Ho, Ho, Ho! By Bald Hairy Man
This is a story for adult men. It depicts gay sex. If this offends or bothers you, DO NOT READ IT. It is a fantasy and is not a sex manual, or a discussion of safe sex. If you have any comments send them to bldhrymn@yahoo.com
For much of the world the most important holiday season climaxes in Christmas and New Years. For me, Doug Halbert, this was the Cantata season. I am the Choir Director of All Saints Church in West Farnam, Virginia. We were one of those small, quaint, rural churches that were swallowed up in the Northern Virginia suburbs of Washington. We were now a large, prosperous congregation with a taste for music.
The church was in the midst of a large building program so we were without a choir room and had no rehearsal facilities. The contractor promised that the sanctuary would be completed for Christmas and our cantata would be the first major event in the new facility. The pressure was on to provide and impressive performance.
I found a rehearsal space in the Rialto Theater. The Rialto was small 1920s era movie theater that possessed a full stage and now served as an art center and performance space. Most of their activities were on the weekends, so the space was available during the week.
The theater had a bland exterior, but the interior was quite elaborate. The man who developed many of Virginia's theaters had a summer home in West Farnam and built an unusually grand theater for the small town. The facility was well renovated with a good sound system and was conveniently located.
As a church musician, I was use to having my own spaces so I had to learn to share. We had the space from 6:00 to 8:30 Tuesdays and Thursdays. At 8:30, the Musica Antiqua group had the space. Musica Antiqua was an all male group specializing in medieval and renaissance choral and monastic chants. Unexpectedly, it turned out the group was an offshoot of The NOVA Gay Voices Choral Ensemble.
This might well have raised eyebrows at All Saints, but no one knew of either group. Our priest, the Rev. John Cheviot knew about them, but he was liberal in his attitudes. I am firm about keeping to a schedule, and my choir and the Musica Antiqua men were all courteous, so there were no problems.
I am what might be best described as a non-practicing gay man. I am a bit timid sexually and by accident I lived with my mother until she died. My mother wasn't the clinging or domineering type. She was a pleasant, loving person who lacked some day-to-day skills. My father made up for all of her shortcomings, but when he died, she was at a loss. I came home to help her over the hump and somehow twenty years later I was still there.
It wasn't a particularly difficult situation for me until she had a stroke. That was difficult. The congregation thought of me as a good son, if a bit of a sap. I could also work wonders with a choir, and they greatly admired those skills. I think they all assumed I was gay, but seemed to think I was too absorbed with my music to date. I didn't think that was true, but I could understand why someone could think it was true.
Rusty Adams was the director of the Musica Antiqua group. Rusty owned a large plumbing company. He looked liked a trimmed down Fred Flintstone. He must have been the most unlikely man in the world to be interested in ancient music. He was mostly self-taught, but he had a way with men and music.
At first, he scared me a little; he was so very much not like a choir director. He was a bit gruff, loud and graceless. He certainly didn't look the part. Rusty wasn't the type of man I was comfortable with. My mother said I was a handsome man. I was thin, tall and well groomed. I shaved daily and twice daily if there was an evening performance.
Rusty was heavy, tall and seemed to use a weed eater for haircuts. He shaved randomly, and I suspected his five o'clock shadow appeared at noon. He was pleasant in his own gruff way, and accommodating. After a week, I stayed late and listened to one of his rehearsals.
When I am preparing a performance, I study the work and do complete research. My approach is scholarly and cerebral. Rusty's work with ancient music was more emotional and dramatic. He clearly loved the music and understood it well. His choir had a much wider range of members than my group. We were a prosperous, suburban congregation and our choir looked it.
His choir had a few men I would describe as biker types and few who were perhaps best described a transgender. He had two first rate counter tenors. One was a biker and the other a florist. As a non-sexual gay man, I shared a complete set of stereotypical expectations of gay men. Rusty's choir didn't fit my expectations.
My choir's reaction to the Musica Antiqua group was not what I expected. Most didn't seem to mind or care. Given the hysteria in conservative circles about gay men, my group was a live and let live group. Two of my female members were unhappy they discriminated against women. Most either didn't care, or thought the men were not a good marital catches anyway. It was hard to visualize them with a blushing bride surrounded by bridesmaids and groomsmen.
Several of my male members were standoffish. When no one was looking I noticed a few admiring glances from my choir towards the gay men. One man, Everett, seemed to fix on the biker men. He was a most proper banker. We started work in October for a mid December performance. The Sunday before Christmas, we did the Christmas portions of the Messiah as part of the regular service, so we had two works to rehearse.
I always got to the Rialto early to get things set up and left late. I liked to make notes on the rehearsals when it was fresh in my mind. In late October, my car died in the parking lot. I came back to the theater. During a break, Rusty and several men looked at my car. I hoped it was a problem that could resolved with a jumper cable. Jumper cables did nothing. Rusty offered to take me home after the rehearsal.
Just before 11:00, I got in his car to go home. Rusty owned a beautifully restored old Mercedes. It was immaculate and almost pristine in condition. It didn't seem to fit his rough and ready personality. When we talked I found out he too had taken care of his mother. She had MS and it had been difficult. We compared notes and seemed to have had quite similar experiences. It was clear he lived alone now. He also asked me if there was any friction between my choirs or with his group and me. "Some church groups have a problem with gay men," he said. I told him not that I noticed. I gave him my non-sexual gay man line and he laughed.
I lived twenty minutes to the west of the theater. Rusty was thirty minutes to the east. He had a long drive home. I offered him a drink.
"I don't think a drink is a good idea this late, but a pit stop would be welcome," he said. "I had too many cups of coffee." As he left, he asked why I was non-sexual.
"When mom was sick there wasn't much time left over between work and nursing her. I got out of the habit," I said. "I was hard to get back into the dating scene when you have passed your sell by date."
"I was in the same situation, but I always made room for sex," Rusty said.
"I was looking for a relationship rather than sex," I replied.
Rusty laughed. "I like the sex part and figure the relationship part will come in time," he said.
"Did that work for you?" I asked.
"It sure did," he answered. "How had the non sexual gay man thing worked for you? I'm always up for a quickie!" Much to my surprise, Rusty and I were naked in my bedroom a minute or two later. I don't know what got into me. After a very long dry spell, I jumped in with both feet, or more correctly my mouth, cock and asshole.
They say a human being is an animal who can smile. I think it would be more correct to say a Human being is an animal that can rationalize. I had been in a situation with my mother and had rationalized a way meet my needs at the time. Times had changed and I was overripe for a new approach to life.
"I tend to get carried away when I'm excited," Rusty said. "Just tell me if I'm going too far. You won't hurt my feelings." I thought I was ready for a little mutual sucking and fondling. That was wrong. I was ready for a lot of sucking. If I could have forced my tongue into his piss slit and fucked his cock with my tongue I would have done it.
The Hallelujah chorus filled my brain as he shoved his cock into my ass. I had been under the impression I had a small, tight ass. Somehow, his oversized plumber's dong got in without effort and rang my chimes. He didn't just ring my chimes; he found a secret carillon I didn't know existed. His cock played Quasimodo to my ass' bells of Notre Dame.
I had been a long time since I had sex, and some of the excitement I felt might have been due to the novelty of the situation. I thought the last time I was fucked was five years earlier. In fact I may well have been before the new millennium. Deep in my mind, I knew Rusty's cock was a perfect fit and his slightly rough and ready approach to sex was good too, really good.
He pulled out just before he shot off. I pivoted quickly and caught most of his sperm in my mouth. It was the perfect nightcap.
He had to get to work early the next morning so he went home deeply satisfied by his orgasm. It was lovely. I fell asleep exhausted, unsettled and excited. Rusty had opened up a new world for me. When I woke the next morning, I realized I had never tasted another man's sperm before. I was too fastidious for that. Unconsciously I wanted to taste his seed. That was new.
I spent the morning getting my car towed to a repair shop. It was my mother's twenty-five year old Buick. It was just worn out. That afternoon I purchased a new car. I bought a Ford Fusion. That was a radical thing for me to do. My parents regarded Buicks as an essential part of middle class prosperity, and seemed to think smaller cars were Communist somehow. I had broken away from their influence.
When I came home, I decided to redecorate my house. It had been unchanged since the later 1970s and needed up dating. Mom had a liking for floral wallpapers and upholstery. I was forty and it was time to make it my house. I liked my parents and got along well with them, but it was time to change.
At the next rehearsal, my choir was all-atwitter about my new car. Apparently, everyone thought I was in a rut and needed to do something about it. It's bad when your friends regard buying a small Ford as a radical departure from the norm. I was in a very deep rut. As good Episcopalians, they were all too polite to say anything about it, but they seemed relieved.
Rusty came in as we left. He got me aside and asked, "I hope that was a good for you, as it was for me?"
"It was great," I said. "I had almost forgotten how good sex could be."
Rusty smiled. "I'm glad I could bring back good memories for you."
"To be honest, I think it was a lot better than I remembered," I said. We talked for a while and I told him I was going to renovate and update my house.
"If you need a plumber give me a call."
"My parents bought the house in 1970. It hasn't been touched since," I said. "Do you think the plumbing needs some work?"
"I can guarantee it needs work," he replied. "Forty years is a long time for plumbing. It is probably near the end of its natural lifespan." He said he would stop by after work on Friday and look. We had a date.
I was nervous about seeing him again. I was afraid he might not want to have sex again and I was even more afraid it might not be a good as it had been. I suspected our first meeting was a sexual fluke.
Rusty arrived earlier than I thought. His workday started at 6:30 and was over by three or four, so he was at my house by five. He did a quick once over and said my house was in good shape and needed little work. I had thought he would probably recommend replacing the whole thing, but he said if I kept my eye on it and replaced it as it failed, it would be less expensive. There were just my mother and me in the house for years and parts of the system were hardly used.
I asked him if he would like a beer. He said yes, but he needed to be a lot cleaner before he sat on my furniture. I suggested he take a shower and test the water pressure. He laughed. "That's a nice variant on an old come on," he said. "Will you scrub my back?"
I laughed and we went to the shower. Fully dressed Rusty looked like a cave man. Naked he looked more like a cave man. He had a massive head with heavy brows. With a barrel chest, and broad shoulders he looked as if he was ready to move some rock like Fred Flintstone. He had a bushy red beard and he didn't shave his neck so the body hair was pretty much from head to toe. He was built like a Gorilla but had the hair color of an Orangutan.
In short, he had just about every physical characteristic I found unattractive in a man. I like Cary Grant or Roger Moore types. I do admit Rusty was about as macho as a man could be, but was beer drinking; truck driving macho, not dapper man of the world sophisticated. I was shocked at how much he turned me on.
Rusty liked to top. Given the size of his cock, I had no problem taking it. He was behind me in the shower with his cock at my ass. A second later, he filled every inch of my rectum with his throbbing member. Throbbing member sounds like a woman's romance novel, but it describes his cock well. He loved it, and his cock seemed to impart his enthusiasm to me. I discovered I liked to bottom.
I am five-ten. Rusty was six-four. At one point, he skewered on his cock and had my feet dangling in the air. With my entire weight balanced on his tool, I had every inch in me. We got out of the shower and went to my bed. Rusty was consistently aggressive and gung-ho. He always pushed me further than I thought I wanted to go, but he never went too far. I didn't know my limits. He seemed to know.
When I began to cry that I was going to shoot, he made a quick move and drank every drop of spewing semen enthusiastically. That was a first for me too. My cock head becomes incredibly sensitive during an orgasm. He must have sensed that. He seemed to know how to drive me crazy without going too far. Several times, I thought it was over, but his tricky tongue would lick the right place and I would ejaculate again.
He was off to a concert that night, but asked me to come by for a late season pre-Christmas picnic at this house the next day. I said I should probably stay home and get some house cleaning done.
"You know your house is spick and span and another day of dust will make no difference at all," Rusty said. "The party starts at 3:00. By the way it's not a Sunday School picnic, so don your most open-minded attitude and expect to have some fun."
He left my house singing the "For unto us a child is given" line from the Messiah in his deep bass-baritone. When he sang, I felt like the sub-woofer was adding bass. His voice was beautiful.
I decided I wasn't going to go to the party when I went to bed that night. When I woke up my mind had changed. I was on a roll. My experiences with Rusty had been mind-blowingly good, and I was ready to step out of the rut I was in. I knew I had manufactured the rut on my own, but now I wanted to take a trip on the wild side. Maybe it was mid-life crisis, but I wanted something different.
I was excited but uneasy as I drove to Rusty's house. Rusty lived in a heavily landscaped old farmhouse in the middle of a modern subdivision. It was a pre-Civil War house, simple but handsome. The developers cleared the woods to develop the subdivision, but they remained around the house. A little stream ran across the property and it made it hard to develop. Rusty greeted me at the door, and took me to the back of the house. The front part was the original farmhouse; the rear was a modern kitchen and big family room. I recognized some of the men as members of his choir.
"Hey men," Rusty bellowed. "For those of you who don't know him, this is Doug a choir director. We were sharing rehearsal space at the Rialto. Introduce yourself and make him feel welcome!"
There was a chorus of "Hi Doug," from the men and the biker counter tenor came over to me. "It's nice to see you here," he said, "I'm Mad Dog, or Charles, if I'm not riding my bike. I've enjoyed listening to your choir practice. You have a good group." We got into a conversation about music and all was well. Mad Dog and I shared the same musical tastes.
The affair was informal. Rusty produced interesting and unusual food from time to time, but there was no official dinnertime. It was all good conversation and food. Everyone seemed to be pleasant and affable. People seemed to come and go, but I wasn't sure where they went.
Mad Dog cleared up that question. "Did Rusty tell you there is a play room down stairs?" he whispered.
"No he didn't," I said, "a rec room?"
"It's sort of a rec room, but there is no ping pong or pool," Mad Dog said. I understood.
"I'm not sure I'd be welcome there," I said. "I'm new here."
Mad dog laughed. "Believe me when I tell you, you would be very welcome there," he said. "New meat is always welcome. It's lots of fun. I'm going down shortly. Would you like to go with me?"
"You will be my guide?"
He smiled. "If you need a guide I'll do it. Most everything is pretty self explanatory." We went down stairs. The first room had paper bags for clothes. I immediately got cold feet, but Mad Dog was stripping and I followed suit. It's funny. I had just met Mad Dog and I was worried he'd think I was a wimp for not getting naked. The next room had a porn movie on a wide screen television and perhaps ten or twelve nude men in varied states of excitement. None was more excited than I was.
The first man to say hello was Everett, my very proper banker. He was with a man named Sonny, who I think was an auto mechanic. "It's nice to see a friend here," Everett said.
"It is," I replied. "This is all new to me; it's my first time here."
"It's new to me too," he said.
"It's a nice bunch of guys," Sonny said with a strong Virginia Mountain accent. "Just relax and go with the flow. The first time I was here a pal told me to stop using my brain and let my cock do the thinking. That may not be the best advice for everyday use, but it makes for a really good two, or three hours of fun here!"
Sonny wasn't good looking. He was scrawny and had crooked teeth, but he also had a good smile and an impressive cock. My mind thought he was ugly. My cock thought he had potential. For the rest of the afternoon, I let my cock guide me. Sonny was right. It was a good afternoon.
It was a new experience for me. Sexual episodes were both rare and widely spaced for me. It was always one-on-one and the spacing could be every two or three years. I was both cowardly and incompetent when it came to picking up a man. I couldn't believe any one would say yes to having sex with me.
Here in Rusty's rec room there were ten or twelve men all of whom wanted to have sex with me, or with any of the other men. Everyone was in the room to have fun, sexual fun. In theory, I thought sex should be part of a meaningful interpersonal relationship. I was sure none of the men in the basement were virgins and most weren't interested in my mind. They wanted to have some fun.
Sonny told me he wanted to mess around, drain some fluids, buff, and polish some internal organs. "If we weren't supposed to play with our cocks, why in hell did God make our cock so handy?" he asked. There was a sling in the corner and Everett got in it. A man named Frank seemed to be in charge of adjusting it for comfort and convenience. Frank was also the first to fuck Everett. Everett was sixty years old, but in good shape and handsome. He attracted a crowd. As Frank's cock vanished into Everett's ass, I realized this was an orgy.
Frank pulled out to be replaced by Sonny and then by several other men, Everett was a happy man, as were the men who screwed him. Everett had no problem taking any of the cocks and I assumed he was more sexually experienced than I had thought.
More men drifted to the rec room and the sexual tension in the air began to rise.