Talking

Today I inseminated the guy I once called Beautiful Lummox-- but I can't call him that any more. I see it was well over a year ago when he sucked the cum outta me last time, and for a long time after that, he disappeared completely from online. Sometime after the summer, maybe, he reappeared, and had new pix that showed him much slimmer; in many of them he looked pretty amazing; not built and muscular, but just movie-star handsome with a sweet natural manly build. His profile also said he was 5'11, my height-- and I found that hard to believe; I remembered him being huge. He has always had an appealing wit, which he doled out sparingly between periods of essentially begging for me to hook up with him again. At that point, despite the newly pretty body, I think I wanted to indulge in his wit more than sex, until one day, sort of out of the blue, he msged me on Adam4adam saying something like, "Reading between the lines in your profile, I think you like fucking guys with your raw dick and shooting as much cum in them as you can, am I wrong?" This was rather weird, because my profile there is pretty unremarkable; it purposely doesn't have "safe only" clicked because duh, but it also is calculated not to scare away people I could do other things with than raw fucking. I honestly wasn't sure where he got that from, but I told him that was exactly right. And for a long time we went through a strange dance where he said he wanted to suck me off again but didn't think he could trust himself around me; that he'd be on his back with his hole gaping open for my cum in ten seconds and he couldn't risk it. And at one point he said, "If you were my boyfriend, I would have so much of your DNA in me that I would start to look like you." This pretty much made my dick instantly hard; it's so irreverent and funny and dry and absurd and hot, and so far removed from the usual lame dirty talk you get from dudes online, that I was kind of smitten. And after this he got bolder and bolder about the fact that I was to fuck my cum into him next time; it was all he could think about. But he was terribly hard to get. He was living in Fort Greene so wow not too far, but he was too busy wow sorry, and then he was moving way uptown in Manhattan can't explain now, oh he was too sick to meet up, oh he wanted me to come fuck him in his own bed this time and wouldn't come to me again even though my time is more limited than his; yadda yadda. I began to wonder if he was on drugs because he was so erratic. But I remembered him as a sweet almost shy guy, and his demeanor wasn't congruent with drugs. I decided he's just an odd bird. After several near-misses, he wrote me that he wanted to give up, that I could say hi whenever I wanted but the disappointment of never being able to really get together was getting to him. Harumph! I pointed out that he was harder to get than me, and I have a partner, but that I would respect his wishes. And then that night, I defied his wishes and asked if he wanted to fuck. I got no reply and jizzed all over the Northumberland Gramma instead. The next day I got a msg from him that he'd "been asleep" (at 6pm??) and missed me. Maybe he really IS on drugs, I thought. But somehow, this opened up a rather deep dialog with him, which I really kind of liked-- and culminated with me leaving him there on the Upper West Side fully loaded with my ejaculate, after something like three hours of talking, touching, kissing, having first extremely awkward but ultimately very successful sex, and more talking. I… I really liked it.

Honestly I was really out of sorts in the morning, and felt like I was online looking at hookup sites out of sheer lack of imagination more than anything. When Beautiful Lummox appeared, we picked up a bit more on our fairly long conversation from a day or two before, and he casually mentioned he'd probably be taking his profiles offline for a while because of some weird experiences he'd had (part of the stuff we talked about when I got to his place). Something about the idea of hooking up with someone I had been with before and had been having good conversation with lately seemed to comfort me today, so I asked him if he wanted me to come up. He seemed really happy that I wanted to, and told me he just needed an hour or so to get ready, but given how far he was, it wasn't a big deal; I needed to get dressed anyway. So I took the long schlep up to where he lives, way up on the edge of the park. On the way my funk deepened, and by the time I got to his place I was feeling extremely unsexy.

He opened the door and almost knocked my socks off. He had definitely lost weight, and lost the extra padding in his face that I guess unfairly maybe made me think of him as kind of a slow, lumbering type of person; he looked angular and truly striking. He was wearing a t-shirt and some clingy jogging pants that showed just how different his body was now. I perked up and pushed my way in. We kissed but it was extremely awkward for some reason. He was extremely, extremely talky, wanted to show me his dogs, and his apartment. He wanted to fix me a drink, he had a drink of his own. (Until I read about our last encounter, I'd forgotten that he wanted a drink then too… interesting.) He was having something extremely froufrou that I, lover of froufrou drinks, found it hard to resist; I tasted it and it was pretty awesome so he poured me a small glass. I thought, this is going to totally tank if we don't get to the fucking soon. But we didn't… he wanted to talk a bit more about his crazy experience from the week before, and ask me about my barebacking habits, and all kinds of other things. And we did a bit. (Turns out he'd found my profile on BBRTs; that's what provoked his "reading between the lines" email, and he said when he saw my profile there he was so hot for me he could barely stand it.) But then he suggested we go into the bed and take our clothes off, so we did, and yet still between bouts of kissing, he kept asking questions and talking about this and that. Despite how insanely attractive he was to me-- dark eyebrows, devastatingly dashing chin dusted with hair, flashing eyes, beautiful teeth, huge finely-formed hands-- I was not getting hard.

I decided to eventually push him back on the bed and smother him with my attentions to get myself into the silent space of desire I need to function sexually. At first he seemed puzzled but once I slid my body on top of his and began to kiss him with some ardor, he hung back and received my attentions, making little whimpers of pleasure. He hitched his legs around my waist tightly, and pushed his body up into mine, and held me close, and we made out intensely, and I felt my dick getting hard and poking him between his cheeks. Nice.

Except he took this occasion to tell me more about what a good kisser I am, how he's surprised I'd said days before online that thing about how I'm not attractive enough to attract this or that kind of guy and was I really that insecure, how awesome my precum is, blabla. I deflated pretty quickly.

But I honestly did want to talk to him. Somehow from the beginning I had rather wanted to get to know him. So I let it ride. He seemed completely unfazed by the fact that my erection came and went but mostly stayed away. So we talked more.

Finally I figured I'd either have to give up or amp it up. So I finally told him, "let's fuck now, talk later, OK?" and he talked a bunch about how he could understand that and how that would be just fine, and during this monologue I managed to turn him over to check out his ass. I slid down and figured the sure-fire way to get hard was to eat him out. So I did.

And I was treated, about five minutes later, to the intense rubber-lipped sensation of having been to the dentist. I could barely feel my tongue. I exclaimed about this and he said sheepishly that he'd put desensitizing cream in his butt earlier, again because of the "weird experience" earlier in the week that I didn't have the full scoop on; he fretted that he thought it would have dissipated by now. But I was out of commission at this point, feeling like my lips were inflated to nine times their normal size. Frustrated but also laughing at the absurdity of it all, I gave up, and lay back on the bed and told him to tell me about the "weird experience".

Which he did. And we talked about all kids of stuff relating to guys, lying, drugs (which apparently he *doesn't* do), HIV, life experience in general, body image, yadda yadda. All very interesting. But again I felt the possibility of real sex fading away. I tried the intense making out trick again after we'd thoroughly discussed the ramifications of the bad dude he encountered earlier, but it wasn't working; my dick was on permanent vacation. I just held his body and looked at his face and stroked his skin and thought fuck, this is ridiculous. We talked even more. God knows how long I'd been there at this point.

And then, I decided to try eating him out once more. I told him he'd have to completely leave my dick alone, just let me do what I wanted with him, not talk, and he finally got it and complied. Somehow the novocaine or whatever the fuck it was in his has had truly worn off by this point, because I ate him like he was Easter Supper and I felt his own dick getting hard and my own dick getting hard and I stuck it in him and gave him a few strokes-- he was so thrilled and excited that he could barely contain himself, but I pulled out and slid down to eat him out more. He protested but I reminded him, only half-jokingly, "I'm the top here." And he sank his head back down into the bedclothes and hiked his ass up more and I ate more and more; his ass was meaty, round, deep, sweet, very fine. A few more rounds of sticking it to him and eating him out had me ready to get him on his back and fuck him good. He put his feet on my chest-- ironically something I just mentioned recently as a total pet peeve-- but I pushed his legs to the side hastily, sank in hands-free with no resistance, held his legs open, and rammed away. He was so beautiful there below me, so handsome, eyes alternately closed in bliss or staring dimly into mine through a thick haze of fulfillment. I held his chest and shoulders down and slammed my hips into him and he drank up the submissive posture, held my forearms tight while I fucked him, and I thought I could cum right then. But I fought it back, and lay my body down on his, and told him, "Stay close, stay close," and he wrapped himself around me tight, and we locked lips while I rocked my  bone in and out of him. I smelled him and tasted him and saw him. And then I fucked him hard for a minute more until I had to cum. "You're cumming right? You're cumming right?" he said insistently into my face, which told its own story of release, I'm sure. "You're shooting your cum into me," he said over and over, and I did. He was so beautiful.

I realized then I was soaked with sweat and God knows what my hair looked like. I laughed at how triumphant I finally felt, forcing my way through his thicket of words with the machete of my dick, and getting to where I wanted to be. He held me in him tight, clenched all around my dick, and said, "I don't want any of the cum to get out. I want it all inside me." We kissed and laughed some more, and I slowly pulled out with him clenched all around me, milking out any drops that lingered in my tubesteak and drawing them into his own body. The nakedness of his need was intriguing. I was happy to be here with this handsome, yammering cumfreak. I finally popped out, and began to lay back on the bed to rest, but he said "NO" and scrambled between my legs to suck my meat, in case there was even a fraction of liquid left in me. And finally we did flop back on the bed.

And then he told me more about himself-- he'd worked in a restaurant before but he really is an artist, and does beautiful work; I was surprised and humbled at how amazing it is. We had a long intense conversation about art, which I know a little bit about, and relationships, and living in NYC, and my partner, and his ex, and time kept passing.

I'll stick my neck out and say this is the first guy among God knows how many that I've fucked like this who I could imagine actually being in a relationship with. He had to walk his dogs, and I had to get home, so we dressed and went downstairs, but stood in the snow on the corner, still talking emphatically. I told him I always wanted to talk like this, but that he always pushed things back to the sexual. He told me he had reread some of the messages he'd sent me and was horrified at how uncensored and needy and pushy they were; "I had absolutely no boundaries." I told him I kinda liked it but would have liked to know him a little better too. He shook his head. "You like being a sex object, admit it." I do, though I think I'm an unlikely one. So unlikely, in fact, that I think rather what I like is just the fluid merging of the mental and the sexual, the high and the low, the world and the underworld. He seems like me too. I think he's neat.

On the subway home my depression from earlier in the day came roaring back. I kept wondering what life would be like if I had a boyfriend like him. And it depressed me to be thinking it. Eventually, enough time passed that my usual inner critic decided this would be a problem, that would be a problem. I thought of things this guy had my partner didn't. I thought of things my partner had that this guy didn't. I decided I like my life with my partner more than anything. But part of me missed that cycle of dating, meeting a guy, the promise, the possibility. I was always the dumper when single, never the dumped; I think I'm tremendously to have met my partner in the end. Somehow, I still felt sad.

As the crappy C train rumbled alongside the park, a strange scene unfolded. A black dude in dreads, maybe a bit younger than me, ambled on carrying a trombone in his hands. I thought, Good Lord, how can you play a goddamn trombone on a subway car?? He played "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" in a muted tone and most people were smiling; it was random enough to lift everyone's spirits more than the usual busker. Then he caught the eye of a coffee-skinned black guy off to the side, and it seemed they knew each other. "You're a musician too, right?" he asked the guy. "No," said the guy, "I'm an acrobat." The trombonist and the acrobat had a lively conversation from station to station; eventually the trombone launched into an intense monologue about the power of desire and faith. He told some a story about some woman who managed to lift up a car with her bare hands to save her child, and about one time when he went outside to smoke a cigarette and the cigarette lit itself. Up to that point he seemed cool; after that I thought maybe he was a little nuts. But he was a very happy kind-seeming person, and he had to get off at Columbus Circle. A quartet of rich-looking French people came in in his place and sat down in a row across from the acrobat, talking amongst themselves for a while. The acrobat suddenly called out to them, in French, "Are you guys from France? I am learning French! I only know a little. I'm going to Paris in April." The group was delighted to talk to him, and they all left at 42 St together, shaking hands and high-fiving like new friends. "You're short!" I heard him say to one Frenchman, just before the doors closed, "I thought you was mad tall when you was sitting there! It's cool though!" More high fives and we pulled out of the station. WTF!

Life is so freakin weird. So many possibilities, so many unrealized, and we only get the one life to experience them all in. Sometimes one despairs; just one is not enough.