing. And inner thigh kissing and . . . anywhere. He responded well to attention to his neck, his nipples, his . . . you name it. This guy was totally wired to his touch nerves. Totally alive with a lover. And he reciprocated well - something about the way he touched me lit up a lot of my nerves at one time as well. He had a firm hand on me. He wanked my cock, but my efforts to get him to take a taste came to nothing. Yeah, he was that good: he didn't even blo me, and I was having a totally great time. I realized later that pretty much the whole time we were going at it I was emitting a pretty constant slow stream of moans, signs and whimpers.

Good in bed? You don't often get it this good. I could get used to this kind of good. Damn. And all in such an unassuming package. I can't put it into words exactly why he's such a great fuck. No words can adequately capture or explain what it was about the way his hands manipulated my flesh that made it so good. We were just on the same wavelength, our central nervous systems working at the same frequency in some crucial respect.

I edged him for a solid 45 minutes - 45 minutes with a speed shooter, see what I mean about being on the same wavelength? He'd quickly pull me off as needed. When he finally wanted to cum he wanked his cock briefly, told me "I gotta cum", and pushed my head onto his cock for a few last strokes before he shot a big, watery and strong-tasting load.

After he came, he dressed quickly, pleading that he needed to get going, he was expected at his gym. And on the way out, he did the oddest thing: he kissed me on the cheek. Just a quick peck. Sorta like he was supposed to, sorta like he might do for his grandmother. It was like Superman had popped back into the phone booth and re-emerged as Clark Kent.

Next morning he emailed: "Cheers. Enjoyed last night."

UPDATE: After the first of the year, after thinking about what a great tumble I'd had with J, I wanted to get in touch with him again. Who wouldn't. And his *&@$%!ing email address no longer existed. 505 error. I was completely bummed. Inconsolable, almost.

11/12/09

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11/16/09

Ah, my old pal. From high school. The one who never got into my pants. Or was it the other way around? We once, under interesting circumstances managed to play a game of footsie - or maybe crotchsie/footsie is a better explanation. (Yes, there was alcohol involved.) So we'd sort of had sex. A little bit. Partially. We'd reconnected through someone who knew someone on Facebook, and I was delighted to get a message from him that he was coming to town for business purposes and wanted to see me. Immediately, my mind raced to games of footsie/crotchsie.

We met up late after work, and after he'd managed to find a church for a quick round of worship. (Me, I worshiped at my gym to kill time while he did the real thing.) I didn't take that as a good sign. We hadn't even seen each other in nearly 25 years - save on Facebook in recent months - so I knew little if anything about what he was thinking these days. We met up, he was looking good. The years had been kind to him, for sure. His slightly alternatively good looks had matured and become more mainstream. His hair had thinned, but in a way that said: 'testosterone is doing a number on my hair follicles' not 'I'm falling apart'. He was even more attractive than in the 1980s.

It turned out I had no reason to worry about religion having taken over his life. He immediately proposed we retire to a bar. A couple drinks later, food seemed in order, so we repaired to a restaurant known for its drinks. And had another drink and some appetizers. Alcohol was having a nice mellowing effect, turning up the warmth of our long dormant friendship. It was also making him kind of touchy/feelie - he'd touch my arm for emphasis as we spoke, or rest his hand on my shoulder or wherever it might seem appropriate. No, nothing untoward, not yet. But boy did he have my mind running in that direction, and running hard.

We wandered off to yet another restaurant for another drink and another round of hors d'ouvres. I had detected a pattern here: each place we went was getting us closer to his hotel. And at the third place, he began to wax ecstatic about the view from his hotel room. Bingo! I would surely have to come up and see. No question about it. After polishing off a few more snacks, I commandeered the waitress and demanded the bill while my old buddy was in the men's room. Yes, I considered following him. But no, I didn't want to be that obvious, and he didn't seem to be actively inviting it. So I stayed at the table and took care of the bill in order to smooth our way out of there.

Swirling the last ice cubes in my drink I casually inquired whether we needed to hit a fourth watering hole. I meant this to be an opening for him to say: 'how about you come check out the view in my hotel room?' But he fumbled the opportunity. Maybe alcohol was to blame - I, for one, was fairly well lit at that point. Sufficiently lit that when he fumbled it, I didn't even need to screw up my courage to say: "Or we could head back to your hotel." I was briefly mortified to realize I hadn't even thrown in the view excuse. But no matter, he quickly took me up on the offer and we were out of there in a flash.

His conversation become somewhat stilted as we entered the hotel. He seemed nervous as a cat - even if half-smashed genial - in the elevator. Up in the room, the view was indeed expansive, through a glass corner. Quite nice. He reclined on the bed to admire it, I sat on the corner of the bed. Now I was being the awkward one. Yes, imagine that. Your old pal Mr. Cocksearch being reluctant to make the first move. Maybe something about the weight of history. So it wound up being he who made the first move by inviting me to get comfortable on the big hotel bed. And when I did, laying next to him, pretending to look at the view, he reached for me. He grazed his knuckles across my chest, pausing to give attention to my nipple. He didn't say a thing. I rolled toward him and the race was on.

It started with a lip lock, moved on to shucking our clothes, and progressed to me blowing him. But that didn't go well, despite the heavy passion in our kisses. He, being a tad middle aged, wasn't getting all that hard. I mean he got bigger, but not really rigid in the usual way. And it was clearly bothering him, and causing him to shy away from my attention to his cock. The good thing was that he seems pretty submissive in the face of available cock. He was pleased to just worship mine. He wasn't much of a cocksucker, clearly inadequately experienced. But he made up for it in enthusiasm and absolute adoration of my big dick. His tongue kept creeping lower on my balls. Is this going where I hope it's going? Does he totally want to eat my ass - because he's totally got an invitation to go there.

I telegraphed the invite with enthusiastic moaning and groaning every time his tongue went lower. He finally got the nerve to instruct me to roll over onto my stomach. Won't fight you there, pal. And what followed was what seemed like hours of the most adoring attention my backside ever got. My cheeks were fascinating to him as his nerve built (or maybe thought ought to be - as his inhibitions slipped). After an achingly tantalizing build-up, he went for it, right onto the target. And he licked and sucked and tongued and on and on like he never wanted to stop. And I didn't want him to, either. Except that at some point I'm gonna need to cum.

I finally begged him: "I've gotta cum here . . . let me cum." He let me roll over and flopped onto the bed on his back. I got the message. He wanted me on top, so on I climbed and stroked out a HUGE load all over his chest and his face before collapsing onto him in an extended lip-lock tasting of sperm. God that was good. We lay around all snuggly for a while. He made no move to get himself off. The real surprise was that he wanted me to sleep with him that night.

But I don't do well sleeping in others' beds, and I had to be up the next morning. I begged off, feeling like I was letting him down something terrible. In fact, I still kinda regret it.

I left him at the door with a big, deep kiss.

He was on a plane home the next morning.