Dear Sharon,
It was the date that never was. From Dan I get, "do what you have to do," in that inimitable, inscrutable, meaningless way he has of giving emotional direction. I didn't want to be home when I was supposed to go over hottie's apartment, so what do I do? I go out to a campus club to protect myself from sex with an alpha. To make a long story short, I tricked out with a defensive back. But he weren't no alpha, so I don't feel like I was cheating. Isn't that strange? What a world we've created.
Actually, he was pretty hot. Six two, dark hair, brown eyes, more beef than a Panhandle stockyard. He came with a girl and spent much of the night dancing with her. Complete jock in the hate-to-love-them mode. Stripped his shirt off as soon as he got out to the dance floor, danced with a beer in his hand, moved like he needed a broom stickectomy. He had a fleur-de-lis of brown hair on his chest (which I later discovered turned out to be delightfully silky). Remember our nights of wild, clubbing abandon? He's the kind of boy we used to sit for hours dishing while we each plotted how we were going to ditch the other and get into his pants.
So anyway, he's with the girl, so what's the harm in glancing over in his direction every once in a while, right? Or even outright staring for that matter? I'm afraid by 1:00 or so I had had more than a few beers, as had he. I watched as the drama unfolded. Seems like she was not overly impressed by his courtship displays. Her right boob accidentally got in the way of his palm. Then his face accidentally got in the way of her drink. It was too, too Days of Our Lives.
A half hour later, I'm outside leaning against the wall trying to clear my brain in the cool autumn night air. Who should show up but Mr. Defensive Back himself.
"Dewd," he says. "'Sup?" Here, Sharon my sweet, is where I would normally go off on an extended tangent regarding our generation's sorrowful penchant for reducing the English language to a level that would leave a four-year-old unchallenged. But fuck, woman. He had his shirt off and it was cold. You do the math.
"Me, guy," I said. "All wound up and nowhere to go."
"I hear ya, dewd. I thought I was going to get me some."
"I saw. Who knew it would be some Chivas in the face?"
"As if," he laughed. "Definitely a bottom-shelf chick."
I joined him in laughter, liking him despite my firm conviction that he spelled "cool" as "kewl".
"Man," I said, "I've definitely had me a few drinks. Having a bit of a bottom-shelf night myself, here."
"S'okay," he said. "Bottoms are good when you need 'em."
"Pardon?"
"Bottom shelves are good when you're in the mood. Or when you can't get anything better."
"Yeah," I said, catching the glint in his eye. "That's what I thought you said."
It's weird, Sharon. Ever since I met Adam things have been different. It's not like I didn't screw guys who fancied themselves as straight before I met him. Surely I did (and I know - don't call you "Shirley"). But I would always have to pick them up. Remember those guys I used to do in the alley next to the gym way, way back? It was never particularly difficult for me to get a guy to stick his dick in my mouth. I would schmooze him up a little, and bing, bam, boom. But now - it's all backwards. Now they bring it up. It's very strange. I mean, I'm quite certain this guy has never turned down a blow job in his life, but I'm also quite certain he's never volitionally sought one out from a guy before. He actually said as much later after he had plowed me halfway to Spain.
So have Adam and Dan bestowed something secret on me? Has my forehead been inscribed with the words "Will Do Straight Boys for Free" in ink only horny jocks can see? Not that I'm complaining, mind you! Just a tad baffled.
Anyway, he had me at his place within fifteen minutes, and within five minutes of that had convinced me to go down on him on the couch while he watched a straight porn tape. So despite our myriad differences when it comes to tastes sexual, here is one thing you and I have in common, I have come to realize: neither of us like straight porn to be on while we're doing guys!
But his dick was gorgeous. A generous brown bush, a good but still manageable size, a single blue vein to give it character. And as soon as I went down on him I got two of my favorite treats: a) he's a leaker. I know we differ on this one, Sharon, but I do love the taste of precum. It's an amuse bouche - tasty, but doesn't fill you up or spoil your appetite for the main course, and b) his hand went right to the back of my head to direct me.
That arrogance is such a fucking turn-on! It's not even that he's saying, "this is how I like it." It's that he's saying, "this is how you're going to do it." No discussion, no analysis, no choices.
Here's the thing: when I finally settle down, I do want a guy who will share my future with me. But not in bed. In bed, I want no sharing. In bed, there are only demands and acquiescence. That sounds primitive, doesn't it? I no longer care. That, if anything, is what I've learned in the past year. In bed I am as lupine as Dan - though not the leader of the pack.
So the guy choked me a little while I tried to concentrate on what I was doing as opposed to the frighteningly insipid computer-generated music accompanying that poor woman's grunting, percussive counterpoint on the video. He stared at the screen and directed me in a rhythm that matched the action on the TV. When the guy came and the scene ended, he let me up for a breath of air.
"You actually like doin' this?" he asked.
"You like getting it done?"
"Shit, yeah!"
"Same answer."
"Whatever floats your boat, man," he said. "Glad we could help each other out."
"Yeah," I said, "and this isn't even my primary talent!"
That's how I got him to fuck me. It was still in front of the TV, of course. He bent me over the coffee table and plowed me right there while he watched the tape. But again, I got a treat. The height of the coffee table was wrong, and he kept having difficulty holding his upper body vertical while keeping a good penetrative angle. So despite the fact that he was determined that our interaction was not to include any gestures of endearment whatsoever (did we kiss? I don't think so!) he discovered that the best way to get and stay deep was to collapse on top of me.
Sharon, what is the genesis of sexual desire? How can we possibly unravel the mystery? Should we even try? Or should we just come to understand that there is little as erotic as the weight of a man on us and leave it at that?
And O! What weight! He pressed into me while he fucked. The ample muscles of his chest bore down on my shoulder blades, the hair on his chest, silky as it was, scraped me from sheer pressure. The coffee table started inching forward under the force of his thrusts and to keep it in place, he took a clump of hair on the back of my head and pulled it toward him as he plunged. It was animalistic. How can I describe it? It was Klingon sex. When he came, he actually growled.
I think that's what's so cool about doing nominally straight guys. They lose all abandon in the act. Freed from being required to keep up the pretense that they care about their partner, they become raw, selfish, and demanding. Theirs is pure sexual energy, and for a six like me, it is a drug.
All that to save myself from the complications of putting another alpha in my life. What do you think? Have I, after so long, at last achieved skankhood? If so, how delightful for you that after all these years you finally have some company!
Love you as always,
Mark
Heya Matt!
I've been remiss in not writing you, but I've been horribly busy setting up the new life here. It's difficult being away, being alone, having to get used to everything all over again. Exciting, of course, but still difficult.
I was delighted to receive your letter today. Thanks so much! Yes, there's a thriving gay community here, though from what I've seen it's mostly undergrads. No, I haven't started classes. I'm not taking classes - I'm just working on my dissertation. That's the big research project that you do at the end of a program to get your doctorate. But I've met with my advisor, and I'm well on track. Yes I like the campus and my apartment is fine. It's part of a large complex and I have a nice view of the city, as I'm relatively high up. No, I haven't heard from Shmu yet, but expect that he's doing fine. Shmu always does fine. And yes, I think he misses you. I certainly do!
I've thought explicitly of you twice. I was walking down the street and I passed this café where I heard a guy laughing exactly the same way you do after you cum. I gotta say, honey, I popped a boner on the spot. It's a very fond memory I have of you. The second was when I happened across the team here practicing. I watched for a while, and there was a kid goofing on the pommel horse the same way you used to - you know what I mean, don't you?
That break dancing thing you used to do on your head at the end of the horse? I've never seen anyone else do that. Do you know anyone here? I didn't catch his name.
Did you know Corey is here? He's on the team. What's up with that? No one seems to know the answer to the great Why Did Corey Leave Town mystery. I'm baffled.
So with Shmu off in the minors awaiting his call to join The Show, how are you faring? I do hope you're not spending all your time pining alone in your room. You're way to pretty to waste on watching television. You didn't mention any boys in your letter. I expect you would have had there been any. Honey, can I give you some unasked for advice? Go trick out. I know you're a romantic and you know I'm not. But sometimes it's good to just have some fun, even if you're a romantic. The heart doesn't always have to be involved in the affairs of the dick.
So put on that little black muscle shirt number I bought you last Christmas, get yourself a beer at the Rat and chat up the first guy that looks you over. You'll be ever so glad you did.
Listen - I can't believe I'm even asking, but I have to. Is Dan doing anyone? Not that I care, of course. Just curious.
For my part, there's a guy I'm trying to avoid. So I slept with another guy instead. I can hear you laughing, but you know how I work. He was pretty good. He liked to press into me. Not just his dick - he pressed everything into me - his hips, his chest, his thighs. I felt, a few times, as if he were trying to ooze into my skin. Do men infect us when they fuck us, Matt?
I don't mean virally, I mean spiritually. When they are in us, are they in more of us than just our asses? Christ! Listen to me go on like this, and with you! I think I'm getting too analytical again. Or perhaps merely too anal.
Part of my problem is that I'm working very hard. I'm coming up with an instrument to measure where people are on the dominance/submission scale. It's a kind of questionnaire that you take while attached to some devices that measure your blood pressure, eye dilation, transdermal response, and a plethismograph. That last thing is a little elastic do-hickey you put around your dick that measures your state of arousal. It's like being connected up to a kind of modified, souped-up lie detector.
The questionnaire itself describes a bunch of scenarios and asks how you would react to them. You see, the bright part about it is that it doesn't matter how people answer the questions. I couldn't just write a straightforward questionnaire anyway, since people can be completely out of touch with their innate dominance or submission. I sure was, and if you had asked me a year ago if I was a total sub bottom, I would have laughed. Yet here I am! So I had to create something that measured what people were feeling, rather than what people were thinking, or thinking they were feeling.
So their actual answers are not what I'm measuring. Instead, I collect data on how their bodies react to reading the scenarios. Pretty nifty, huh? I should be able to correlate a set of physical responses to the scenarios with different positions on the dominance/submission scale. And it should be an honest response, as they think that what I'll be looking at is their answers, not their autonomic reactions to the questions.
Anyway, you know me. All work and no play makes Homer a something, something. So I played a little, and I feel a tad better.
The next step, after I run it by our ethics committee, is to test it out on a bunch of people to see if I can calibrate it. When that's done (and I have absolutely no idea how long that's going to take - if it's a good instrument, we're talking a few weeks, if it needs tweeking, it could go on and on) I get Adam here, administer it to a bunch of people, then ask him to rank them as well. Then I do the same folk with Dan. I want to see both if Adam and Dan agree in their assessments of where people rank on the scale (as I expect they will), and whether I can predict it as well (as I hope I can). If I can, then the next step is to study the zeros. Sound like a good plan?
How are classes going for you? You didn't say. But I'm delighted you're happy with your progress in the gym. I always knew you'd explode on the floor if you just let yourself. You're a really good tumbler. You always have been. You've just been too cautious. I think that's been what's holding you back. But you were getting better all last year. I could see the improvement. Frankly, I think it's because you were getting it regularly from Shmu. When we're happy and stable at home, we're able to take more risks and push the envelope. So there's another reason for you to go and trick out: the more ass you get, the better your routines get. There. I ran rings around you logically.
Stay well, honey. I miss you too, and think of you regularly. Write again!
Yours is the first letter I've gotten, and I do love getting letters. Somehow, IMs just don't do it for me. Am I being a Luddite? I think I was born at the wrong time.
With utmost fondness,
Mark