web log analysis Confessions of a Promiscuous Top: Move Over Chelsea; Here's Hell's Kitchen!

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Move Over Chelsea; Here's Hell's Kitchen!

So I've made my frustration with Chelsea plain on this blog; you never know if you're going to get an amazing beautiful sweet bottom with an incredible body, or a complete crackhead. More often it's the latter. There are actually more homos in Hell's Kitchen these days than Chelsea, and I've had some awesome sex there with some very hot guys, but I guess there's increasing creep of that old guard drug-addled sexual mess up from the hood to the south. Tonight I went up there to fuck a guy who looked great and seemed normal, if a little dorky/jokey about things (like calling my dick "thick n purty"). But as soon as I got there I saw the telltale signs of the inveterate tweaker: constant meaningless activity, endless talking about nonsense, the inability to actually get to the freaking sex because there's the volume knob on the speaker to adjust and glasses of tea to offer nine times over and a crucial cockring hiding in a box full of cleaning products and screwdrivers. He was very cute and Hell's Kitchen is a hike for me, so I stuck it out hoping to at least get off in him vigorously. But he balked at sucking my dick because I don't manscape my bush (which actually gets me laid more than it gets me balked at), and then offered to trim me. I thought it might be amusing, so I let him. There was something of the alpha primate experience about it, laying there with my legs open being groomed by this chatty, utter cartoon character, so I got into it. He pawed and stroked my meat as he trimmed all around my groin, which felt rather nice and soothing.  Finally he was satisfied and started sucking me. It was pretty much downhill from there. Fuckin Hell's Kitchen!

An astute reader, with an IQ superior to that of a mushy-brained meth head, will immediately realize that trimming a bunch of pubes before giving head is just a recipe for getting tons of little hair clippings all over your mouth. He gave typical tweaker head: all over the place, unable to create a rhythm, endlessly interrupted by non sequiturs and pointless questions about where I work, exacerbated by a constant need to wipe cockwhiskers off his tongue. He was making me thick, though, because he actually was petty good with the technique, and is probably a pretty good fuck when he's not high. I flipped him to eat his ass-- he had gargantuan nuts which made that very entertaining-- and when I came back up from his hindquarters I was sporting a hefty erection which I stuck in his face. "Oh!" he exclaimed, "hello!" and began sucking me really nice. I fucked his skull and thought if I could get my dick in him pretty quick this would be salvageable.

But I wasn't. After a little bit of grinding ("Oh wow frottage!" he narrated redundantly) and a weird interlude of a kind of titty fucking him between the balls (a new one on me, but again these were the biggest testicles ever), I maneuvered him into ducking position and got my tool inside his actually very nice warm velvety guts and began plowing away at him, feeling very fine. "You ARE a good fucker," he exclaimed earnestly, alluding to my screen name on BBRT. And I began to really enjoy myself watching my bone slide in and out of his manly little body. But then he began squirming and wiggling and adjusting pillows all around his head, then pushing them under his ass, the pushing them up under ME, then whirling big cushions around the bed, and I fell out of him, rapidly losing my erection during all this ridiculous activity. "I need my ass at just the right angle," he explained as he rearranged every object in out vicinity, including a balled-up blanket.

But I was over it. I halfheartedly tried to masturbate myself back to a suitable hardness to penetrate him again and quickly inseminate him so I could go proudly having competed a mission, but it just wasn't going to happen. Finally I just lay behind him listening to an involved story about a threeway with a strapping German and a close friend whose moral seemed to be "and we fucked and it was awesome," a timeless moral indeed, and I begged off, getting out of bed and dressing. Somehow I had spent an hour with this guy trying to get my cum in him. It was a classic case of doubling down, throwing good money after bad, diminishing returns. It's a booby-trapped playing field out there, gents! Better luck next time to us all.


  1. Sounds like a t-shirt: went to hell and all I got was a trim. Wah-wah. [sigh] :-/