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.