History of Sexuality

The History of Sexuality

By: A.Cheshire Catt

email me of course, kierkegaard_is_cool@hotmail.com

(I love getting pics with my mail -- not really of you, as

such, like don't feel like you have to send me a picture you,

but your idea of what you think is hot -- inspire me -- these

stories are yours.)

It was my day off, I was calling it My Saturday but it was

only Tuesday, just some Tuesday afternoon. The weather had

been nice the last few days so I was somewhat excited about

the prospect of taking it easy in shorts and barefeet. I'd

slept on the couch in my place and there were a few

party-people who'd spent the night. Around 8.30 in the

morning I was awakened by the commotion around me as they

left. I told them, even though the room mates were just

sleeping still I was about to have the first bit of time

alone I'd had in months. It was great that it happened on my

day off. It was a nice way to wake up.

As soon as they left I got up. I wanted to take advantage of

the morning. I slipped into the shower as the coffee brewed.

I turned on the computer and logged into the local gay

chatroom as I poured a cup and lit a cigarette. I signed in,

with my nifty literary-reference-nickname, and greeted the

slow-moving morning crowd as just some regular Tuesday of

happy horn-hunting commenced.

See, I've been sleeping around a long time, but I've been

writing even longer. I've been writing eroticisms since I

first had a computer. There's something very easy about the

luscious explosion and the frantic clammering and clacking at

the keyboard, there's something thrilling in the rise to the

climax and the assaulting pound of the spacebar and the

stimulating suspense of the enter-key. I've always enjoyed

the act of writing sex, but after some time there's just

nothing stirring, there's no provocation. It's like writer's

block combined with a mildly insufferable boredom.

When I started writing erotica it was before I'd even had

sex. I'd had porn though. Porn happened long before I even

started writing. Porn produced in me urges to explore new

appreciation for positions, fantasies, roles and imagery.

Even before I started reading the classics, before Proust,

Somerset Maugham, Fitzgerald or Wilde, there was the

advertisements in the back of the porn magazine. Before it

was porn it was muscle-mags. Before it was muscle-mags it was

teen rags. Before it was teen rags it was the Sears

Catalogue. But, let's face it, at the prime age of 26 there's

nothing in the Sears catalogue I haven't seen before, the

teen rags upset me, though muscle mags would suffice in a

desperate situation, and even porn mags have left a smile on

my face, really it's internet porn that has truly opened the

doors to the room of the most ill-repute.

Suddenly I've become a person full of wicked ways. Nothing's

too shocking really.

I remember once I was with a man I'd met in the washroom of a

mall in the town where I went to college. This was the third

man to have sex with me. I mean I grew up kissing my cousin,

but I only started to actually have sex when I was in the

residence of my college and could pull someone into my room

in the middle of the night, just before dawn, or where I

could go off to the washroom in the mall and explore the soul

sparking like a dark fire in the eye on the other side of the

peep hole in the stall wall. And it was that time that I was

with the third man, a fat man, hairy on the shoulders, frizzy

on the crown, wearing a gold chair with a token pendant of

St. George.

We were driving to his place, a rather nerve-shattering drive

as I was new to this whole meet-fuck-leave thing and I was

going to a different town, leaving myself dependant on him to

get me back. On the way he pointed things out to me so I

would have some sense of familiarity but I really didn't know

where I was going so I just sat there trying to be composed.

I wouldn't start smoking for another year so I wasn't even

able to savor the sweet, dellusional security of my

soon-to-be favorite prop. He started to ask me questions from

his bucket seat in that rickety, rusty van.

"So, what do you like to do?" I mean, it's the standard

question.

"Ugh, I don't know. I like doing everything, I like it all."

I was so nervous I could barely stand it.

"Everything eh?"

"Ya, I'm really open to things."

I must have been such a prize then. I was 18 years old. I was

skinny, pale, smooth, well-endowed, brave, foolish, scared.

If only I could be the one driving the van now, with a pretty

virginal 18-year-old fretting next to me. Putting his hand on

my leg, to rub it awkwardly, I jumped, he laughed.

"There's no need to be nervous, I'm not going to hurt you or

anything. I'm just trying to make

you feel comfortable." I didn't really like this guy, but my

heart was pounding and I loved that part of it. I felt such a

bewilderment in not having control, of being led along to see

where he did his boys, how he did them; I was in college, you

know, I was learning, being a good student.

"Do you like to fuck or be fucked?"

Simple question, you might think. It must be obvious that I

liked to be fucked. I was a twink, I was the boy here for

sure, and I pretty much offered myself to him like a braying

lamb might rub against the leg of the French butcher.

I told him something then that's stuck to this day, "I don't

promise anything until we're both naked."

"Fair enough."

There was no music, just the purr of the heater in the

dashboard and the clammer of the stuff in the back of the van

as we hit a bump, I looked back and he said not to worry

about what was back there. "You like everything eh? Can I

piss on you?"

I had no idea that it could be possible. I wrinkled my nose,

the last innocent freckle faded into the skin then. "No, you

can't piss on me."

"Ahh, it doesn't hurt."

"No."

"Can I shit on you?"

"No!" I laughed a bit though, because I could tell he was

just pulling my leg now.

"How about strangle you while I cum up your ass?"

I looked at him. Seriously, it was one of the most

frightening things I've heard. I didn't even really answer

him like a man would, with a full-throttled negation, I sort

of just pouted like a little kid,

"No thanks."

We were there then and we went into his little bungalow along

Lake Erie. A shallow lake, the shallowest of the Great Lakes,

and the icy wind of a raw February frost blew us to his house

door, I wrapped my coat tightly around me as I entered the

mouth of the cave. He let me in and showed me the directions

of things, "Kitchen's there, living room there, bathroom over

there, bedroom here." The bedroom was a cluttered sty, dark

wood-print panelling and damp pillows, it was a strange place

to find myself. When the wind blew it rattled a window

somewhere and for some reason it made me feel as though

there'd been other boys much like myself afraid of something,

hearing themselves thinking about how far they'd gone this

time.

He took off my clothes. He took them off with his stub

fingers, and when he'd unbuttoned my shirt all the way down

he slipped his fingers along the pale skin of belly and

rubbed its softness. I watched his hand. I watched his eyes

then. I watched him watch his hand touching my young body. I

breathed with such short gasps that I thought I might make

myself weak, or make myself faint.

He rubbed my belly button affectionately and attempted to

tickle me as if I were a toddler. He told me that I was

getting a treasure trail, that I was showing signs of

maturing. He quickly took of his shirt to reveal man-boobs

and patches of matted curly hair. He smelled of Old Spice

which is what my father wore when I was a kid. It was a

strange intoxication. Not that my father is anything to do

with it, but it was as if he was perfumed with authority. I

was inclined to submit, despite my fears.

I let his disgusting, puffed lips nibble on my tender nipples

and heard him growling or purring as if he were a boar with a

snout and he was scouring the earth for nourishment. I let

him do whatever he wanted with me. I let him do it, but I

couldn't stand it as he lay me down and started to remove my

pants. It was cold in his room, the winter light made my skin

ridiculously pale. He was red with passion.

I can't say I was the best action, I was rather limp with

reluctance. Reluctance, I've learned, can be just as hot as

anything. I was so light in his arms that he could lift me

and let my arms dangle as he devoured any remaining scrap of

my boyhood, as if it were a sweet grime on my chest and belly

that he could detect the faint scent of and relished in, the

perfume of innocence.

Once he'd satisfied himself with the initial slobbering all

over me he went about removing his pants and I saw for the

first time in my life one of those dicks that frighten gay

boys. It was a club. It was a mace. It was about eight inches

long and about three inches wide at the head, it was uncut

and it was purple with enthusiasm. He asked me if I'd ever

seen one of that size before. I told him I hadn't with a

silent wagging of my head. He told me to lay down on my

belly.

I didn't really know what he was thinking, I know I wasn't

thinking, but he when my ass perched up on a pillow to please

him he went about licking my tight hole with his cigarette

stained tongue. He could be heard sucking at my ass, and I

could feel his sharp beard burrowing into my tight-pressed

cheeks, he huffed everytime my ass cheeks flexed. I was

aroused, don't get me wrong, but I'd never been rimmed before

so I wasn't sure of the purpose of this ritual.

He started to finger me rather roughly you might say. Poking

me more than anything, not massaging me at all. He got off on

how I jumped every time he pushed. I'd moan because it was

uncomfortable and he would ask me if I liked it and I would

tell him that I had.

The first man to fuck me was the security guard of my

residence, he told me as he'd told several boys, I was the

first person to have made him feel comfortable enough to

admit to his desires. We did it on the last night of reading

week when I'd got back from a week with my parents' and I'd

done some mushrooms and felt really into it. While he fucked

me I was distracted by the floral pattern in the wallpaper

behind him as it ebbed and flowed and grew and twisted itself

into pretty colors. It wasn't good and I broke it off with

him soon after because I couldn't stand the smell of him on

my sheets.

The second man to fuck me was the first man I'd ever meet in

the bathroom of that mall. He was a regular guy with a

terrible scar all along the left side of his face down passed

his nipple, along his belly, to his crotch, down his knee

nearly. The man's scar was attractive to me in a strange way.

He said that it was because someone hadn't liked him. There

was a baseball bat leaning against the headboard of the bed,

it was his parents' home even though he was in his forties.

I'm almost certain it was a Hate Crime. He fucked me for a

long time that guy, he was the closest thing I had to really

enjoying it.

But this third guy, this was to be the worst time. As I lay

there letting him eat my ass, my asshole pointed, gaping at

the window that rattled in the cold wind. He suddenly started

taking pictures of it as I farted and the hole yawned. I told

him to stop, that I didn't want pictures taken of me, he said

that it was of my ass though, no one would know. (This was

before digital pictures, but the scanner was around.) He

poked at me with his finger and then took a picture. He

adjusted my cock so that it lay on the other side of the

pillow, you know, so my balls and the length of shaft got in

the picture. Then the phone rang.

He sat on the end of the bed with the cordless phone. He was

talking to a man named Phil.

"Ya Phil, it's almost done. Ya. For sure. Nothing now. Just

hanging out." He laughed. "Ya, got one right now actually.

He's real cute. You should see him, he's got his ass pointing

at me right now." I turned my head for a second and saw him

looking at my hole, he reached up and rubbed my bum softly.

Then he slapped it and there was a loud smacking sound.

I squealed and the man laughed. He said, "Ya, that was him

alright." He scowled a bit about something this Phil-guy said

but then said, "Sure, here he is."

Suddenly I was holding the phone and I said hello with a

frigid, cracked voice.

"Hi there cutie, how are you? Are you ready for Jim to fuck

you?"

"Jim?" I hadn't even learned his name.

"He's got a real big cock, you sure you can take it?"

I hesitated. I didn't realize that's where it was heading. At

that time I felt "Jim" fidgeting at the

other end of the bed.

"Can I listen," Phil asked, "while he fucks you?"

"Um, sure, I guess."

I thought I was so tough, I thought I'd seen everything. I

hadn't seen, or felt anything yet.

"Bring your bum up boy, so I can get at it better." I shifted

for him.

I heard him spit and say, "Now, just relax and keep the phone

near your mouth so my friend can hear this."

"Ugh, okay."

He grabbed my hips and he pulled me toward him and I felt him

press his wide cock against my puckered, loosened hole.

"Relax."

Then he shoved and I felt a shiver pass through me, I was

already hurting and he hadn't even gone in.

"Can you feel it yet?" Phil asked.

"No."

"No?"

"No, I mean, no -- I don't want to do this."

"Come on, we're almost there," Jim begged.

"No. It hurts too much." It did too. It hurt as he pressed

and shifted at my ass. He said maybe

more lube would help. I heard him pull up some spit from his

throat and launch it onto his cock, he slopped it around and

then he pushed more and I squirmed to get away from it but he

held fast to my hips and pulled me back on him and then

suddenly, suddenly like the smack of a bitch-slap from God I

felt him push into me hard and I screamed like a baby, I

fought with my long legs too, I tried everything to get him

out of my hole.

"Quit your bitchin' boy, the more you fight the more it's

gonna hurt you."

"No, please, it hurts." But he started to pump into me.

"Now I'm going to put it all in, now it's gonna pinch a bit

so just relax."

Without a pause he thrust and I couldn't do anything to stop

him. I could only think of the pain and I could only see the

mouth peice of the cordless phone as my chin was driven into

it. I could hear Phil hooting and hollering, he could most

likely hear my gasping, a sorrow in my sad cry that tickled

his fancy. I closed my eyes and let it happen to me, I lay

lifeless and made little noise. He was like a boulder pushing

against a twig, crushing me, like another element demolishing

me.

All of a sudden he said, "Pass me the phone."

I couldn't move, the pain was spreading through me like

poison.

"Pass me the fuckin' phone bitch."

I practically threw it at him, tossing it over my shoulder,

it landed on my back and he grabbed it from there. "Ya man,

he's so hot, he's tight like a little boy. Remember the kid I

had here last week." And he carried on this conversation

while he fucked my tight hole. I could feel his hand rubbing

my lower back. He fucked harder when he started thinking

about "the kid" from last week, it made me feel weak, or

numb. "Ya, tight like a twelve year old. Mmm, he's so cute."

He traced my spine with his fat finger and I shook my

shoulders to get him to stop. I was getting angry, I was

getting scared it would never stop.

"No, I don't think so," he put the phone down and slapped my

ass again. Slapped it again really hard too. And then the

third time he spanked me he rubbed the red spot he was making

for himself there and it burned like a bitch. He spanked it

again and I moaned. I looked at him with the most angry look

in my eyes. "No, he ain't cryin' -- you ain't cryin' is you?"

He seemed to throw on this disgusting southern/hick accent

that made me want to throw up, it was all a show now he was

playing this scene out for the pleasure of his friend, it

gave him great pleasure to have his friend jealous. "I gotta

go."

I heard the phone beep and he put the phone down on the bed

as he leaned over and I could hear his breathing right beside

my left ear. I could smell his smoky breath. He fucked me

harder and harder and the change in his position pushed his

cock in even further. I made gurgling noises as he put his

weight on my back and pressed me down into the bed. He slowed

down then. I thought it was over. You know, without any big

show.

I was wrong.

I could suddenly feel inside me the strangest changes. I

wasn't sure what it was but it was hot

and it was all over my lower body. I felt so full and heavy.

I wasn't sure what was going on, I suddenly thought that

maybe he'd torn me and I was bleeding. The thought made me

panic. I started to squirm again but I was helpless under

him. He held my upper arms heavily against the bedsheets.

"You like that?"

"What are you doing to me?"

"I'm pissing inside you. Isn't it hot?" His whisper was

serpentine and hissed like villainy.

"No, don't do this to me."

I squirmed this time and I got it right and his piss-soaked

dick came out and he pissed all over me, all over my ass, the

yellow washed all over my pale butt cheeks and he held his

dick, aimed it, and while he played with the flow, rubbing it

into my skin, he took a picture.

I started to fight to get up but he wouldn't let me. I fought

and fought and he said something

to me about wrestling, that I'd lose.

I did, he grabbed one arm and pulled it behind me and I fell

to the bed where he grabbed the other arm and pulled it

behind me too. I was defenseless and my face was driven into

the bed. I farted then and a lot of piss came out and all

over his bed. He swore. Then he drove himself inside me again

and fucked me harder than he had before, driving me with such

strength that I was being pushed up into the pillows, then

into the headboard and he banged me while my head banged the

board. I cried.

Only for a few moments this lasted but it was an excruciation

that didn't seem to end. When he pulled out he flipped me

over and then straddled my chest, jerking his meat until he

finally shot his load all over my face. I lay there

humiliated, and though I'd stopped crying, my face was a

terrible mask of melancholy.

He sucked me off then, like it was some sort of payment for

the rape. I didn't enjoy it. I shot my load into his mouth

and he thanked me and then he drove me home. I could barely

sit and the clatter of the shit in the back of the van kept

startling me. He dropped me off at the residence, a few hours

had passed since I'd left and the doorman, the guy who'd been

fucking me since the start, asked if I was alright.

Now it's years later. Just a warm Tuesday. So much has

happened since then, so much has changed, that the incident

of Jim, and his cruel cock, has just been added to the stack

of such tales I could tell.

I opened the window and let the warmth of the new day into

the living room as people propositioned me with various

exciting things. My reputation on-line was recently

diminished, not when I was an escort, not even after when I

opted to quit because I "didn't want to", no, it was after

that when I tried to pick up a few bucks and started to

escort again for "the fun of it."

Now it's one thing to be snubbed by the Community-Proper

because you're a common whore, but it's another thing

entirely to be snubbed by the sluts and whores because you're

not even a reliable prostitute. Well, it's in that way that I

enter the room. Looking for sex, guaging propositions, not on

the appearance of the man, instead on how it will benefit me

on my day off, it makes it more like a hunt for a partridge

that's just the right size for a roast pan you haven't bought

yet in a clearing in the woods where there are all sorts of

birds flying at you from every direction. Proverbally, I was

Orion, armed and proud, virtuous and filled with the liberty

of a whole day off and behold, the hunt, the hunter hunted.

There are boys that try. They react to my sass because

they've heard so much about bitchy fags that have so much

experience and they sometimes wish they had that sass too.

That sort of sass comes only with time, the amount of time it

takes to have so much sex you've jaded yourself. There are

men that try, and I mean, let's remember that we're on the

internet and it's now well into the new millennium and

there's plenty of ways to get your face on the net, there are

even more ways to get a good picture of you on the net,

there's no reason to not have it there. Unless of course

you're the sort that wants to suck you under a bathroom stall

wall, or maybe they have a glory hole in their front hall and

they like to take advantage of young men who are so horny

they're almost malicous in their frustration. There are young

men who are cool, they're just looking for fun: as long as

you live nearby. There are young men who are cool, they're

just looking for a fuck: as long as you have a place. There

are young men who are cool, but then you finally get to see

what they look like and they aren't even a young man at all.

There are old men who are cool, older men, not like senior

citizen young men, I mean, men in their late forties,

fifties, who are still in shape, they're social, they know

people: the only thing is if they're too social they want

someone they can show off, someone new in town without a

reputation, that's pretty, someone with blonde hair, blue

eyes and a physique of relative convenience, that's pretty,

or knowing the right people because you're helping out the

Pride Committee for the fifth year in a row and you're just

20 now, that can be pretty. That's not even the end of it, if

you're pretty you have to be dressed well, dressed in the

fresh fashions of each season, anticipating the directions of

the major coutures, and if you're dressing well you better

have a place, a condo, with the whole condo-lifestyle sucking

at your soul like an urban leech, and if you've got the place

you've got the job and the job, which is the basis of all the

rest, is nothing more than a miniscule inflection in a stone

in a tie pin you don't wear. There's no room for a poor guy

with a drug habit and a long history of sleeping around, even

if he is tall and thin and has a strong chin, even if he

isn't a fool, even if he has opinions -- or rather,

especially because ...

These are the people on line. Your numbers may not please

them, your stats. But once you start getting people to hit on

you there's a sort of power you can sway over them people as

they come at you. After years of this representation of

myself in a realm like "on-line" I have developed for myself

a reputation as being someone who is rather well-written,

meaning I communicate myself well in dialogues. My sass,

again, it attracts the gentlemen callers. And I mean it's not

just my gay chatroom, there's the private list as well,

right, the msn, you know.

Well, there's three likely offers, three juicy leads;

this morning three of the gentlemen pass on their

invitations.

Cecil, Marcel, and the one I call the Hundred Dollar Man.

Cecil is my favorite. He's the only one I let fuck me these

days. He's in his forties, he's bald, he's an interior

designer, he just recently finished a really big law firm and

he's really excited about having me over for dinner. I tell

him I can't just drop my plans and go jump his bone like

that. I tell him to please me, I tell him to beg. So he does,

and it makes me gush as I sip another coffee and light

another cigarette. He asks me when the last time I was fucked

was and I tell him that it was him, even though technically

that story isn't a true one anymore, it makes him so happy to

think I can be so loyal. I mean really there was one guy

since the last time I saw Cecil, and the only reason I'd let

him do me was because I'd heard his compelling story and

thought it would be nice of me to let him have a boy after so

long living alone on a farm in the middle of no where. Cecil

would have understood but it would have to be a story to tell

in person when I could pout and show him a long face when I

told him to spank me for my infidelity, to punish me. He

wouldn't mind that at all. I told him I couldn't though, that

I wasn't in the mood for celebratory sex, I wanted holiday

sex and somehow that was different. Why? Because it's about

going somewhere I've never been, you know, like a cottage or

something.

Marcel's love for me is the sweetest in my collection of

gentlemen, but alas it must end with him, he's just not

pleasing me very much, not anymore. He's not as rich as he

used to be because his wife noticed a sudden decrease in the

funds and he's not about to admit that he's having an affair

with me. I don't expect that, I don't. I mean, my family fell

apart, not so much because my mother was having an affair but

because she let everyone know about it. I wouldn't wish that

on any family, and I mean I know he has a son my age so I

think it would compound the situation ten-fold if the parent

were having a homosexual relationship. Marcel used to be a

customer of mine. He was always there for me when I was at my

poorest and I didn't even have a lick of peanut butter in the

house to eat. He would leave work early and come by my place

and make sure I had cigarettes and bread and some money for

some food, I'd make him laugh and tickle his neck by the

collar and tell him smelled nice while he fucked me in my

room. He liked me because I was showing him with each visit

something that he'd never really had, true affection. Like I

mean it's arguable that I didn't really like HIM I liked the

money he was giving me. To be honest though, couldn't

believe he was so sweet to me. One time he cancelled a

meeting because his son had broken his arm and he had to go

to the hospital, I was kind of upset because we'd been so

looking forward to meeting. (I mean, for the most part we met

halfway sort of thing, at the bath house, and I liked staying

on afterward to have a sauna or to lounge and smoke

cigarettes and watch porn.) Suddenly the doorbell rang and

he'd brought me chocolates. It's really the only time I've

ever received chocolates and really I thought it was the

sweetest thing ever. But he doesn't do that sort of thing

anymore. I had to fend him off a bit.

The Hundred Dollar Man is a strange man who remains nameless.

I believe he may be sick, his skin is a strange shade of blue

sometimes, even in the heat of the summer he cowers away from

the sun and he gets a sickly hue about him. But he's

absolutely in love with me, like he's absolutely in love with

all the boys on there, but I believe I have a certain affect

on men like him to please them like men may have been treated

in the time of Wilde, you know, like a sire. Whenever I've

gotten to his place, which takes forever to bus too, he

always mixes me a drink, we chain smoke two cigarettes, talk

about the parties I've been to lately, about the writing that

I've done. He smiles and seems pleased with me. He takes me

into his room where we strip ... He's rich too, filthy rich,

every time I cum for him he gives me, you guessed it, $100,

and then he asks me to leave. He used to be married, he's not

afraid of getting caught, but I believe that he must have

some sort of psycho-sematic vision of things in his mind and

he wants to be rid of me before he catches himself doing what

I love him doing. He wanted me to drop everything too, he was

leaving for Barbados that evening and he wanted to get all

"hot and sticky" with me. I don't know, the money would have

been great but really it was my day off and I didn't want to

be rushed or pushed or ushered out when it was over. I told

him I'd wait till he got back. (Friday.)

I had that conversation, with the three of the Gentlemen, all

at once: finishing them at about the same time, and it was at

about that time that the room mates started to stir.

When one of them had finished his cigarette he'd as well

taken the time to crush up a speed and the two of us railed

it, and then I sat down again.

My room mates are all straight, all three of them are these

bachelors that are all capable of finding sex, they're all

elligible, or as elligible as I am, and they all wish they

were as promiscuous as I am. They think it's so easy though.

It's such a misconception. I mean sure, I just had three

propositions from attractive men that could have given me a

good enough time, but I had to turn them all down without

hurting them, and telling a man he can't have sex with the

one he wants is like saying he can't have sex with them ever

again. It's a game of cunning, and like I told Cecil, "If

this were a game, a game played on a board, a game like

Monopoly say, then you must believe, because it is certain to

happen, I will land on your street again. I'll pay my dues."

When my room mate got all jittery from his rail he got up and

started cleaning up the bottles in the kitchen from the party

the night before. Normally I would have done it but it was my

day off and quite frankly it had been a while since I'd had

some good action so I was rather earnest in my endeavor.

Focused.

Then there was a young man that was relatively nearby who was

willing to get me cigarettes if I came over to hang out with

him. His name was Brad. His picture showed a clean complexion

on a face as young-looking as myself, even though he

was actually in his 30s. I love men in their 30s, I mean,

they usually have a good enough job, a place, some extra

towels, they live a life of a young man in the setting of an

older man. It's a nice mix. This guy asked me if I did drugs.

I told him I just railed a line of speed. He laughed at that.

He told me to come over and we could do bumps of meth and

just hang out and smoke cigarettes and fuck around. Now that

sounded like a great offer. I could imagine it, you know,

lying there in a house that smelled of sex and drugs

and while listening to some good music lose my long-held

load. Nice. It seemed like the right choice. And when my room

mate asked if I was having any luck I told him that this Brad

guy had the best offer so far. "How do you think it sounds.

Sex and Tina and free cigarettes?"

"Oh you guys have it so easy."

But see, at that moment, that's when I got message from

someone that I'd never done before but definitely knew.

(Time for another story.)

Back in the day, back when I was about 21 or so, the Hey Day

of my Promiscuity, I was sleeping with men left, right and

center. I would go to the bar, smoking a joint along the way

to perfume myself with an air of rebellion, I would get there

and have a few drinks while lurking, less like an Orion, and

more like a sneaky fox around the coop of the community

on a Thursday, Friday, Saturday night. I would eye and ogle

and leer and find someone viable, decisive, someone who would

be eager enough to put on a show for me. In those days I made

my way around town, mapping the city with the buildings I had

sex in. It was like the first second wave of my sexuality.

Third. First I suppose would have to be the experimenting

with my cousin on long summer holidays at my grandparents'

place. Second wave would be college, when I was first out of

the closet and was first off falling in love and then

secondly learning about lust in the lavatory of the local

mall. The third wave was when I got home from college and

moved to the city and started drinking and going to bars,

that was when it was greatest, that was when I was most

wicked, I hadn't been jaded in those days, it hadn't happened

yet because I hadn't fallen in love, I hadn't started selling

myself, I hadn't given up on the gay community. In that third

wave, unbeknownst to me, I had an admirier. His name was

Laurier.

Laurier was from a hole in the ground in Northern Ontario, a

place of such vast stretches of land that it was frightening

to think of anyone growing up up there, especially a gay boy

with no connection to the outside world. As I am 26, and he's

about to turn fifty, Laurier is apparently twice my age. I

mean, I don't want you to think that I didn't recognize him,

I simply didn't know he was someone who'd seen me back then

and never had his turn with me but still wanted it, his turn,

me. I remembered him instantly, as soon as he messaged me I

looked at his picture and saw who it was and said, "Oh my

God, I remember you, we used to dance all the time at the

Lookout together. I used to think you were handsome. What are

you doing this afternoon?"

That's right, I went after him.

The room mates were all up and laughing and so I simply

signed off the computer after a couple of minutes and they

asked if I was giving up.

"No, no, no, I'm going over to Bay Street, to those buildings

over there. It's an older guy, I've known him for some time

but never hooked up with him. I'm really excited."

I got dressed in capris and a yellow polo shirt and through

on my runners, grabbed my shades too, and headed out into the

city to get my man. It's like when the African hunters would

find the gazelle and then the chase would start and it

wouldn't end until either the beast of the man dropped from

exhaustion. I hit the sidewalk with such velocity, the line I

did before I left kicked in and suddenly I was flying through

the city on a really warm Tuesday afternoon, as the

government people were getting out for the day and were going

out for dinner. The Market district was alive, it smelled of

the different styles of food being prepared, it was thrilling

with the sound of laughter and shenanigans. It was fun to

cruise through the streets in this atmosphere.

Though it was easy to think my third wave was the best wave,

it really wasn't, there was no Best Wave. After the third

wave I fell in love, with just one of the men from the long

list that I brought to my room. I fell in love with him and

with him I discovered the world because he was a traveller

and I was tired of the city and so we spent time travelling

and travelling far, we went to China, New Zealand, Prague,

and then a stop in Florida to meet his mother. We moved in

with each other when we got back to Ottawa, we made ourselves

a lovely home. We had friends over on Saturday nights for

dinners we'd spend the afternoon preparing. We'd have family

over. We'd fuck on Sundays and Mondays and Tuesdays and

Wednesdays and Thursdays and Fridays and Saturdays too --

we'd fuck and fuck and fuck. But then I got bored. Bored of

sweeping the floor more than anything, and about the time I

got bored he got a promotion and with this promotion he

started going on business trips. These trips weren't

extravagant sojourns, they were merely to Indianapolis to

watch workers work on something. That's all. But he'd be gone

for weeks. Then in the middle of that summer, the summer of

the Great Year, The Great Year that I'm calling the fourth

wave, he went to Texas and was gone for my birthday. It was

on my birthday that the Fifth Wave started, if anything, it's

the scandalous wave, I started having seedy sex. What I mean

is I'd gone to a porn shop, to the back room, and done it

with a man in such a way that was such a release. I've seen

movies, and I'm sure you've seen them too, the movies about

wives who give in to the temptation of strangers when they're

weak. That's what it was. He was a Brit and he was vigorous,

he was absolutely thunderous, he was relentless. It was so

passionate that when he picked me up to throw on his hips

while he stood in the stall and I used the two glory holes on

each side of the stall as foot holds for leverage, he started

to pound my ass with such exhilerating ferocity that we

actually knocked the door off the hinges, which was a very

loud commotion in a place of such muted tension, and I landed

on my back, which caused me an incredible amount of pain and

I was in a position where, the following weekend when my

partner got home, I was forced to tell him what happened. I

moved out and into a place with a bedroom suitable for a

lifestyle of ill-repute. But I mean, I wasn't rich right, so

I started taking advantage of my virility and I started to

capitalize on it. I became an escort. One after the other

they came through the door. The money kept rolling in and in

and in and in and in. Seriously I was such a fool, I mean I

had all that money and all I did was buy the drugs that would

make me not want to have sex and slowly the viscious circle

tightened too tight and the next thing I knew the customers

weren't pleased as punch, except for a few of them, and I

lost my credibility. One stormy winter night, in a crazy

blizzard of slander and name-calling, I reached a point when

it became just too ridiculous to try any longer. I quit the

business.

And now I'm in the Sixth Wave of my Sexuality. If it has a

name I haven't learned it just yet.

As I cleared the Market and cut through the Rideau Center,

turning down into Confederation Park after the Mackenzie King

Bridge, I get on one street after another taking

intersections as quickly as possible by crossing them

whichever way the light's flashing. It's like a gypsy going

whichever way the wind blows -- sorta.

When I got to Laurier's building I discovered that I hadn't

written down the buzzer number, I'd written down the

apartment number. I snuck in when someone left. I got up to

his 14th floor place and knocked.

It's been about five years since I'd seen him last, and

probably the last time I'd seen him I'd been drunker than

skunk in a trunk. When I heard him coming to the door I timed

it just right, as he opened it I took off my sun glasses and

created an illusion of unfolding for him, he smiled and I

lowered my eyes. I walked in without saying a word. He said

that it was good to see me, that he could remember me too

from those days years ago. He remembered having such fun with

me then. He was eager, I could tell, I was high, I could

tell. I just barged right in and found myself overlooking the

river to the west of downtown from 14 floors up. The sun

shone in amazingly. It was so pretty. I turned around,

pulling the arm of the sunglasses out of my mouth just enough

to say, "Nice place you got here." I cocked my eyebrow,

walked toward him and grabbed his shoulder aggressively,

pulling him close: it was a kiss of the ages.

That was all I said. He suggested we go to the bedroom. I was

taking off my clothes along the way. When I arrived on the

opposite side of the bed he saw that I was naked and that my

cock was hard and ready for him. I'm slightly hairy, right,

I've got hair all over my torso and legs and arms, but I keep

the body hair groomed and trimmed and there's something

absolutely animal about me. I associate boy hair with

masculinity: I am a man and I am attracted to men. Laurier

had hair on his chest, but not just that -- I mean, I looked

at his chest there for a minute -- I looked at everything

about him for about a minute -- but, DAMN, if he didn't have

a huge schlong. I mean it was like nine inches and about

three inches at the head. I'd only ever once seen a cock like

that before.

"What's wrong?"

I grinned and got up on the bed, and in such a way I got

ready like a cat would for a pounce and purred with

anticipation. Lowering my ears, in a proverbial way, for

dramatic effect, getting the hair on my back (if I hadn't

shaved it off) to stand: I was killer. I was cool. I was hot.

Then it was off like a fight in the animal kingdom. Frantic

breathing, sweat, scratching, slapping, spanking, pushing,

pulling: the passion in me, having been relatively canned for

the last week or so, was absolutely exploding as it got out.

It was like some chemical that reacts to the air, after

having been a week where I didn't feel like having sex,

suddenly I was a creature entirely made of it.

I planted my ass on his face and ground my hole into his

mouth while I, facing the other way, sucked that massive

peice of meat. I relished the feeling of his tongue as it

forced its way inside me. I then moved down and started

sucking on his balls, smelling the spice of manhood and

loving it, the musk urging me on, driving me crazy, I drove

my tongue into his hole, making him cringe (stupid tops who

never bottom, like fuck I was letting him get away with it).

Once he was heated up with my tongue I shoved my finger in,

and then another rather soon thereafter. He pulled back, then

he too put his finger in, a manly finger, rather thicker than

my own, and then two of them and then he started to finger

fuck me which drove me absolutely crazy, to the point that I

broke a sweat and starting panting and, while I fucked him

with my fingers and made him gasp and moan, I lowered myself

back down on his cock and let him fuck my face as hard as he

could. It was so hot, it lasted a while too. I was happy with

it. Then he asked if he could fuck me. I stood on the bed,

which is great of looking down on someone and I gave him this

look like he was being ridiculous, like he'd gone too far.

Instead of shouting my response, which would have been better

than simply saying so, I got down again and straddled and

squeezed the breath out of him between my legs as I bent over

and into his ear I whispered, "Don't you dare ever ask me

that again."

After a moment's preparation I was staring at the ceiling

with my mouth open and the cry of a skewered brat escaping me

as I lowered myself on his meat. It was huge going into me.

It was just crazy the way I felt myself filling up with it. I

lost my breath and grew faint when I'd nearly swallowed it in

my ass mouth. When it was all the way in I stopped and felt

for a moment the thrill of this. There's such completion in

the full fledged fuck: it's amazing. Before we started

fucking I lowered myself down and lay along his chest. He

stroked my back and rubbed my shoulders to relax me. Then he

started to push and it was so intense I thought I would die.

He started to grind into me his juices and he said that it

felt so good to be inside me, he'd wanted this for such a

long time. I couldn't respond, I was just taking it. I loved

it.

Once I was loosened up a bit I told him to fuck me. I said it

like he hadn't even really been trying before, "Well, aren't

you going to fuck me then? Fuck me bitch, fuck me!" It was

amazing. He started at it, first he was lying on his back

then he got up on his knees and I stayed on top, facing him,

it's an embrace of a fuck, you know what I mean. Then we

turned, which involved him pulling out of me, and I told him

I wanted to face the wall, I was spread-eagle against the

wall, one hand really actually, one hand on the wall and the

other gripping the sheet between my legs. He said it wasn't

quite right, I arched my back and he said, "Yes. That's it

baby." He slapped my ass and I shot him a look. Cocking my

eyebrow, I said, "That all you got bitch? Hit me if you're

gonna hit me fuck." He spanked me again and I loved it. The

sting is so warm and sudden. "Again." He did it. It felt so

good, then he started to spank my ass with both hands,

repetitively, my ass was red and sore. Suddenly he plunged

his cock in my rear and I took it like a man and let him fuck

the shit out of me. We were swearing and cursing and making

weird panting noises. I told him to pull out when he was

about to cum.

While he was fucking me though there was an interesting

moment, and one must remember that I couldn't see his face

while we were doing this. He said, "I love your eyes." Then,

without losing the rhythm of his gyration he caressed so

tenderly my side, along my ribs, up and over and under into

my chest hair, along my nipple, teasing me, pinching me then,

but then just rubbing me. The heat of his hand on me was so

calming and soothing. Not that I was really needing it but

you know when you've had a lot of sex with strangers and then

you realize that you've had a lot of sex without even really

touching. Just sucking each other's cocks, holding their feet

up while you fuck them, this is cold. This is sex without

touching. But all it takes is this, this simple show of

tenderness. All the feline savagery of my attack melted. My

back relaxed with his touch. While he fucked me I leaned back

and we embraced again, as before, but this time I wasn't

facing him, this time it was as though we spooned whle

seated, him fucking me. My proximity limited his movement,

like a traffic jam slows a highway, and I eased into his

chest and wrapped his tender, pulsating arms around me. I

could smell some cologne that was reminded me of green tea

for some reason, it didn't smell like it or anything, it just

made me think of purity, simplicity. I let my nose follow it

to his neck. I let my hands go to his head and gave him one

of my fingers to suck on. When I could tell he was getting

anxious I let him get a few good rounds into me and then I

pulled off and told him to cum. He stood on the bed and

started to jerk off and I put my face right at his dick, I

even started licking at it even though it tasted a bit like

ass and condom. I loved the size of his cock. It was so

beautiful, in a way only a gay guy can appreciate maybe. A

woman would think that to admire a cock like this would be

just ridiculous, a straight guy might say, Wow, that's a hell

of a cock, but to a young gay man, to be kneeling before the

hot shaft as it is milked with nice long strokes that never

once showed a sign of needing to hurry, it was monumental,

iconic, and I was it's youthful worshipper.

Suddenly Laurier looked at the ceiling as I had done and he

let loose a low groan, like an old dog barking, "Ugh!" He

shot his seed all over my face, and then I took most of it in

my mouth and I swallowed it. He leaned down and licked his

own cum off my face with a smile. He seemed done. I said,

"You're not done." He lay back down and I told him to suck my

cock for me, please, I needed to get my rocks off too, so

bad. "Please."

"Well you don't need to beg, that's for damn sure." He lay

his head on the pillows and I climbed up on his shoulder and

put my cock in his mouth while I still sucked semen out of my

molars. I thrust my cock in his face and he stroked it with

one hand but then I couldn't help it I had to take control

and I started to really fuck his face, I love fucking face.

It's so hot. I just couldn't stand it. That's how I started

to choke him, he gagged a bit on it, that's hot you know.

Feeding it to him like that, fucking his face like it's an

18-year-old's virginal ass, without regard, just feeding it

to him. It didn't take me long and I blew my load right down

his throat. When it was over I didn't even sit down. I got

off the bed and wiped my hands on a towel that conveniently

nearby. I wiped my face with it too.

A breeze that had been warmed by the sun as it came off the

river, through the parks and up to this very room, stirred

the curtain and tickled my forehead, I realzed then how much

I'd been sweating. My ass was fucking sore. I laughed and

giggled and felt really really good. Just as good sex should

make one feel.

Laurier leaned on one of his elbows as he looked at me. He

smiled. "You're beautiful." I thanked him. He asked, "Will I

ever see you again?" I told him that he would, of course he

would. I gave him some contact information and told him that

I'd really had a lot of fun and that if he'd really wanted to

he'd find me. We talked then about how neither of us go to

the gay bar anymore. For him it used to be something

different, it wasn't about sex before, the gay bar. Back then

it was about the music, it was Disco though. I laughed and

told him that he was simply in the wrong community. I'm in

the new Disco, the After-Hours and it's not about sex for us

at all, it's always about the music, and the drugs. At which

point I asked him if had a Tylenol, yeesh my head was killing

me. He joked that it was my drug habit that gave me the head

ache and I laughed and said, no, it was just a relief to get

it all out of my system.

I don't know. I just thought I'd tell you that.