All the warnings apply. This story contains depictions of male on male sex and is for the enjoyment of adults only. I'd appreciate responses: bimwmep2007@yahoo.com
Looking to Bottom: A Married Man's Memoir
England in February can seem bleak. In fact it is bleak. And especially so when you've landed early in the morning after a trans-Atlantic flight. I made my way through customs and baggage claim in Heathrow to the bus station, groggy from lack of sleep, nervous, excited. At the bus bays I first hit the outside: cold drizzle and wind that slapped me awake. On the way to Oxford, the bus crosses non-descript countryside, pretty to an American used to roads in the urban USA. This close to London there are sheep to see, in that stiffening rain. Balancing jacket, umbrella, suitcase, backpack and laptop I transfer to a taxi and get to my college. Find my room. Still cold and still raining, but to me the day feels invigorating. I am on my own. And I have some plans.
Many of those plans are ones I talk about. I want to think. I want to write. I want to remake my professional life. But also crowding into my head are the plans that I don't talk about. It is 2007 and for more than thirty years I have lived a compartmentalized life. The public me is married and the parent of grown children. A successful academic. Not the most manly guy, but physically fit. In those lists of attributes when you advertise yourself on the internet or answer someone else's post I sometimes list "masc." I think it fits, at least in the gay world. In those same posts I sometimes write "bi" but that's probably only true in the strictest sense. I do have sex with both men and women. And I'd have to say sex with women is nice. In fact, in general nicer than sex with men. But it's never electrifying. And in my experience sex with men, seemingly any man, almost always is. That is, as you've already guessed, the other compartment. The plans that I don't talk about.
Here I am in my mid-50s, past my prime, losing hair, but in pretty decent shape. And at least ready to take advantage of an opportunity that hasn't come before and is unlikely to come again. I'm temporarily single, in a place where few people know me. I figure I'm going to do some serious fucking. And not just any kind of fucking. It's my goal to feel a nice dick inside me. I'm pretty much a virgin in that department, but increasingly if I see some porn or read some, it seems like it's the guy on the bottom who is really getting off. And there have been a few times when I've been boning a guy--and this doesn't really happen that much--that the guy's eyes just seem to slide back, and he starts to make those little gasps, and he's grasping at any part of my body he can reach, having that religious experience: "oh God, oh God, don't stop." In porn lots of time the guy on top just seems kind of bored. But there's that guy on the bottom again, begging for more, calling out, really getting into it.
How hard can it be to find a nice guy who wants to have his way with a nice guy like me? Well pretty hard as it turns out. Sometimes I think a much higher percentage of English guys are gay. But looks can be deceiving. And how do I go about meeting them anyway? After a couple of weeks, I get settled down in my flat and get some internet cranked up. But where do you look? Who would I ask? I'm kind of shy about these things. I try out a couple of the local gay bars, but they are pretty shabby affairs. There aren't too many people there when I go, and most of them are young, or kind of dodgy as they say there, or both, or just too "gay" for my tastes. I'm really looking for someone kind of like myself--or at least the way I imagine myself. I'm just short of 6 feet. I've got light thinning hair, with more on my chest than on my head these days. A decent cock: about 6 inches cut. And I don't have any trouble getting it hard--at least for a guy. For my wife, well that's beginning to be a problem.
Back to the bars. No one walks up to me and says, "welcome to England. I want to introduce you to these nice men, one of whom would be delighted to fuck you." And I'm not really out-going enough just to ask. And what exactly would I ask.
In the states I'd gotten on to Craigslist and had a few memorable encounters when I was on the road. But Craigslist didn't add up in the UK. A few postings, mostly from Americans and almost all for London. And I have still not found the one that says: looking for a 50s married man that I can slide my dick into.
As I work my way through the web, I begin to turn up a few things, but most stuff costs money. Involves using credit cards. And I can't go there. But finally I hit on gaydar. And it turns out that you can buy access with a money order. I buy one and send it in and wait to get started. Meanwhile there are some free elements that let me get going.
But I'm sort of ahead of the game. Because on some other obscure one of these hookup sites I'd found this guy Kevin. He was maybe late 30s, partnered with a woman, living with her and her kids, and previously married. Not the best looking guy, but very fit. And with a very big dick--maybe nine inches and pretty thick (I knew all about this before I had even seen it--he was very proud of it). I'd been hoping for uncut, another reason to visit England, but Kevin disappointed me there. Kevin and I got kind of friendly. We met a few times and texted back and forth and he became my fuck mentor. He couldn't get away from the watchful eye of his woman very often and maybe had other guys he was after. He had had a guy not too long before that it seemed he was ready to leave his lady for and in effect, as he described it, get married. Kevin kind of had the desire to be a wife, to be well treated and taken care of--not that he was in any sense feminine or effeminate.
On out first meeting, we met with little advance warning, by arrangement in the street outside my flat and went to a pub to get acquainted. Like a date I suppose. Not something I was really familiar with. Most of my experience was just hooking up and that was it. After a couple of pints we went back to my flat--a good sign I thought. I got us something to drink and we sat down on the sofa. First though he emptied his pockets. "Guys. Isn't that a sign that he was expecting some action?" Anyway, inexperienced as I am in guy on guy romance, and having had enough of his prattle, I went in for the kill. But within minutes I was back in middle school, and the young girl was pushing my hand away from her breasts (then, that got me pretty hard, but I didn't mind too much when she said "no.").
According to Kevin, it was "slow down man. You're going too fast for me."
I respond with, "I'm sorry guy. It's Ok. We don't have to do anything." Always the gentleman, and the very understanding man. "So why did you empty your fucking pockets?" That's a thought not spoken words.
I gather my wits and say, "let's have something to eat."
We go into the kitchen and I begin to cook. Risotto with fennel. Strange I can remember that, better than I can remember his face. I poured some wine.
We talked about this and that. I asked him to massage my shoulders and he was happy to do it. "Take off your shirt" I stripped down to my t-shirt and sat in one of the kitchen chairs. He got behind me and began the massage. It got slowly and steadily more sexual, as I stroked his hands and arms and he let his hands run over my chest. Before long we began to kiss. I stood up, and let my fingers run across his cheek. I kissed him and he kissed me back, our tongues meeting. I'd done some kissing with guys but I wouldn't call myself experienced. I began to feel some very strange and not entirely welcome feelings charging through my body. I was getting into this guy in a big way.
I put my hand behind his head and gently kissed him some more. He was shorter than me, but we seemed to fit together ok. I broke away for some more cooking. We went back to making out. I really felt like I could do this for hours and not feel I would do anything more. At one point I got heated up and pushed him up against the kitchen wall, pinned his hands over his head, went in to press my tongue deep in his throat, grinding my crotch up against his. Something breaks the magic at this point though. I back off.
We broke for more cooking and when the food was ready we sat opposite each other. We talked. I learned about his life. I think. He learned a version of mine. Much left out. Some changed. I took his fork, put the creamy rice on it, and fed him. We leaned across the table and kissed. Something about the creamy rice and the wine that went with it, gave that kiss electricity. This guy was working some spell on me.
I had to wonder, what he saw in me. I was probably 15 years older. He was maybe 5' 7" thin and a bit muscled. Another day we did a little wrestling though and he had to admit I could easily take him. He definitely had a hungry mouth. And remember he had, or so he claimed, that great big dick. It turned out this guy he had almost taken up with had been older too. A businessman, who could splurge on nice hotel rooms in fancy resorts now and then. So I guess he had an eye for older guys. I didn't have the money. Couldn't use the credit cards, but he didn't write me off strangely enough. That guy had fucked him good and proper, and even once agreed to be fucked--with that huge dick--but somehow it ended badly. Kevin couldn't make up his mind to follow this guy and the guy tried to use force. Apparently, there was something about Kevin.
Later on he admitted that it had really scared him when I pinned him to the wall. A few months before in the living room of his own home, a friend of his and him had too much to drink and the friend raped him--with his partner's kids upstairs. His reaction suggested that this just might have happened, although why he didn't just make noise and make it stop I couldn't quite understand. He told his partner what had happened and she was clearly keeping close tabs. I think she suspected that he had himself let things advance pretty far before he thought to say "no."
He had his curfew and he had to go. But we had trouble making the break. We kissed until our lips were sore. It was passionate, but it also observed some limits we had tacitly accepted. In my previous encounters it wuldn't take 30 seconds before I'd be massaging the guy's basket and he would be undoing my pants. But with Kevin and me, we kept it strictly above the belt. I ran my fingers through his hair and he did that to me. I rubbed him face; I put my hand behind his head. There was a part of him that showed passivity. He wanted me to lead the way. But my hands did not stray down. I did not put my hands on his ass. Later I'd find out it was a beautiful, hard, plump ass. He had to piss before he left and he left the door open. I caught just a glance. I wondered later, "did he want me just to go in and feel it." I didn't. No sooner was he out the door than I was flat on my back, cock out and cumming. He texted me. Made it seem there would be another time. I was feeling emotions. I don't usually look for that. Just sex.
As I said, Kevin became a kind of fuck mentor. I let him know that it was my goal to be on the bottom, to wrap my legs around a guy and to let him fuck me. I dreamed of a man about my height, with some hair on his chest and a line of hair that ran down to his bush. In my dreams he had a nice cock, but not a huge one. After all I was a virgin and the thought of one too big scared me off. And anyway, big dicks were not a real turn on for me. I liked the whole package; I wanted everything in proportion. Of course, just like the next guy I wished mine were bigger. Thicker to be sure, and a bit longer. It would be nice to be 7 inches or at least 6 and a half.
A year or so later I met a guy, Jesus, in Texas, who was in his 30s and seemed to have a thing for older men. We got together a couple of time when I was there on business. The first time, he fucked me and then I fucked him. The next time he did all the fucking and I was happy for that. Maybe I'll write that story another time, but for now I only want to mention that Jesus, a short guy, maybe 5 feet 6 inches and with just a bit of a stomach, admitted to me that he wished he had 6 inches. That would make him average he thought, but instead he had to live with his 5 or 5 and a half inches, pretty thick cock. It seemed like the perfect size to me, when I straddled him, took my first hit of poppers ever, and slowly worked my ass down on his cock. Pretty soon I was close to ecstasy, slowly working up and down. He leaned forward and began to lick and suck my cock. I had admitted to him a fantasy of a three way where I'd get fucked and the other guy would lick and suck me. Soon enough precum began to drip from my dock. Jesus said (and it did feel almost spiritual), " you're leaking."
"Your beautiful cock is doing that to me," and I picked up the pace. My hand began to work my cock. God, no I guess it was Jesus, I was going new places. Pretty soon I was I was spraying everywhere. Usually, when I come my libido falls off a cliff. Makes it hard. With a woman I can somehow keep the connection, stroking, cuddling. But with a man I feel like I need space. Later I wish I'd followed Jesus into the shower, carefully washed that beautiful dick and then licked and sucked it until he came again. But now on the bed, I still hadn't come down from that place and he was twisting and turning under me, his face muscles contracting, arching his back. He gasped and I could feel the cock thicken and he came. Did I lean down and kiss him, like I see on videos, or read in porn. I can't remember. Jesus and I had done some serious making out, but it was something I liked more than he did I think. Strangely enough, that was about two years ago and it was the last time I've been fucked. There hadn't been that many times.
Which brings us back to England. Kevin kindly took on the role of teaching me how to be a bottom. At his direction I took myself off to London, found a nice sex shop in Soho, wandered about and looked at all the stuff and then picked out and bought a vibrator dildo, formed in the shape of a realistic dick and not too big, but maybe too big for the purpose. Anyway, it was the size of the dick I wanted inside of me, maybe 6 and a half or 7 inches, and a bit thicker than mine, but by no means in the dangerous weapon category. Up some alley in Soho I found a gay theater. Things are a bit stricter on these matters in the UK than the US, and you have to keep the action somewhat under wraps. Anyway, I found myself sitting next to a 30 or 40 something man, tall and nicely built. Maybe an immigrant from Malta or the Middle East? Maybe a bit hairy judging from his arms. We played around a bit. Rubbing bulges, slipping our hands in, and also just holding and stroking hands. I remember that hand stroking, because it was so tender and erotic in a pretty unlikely location. He had to go. I watched some action on screen and in the seats. Got involved in a bit myself, but not too much. And then found the bus and went home with my new toy.
A couple of days later, I got a text from Kevin about how to use the dildo. It turned out that Kevin was something of an expert dildowise and had a substantial collection. He was apparently quite into his ass. "Whatever you do," he wrote, "don't even touch your dick."
"mmm," I thought, "a bit late for that."
I had stopped at the drugstore (ok, chemist) on the way home and picked up some lube. Once safely inside, I stripped off, my cock rock hard just thinking of that toy. I got on the bed. I faced the usual problem. The flat was theoretically centrally heated, but most of the time it wasn't really warm. But no matter, I had a new friend to warm me up.
I unleashed the dildo, tested out the batteries, lubed up and began to play. It was pretty sensual, feeling that vibrating tool, rub up against my hole, but pushing it in was another matter. I knew a bit about what I was doing, having worked a finger into my ass when I masturbated a few times. Oddly, slamming my own cock into some man's pussy hadn't really taught me many lessons about how the whole thing works or what it would feel like. Pretty painful of course. But I gave myself loads of time and loads of lube. And I worked that lube on my cock too. Maybe if I had to do it again, I'd have a few drinks. But finally there was that fantastic moment when the dildo popped in and I was home free. I did not feel that rush of ecstasy that seems to overcome the first timers on Nifty, but pleasure began to replace pain. And that pleasure intensified when I slowly began to edge my dick home. It took it to the edge, then worked the dildo a bit, slowly in and out, then worked it before. And then I lost control. This is I think what Kevin would warn me about. I started to work my dick harder and then I began to work the dildo harder. Anyway, no harm done and it felt incredible when I came, cum splashing everywhere. Why is it guys that on the porn videos, most men just seem to cum with jism running down the side of their dicks. (maybe they cum first to increase staying power?). Or they have a couple of little bursts. I sprayed everywhere, up my chest, on my shoulder, over my shoulder, on my face. But like I said, I always fall off the cliff, so even when I promise myself, I don't really taste it. Only if it leaks out before I cum full guns. Before long, I was dreaming of the next time, and the real thing.
Now I was in training, with occasional advice from Kevin. He and I met a couple of times for a drink or talked. That's how I learned about the rape and why he freaked out a bit when I pressed him against the wall. It was a bit strange with Kevin. He seemed to like being dominated, from that experience in my flat and especially from what he told me about his relationship with his businessman. But he didn't want to be dominated too much. I wondered if I was ever going to see that cock he was bragging about. Of course, I was a bit scared, since I wasn't really sure I wanted him to be the one who took my virginity. And he didn't seem to want to. He said something about finding a guy with a smaller tool, but basically it just didn't seem like that was the role he wanted to play with me.
Of course it was obvious enough, he wanted me to sweep him off his feet, ply him with candy and flowers, take him away for a weekend and order room service. These things don't exactly come naturally to me, and there wasn't really any point to it. The guy was driving me insane with lust, it must be admitted, but I wasn't feeling like throwing off my whole career, my family, my life, for him. Even if it worked out, which it probably wouldn't.
Another thing that was strange. As we started to work our way below the belt, and I finally got a look at that dick. It was beautiful. I licked it, and sucked it and played with it. But he didn't seem to be all that excited. I was rock hard. He got pretty hard at first then lost it. And that was that. Well not entirely. I fucked him quite good. That's a separate story, but he was quite the acrobat. In the middle of our fucking I said,
"you really like it better on the bottom don't you."
"Let's find out," he answered as he was flipping me on my back and grinding that big dick into my crotch.
But in a moment or two, he agreed, "you're right," just as he was pulling me back on top of him. I learned something then too. I wanted to get fucked to be sure, but there was something in me that preferred being on top. I didn't like it when I didn't feel in charge.
Anyway, I kept up my dildo workouts and I had some nice sex here and there. And a couple of encounters with guys that seemed a bit weird. But I was always the top. Correct me if I'm wrong, but it seems to me that tops and bottoms are not evenly distributed in the gay world. For a long time, I hadn't really toyed with being a bottom, but it seemed like most everyone else had. The hardcore tops really just seemed like straight guys on their way to being bi or gay. I might write about some of that sex another time, but let me stay focused on the task at hand. Finding a cock that can be shoved up my virgin ass, and it being England I guess I should say arse.
Did I say "virgin." ? well given the dildo action, that was entirely true. And it wasn't strictly speaking true either.
I had in fact been fucked once. In 1981. My wife had gone off to visit her mother, and I was left on my own. There were a couple of gay bars where we lived and I screwed up my nerve and left the house. This was pretty stupid, since it was entirely possible I could have been seen and recognized. But when you're desperate for some action, or desperate just to be who you are, then you do stupid things.
It didn't seem to be working out that well. I don't have the talent for the bar scene. How do you hook up. That's the beauty of the internet. Nothing to lose.
The night wore on, I had some drinks. Finally I ended up at a place where there was music and after dancing around each other awhile I found myself wrapped around a cute guy on the dance floor. I was a lot younger then of course and so was he. Shorter than me, with dark curly hair. You have to remember your first, right? And the last for about 25 years.
Anyway, he couldn't take me home so I had him follow me. I wondered if any of the nice neighbors on our street of nice families saw me come home at 1.00 am with a guy following? If they did they didn't report.
We had a respectable two story, colonial looking house, and right inside the front door of that house for the first and last time I kissed a man. We wrapped ourselves around each other, hands on the sides of each others faces and drank in our eyes. We were crazy with lust.
I pulled him right up the stairs and right on to the marriage bed. Only felt guilty later. And not even that much. I seem to have a talent for compartmentalizing. As long as these things are merely sex, there's nothing really wrong. Needless to say, most others would disagree.
Within seconds we were ripping each other's clothes off and we were naked and writhing around on that bed. Making out, sucking tongues, licking nipples, chests, dicks, balls, and kissing and kissing.
I had had too much to drink and it was late. Somehow I could feel, almost physically, that sense of domination that I had always exercised just slipping away. I didn't have the energy to be the top guy. Any other time, even a few hours earlier, there's no doubt that I would have fucked him. I think I learned his name, but I can't remember it now.
He rolled on top of me and pinned me down, kissing me hard, and moving down my chest. Licking around my balls and dick and taking me in his mouth.
I fought back, pushed him over, ran my tongue over his nipples. He squirmed and cried out. I buried my face in his armpit. But he was on top again and I felt resistance melting away. I didn't really know what to do. I'd always just been the guy on top. They were always begging, "fuck me." Well actually not that often. Paul, the married guy I had played around with for a year, fell into the submissive role. The first time we had sex, after I had fucked him, he made motions to fuck me. I made it clear that wasn't going to happen. After I fucked him a second time, and came close to having him in his kitchen a third time, he pronounced me, "very virile."
But here I was with a thin, hotter than hot, window dresser very much on top of me. Despite the very gay occupation he wasn't effeminate, which is a turn off for me. He pressed my legs back and buried his face between my cheeks. His tongue began to work my ass. I rimmed Paul once, but this was the first time I felt the magic of a tongue on me. Whatever resistance was left disappeared.
I got up and said, "wait."
Downstairs I found the Vaseline and returned to the bed.
He began to prepare me a little, but not much. I was tongue-tied, and he wasn't talkative either. I'm sure he assumed that this was something I had done before. I never told him otherwise. It was late and there was the liquor talking. It didn't occur to me to say, "I've never done this. You need to be gentle. You need to help me." I just lay silent. Well not silent. I lay there wordless. Unless groans and moans are words.
Before I knew it, his cock--fortunately not all that big--was pressing between my cheeks and the head was pushing on my hole. It wasn't just going to slide in.
I remembered reading in The Joy of Gay Sex that you should push out, like you were taking a dump. I focused all my energy on doing that. I closed my eyes and zoned. The pain was incredible. I checked out. I didn't really remember a thing. And then he was calling out and cuming. My legs wrapped around his back. And he was off me and into the bathroom. I guess to clean off. I didn't know anything about douching or preparing, would never have thought this would happen in any case.
But what struck me, beyond the pain, was that my cock stayed rock hard. It had never been harder. There's not much dialogue here, because there was almost none. He came back.
I looked up at him, "did you get all the way in."
He must have thought I was crazy. "Oh yeah."
I slowly began to jerk myself off. He watched. Anxious to get out of there, but observing the protocol. Within seconds, I was spraying cum everywhere. I came torrents. And I will say he was impressed.
"Wow man, you really came. That's nice."
And he was down the stairs and out the door. I couldn't exactly move. I wished I had his number so I could have him come back and do me again. But of course he probably had a lover.
The next day I went out to dinner with friends. I was still walking a bit funny, but by the next day I was back to normal. Then AIDS hit and I retreated.
Which brings us back to England and my quest 25 years later to experience being fucked. Again. But this time to find the pleasure that I saw in other men's eyes.
It didn't quite work out.
Thanks to Gaydar I did manage to hook up with a few guys. It was chilly in the flat so I usually spread a blanket on the floor of the living room and put the space heater on. I hooked up with about five guys but they all wanted to be fucked. I was happy to oblige but it didn't get me any further to feeling what a real fuck would be like, now that I was quite an expert with the dildo.
There was one married guy around my age or a bit older that matched up with me quite nicely. About 5 feet 7 I'd say and thin. I've got a thing going about guys with big bellies. Don't like it. Anyway this guy was quite nice, communicative, and really into sex. The first time he came over we went at it for two or three hours on the living room floor, making out, licking, sucking and then me fucking him every which way.
At one point he asked me, "which way do you like it best."
I had to catch my breath and think, since at that moment I was sliding my dick in and out of his arse, as he took me on hands and knees. He just kept saying, "oh God, that feels so good. There's tingling running up and down my spine."
But which way did I like it best. "Hard to say," I answered, as I pulled out and we sized up what would be next. "Doggy style is hot because I can watch my cock move in and out of your arse, nice and slow. But I think I prefer having you on your back. That way I can look in your eyes and see your reactions. And I can lean in drive my tongue into your mouth and play with your cock."
"yeah," was all he could really answer. "do me on my back." I caught my breath and slid into him and began to pound him and then back off, lean back and just tempt him with the head of my cock until he begged, "fuck me, fuck me."
We met a few times, Nigel and I, and emailed back and forth. And I told him about my fuck plan. I mean my getting fucked plan.
We tried to arrange a three way, and he arranged something, but once I got a look at the guy's picture I said no. Too much of a whale for me. We all have our prejudices. I'm pretty much open to all kinds of guys, but the overweight thing is just a turn off for me.
Anyway, my time in the UK was wrapping up. Weather was getting warmer. Here I could pause and tell you about the beautiful English spring, but I won't. But one thing beautiful about it was that it made it warm enough in my flat to fuck in my bed, and I did a bit of just that.
I arranged a last hook up with Nigel. He claimed to be versatile and had offered to fuck me. But when he got to my flat it was clear what Nigel wanted. He stripped off his clothes and within seconds and stripped off mine. IN one motion he seemed to get my jockies off and my cock in his mouth. He was licking my balls. God I love that, and he had me writhing on the bed, crying in pleasure. But he didn't show any signs of working his finger down to my arsehole, where I wanted him to go.
I flipped him on his back and returned the favor, licking his nice 5 and a half incher from top to bottom. Unfortunately, in a country of beautiful uncut men he was cut. But still very tasty. I worked his balls, taking each one in my mouth gently, then licking them and licking his thighs. Soon enough I was rubbing my dick into his crotch and kissing him hard. Panting.
He wrapped his legs around me, and began to pant and moan, "please fuck me, fuck me."
"Fuck yeah."
"suck my cock." He moistened me up and then put on the condom. And I went to town.
First on his hands and knees but soon enough on his back.
We must have fucked for about 20 minutes and I screwed up my nerve to say, "remember what you were going to do for me?" Isn't it weird when you're naked with a guy with your dick buried deep in your ass and he's crying out, you can still feel shy.
He knew what I had on my mind, and it was clear enough he saw it more as duty than pleasure. He just wanted to keep getting fucked. But I lubed myself up and got a condom on him. Then I got up on my hands and knees.
I wished I could say, that fireworks went off, that incredible feelings coursed through me. But that somehow didn't happen. It didn't hurt much at all. I was well prepared and he fucked me nice and slow, nice and gentle. It felt nice, I'd say. It felt good. But there was something about being crouched on my knees and elbows with my face in the pillow that didn't work for me.
He began to pick up the pace. The breathing got harder, then raggedy as it does and and he began to call out and he came. I didn't. I felt good. I'd done it. But I thought, "I have more work to do."
Unfortunately, I had to leave England in a few days, and there would be no more chances. My getting fucked tale would have to move on to its American chapter.