I had just settled in my room at The Club baths Sunday afternoon wondering if this, too, would be a another costly fuck-up like the Clubhouse – the crowd resembled a middle-aged man’s social club for men who just happened to be gay – when this short, nicely built, super cute, but tough looking thirty something bearded guy with a baseball cap that read “Looking for Daddy” walked briskly back and forth pass my open room door, obviously stalking me. I whipped my aroused dick from under my towel and beckoned him in.
At first I thought he would be one of those five minute, drive-by fucks – either me fuck him or him thinking I wanted him to fuck me. But instead we soon got into one of the most sensual hour and halves I’ve ever spent with a guy where hard dicks were only a footnote to the dance.
“I love looking at you,” he whispered, sitting with me on the mattress, stroking his stiff uncut cock as he ran his hands over my furry chest. “Ditto,” I replied. With that, he lifted my arm and sniffed and licked my armpit for what seemed an eternity. I responded by kissing the wisps of hair on his chest and abs. Without drugs or poppers or liquor, we had entered some kind of sexual trance, as we fingered one another’s buttholes, smelled one another’s pits and pubes, and licked the sweat off our bodies, holding one another tightly, shoulder to shoulder on the bed, taking turns stroking our two rock-hard cocks as we brought drops of precum to one another’s lips. We were like two trees that had grown into one another.
“Feeling good buddy?” I asked, rubbing my beard against his.
“I feel fucken great, bro, fucken great.”
“You smell great – just like a man,” I replied.
“This is just the way I like it,” he answered staring at me with piercing black eyes
In between all this, he had kept pulling at my sneakers til I finally got the hint and took them and my socks off. He pulled both my feet to his mouth and began sucking my toes, one at a time, in between licking and sniffing. In all my years as a career gay man, I had never gotten into feet, but now I relished in it and gestured for him to strip his feet naked too. Worshipping his feet, small but manly, became my new religion.
When he finally shot his load, with my mouth a few inches from his cock, a geyser of cum trickled down my chin. Moments later, I exploded.
This had been more than a Kodak moment – this was more like a feature movie in 3D and Smell-o-vision.
“You know we chatted on line awhile ago. One of the bear sites.”
Funny. I didn’t remember him.
We exchanged screen names and he asked me to look him up. Maybe an encore was in the wind. If not, living in the moment was what the last 90 minutes had all been about.
I had detected an accent even in his sound bites as we played, and though he looked like he might be Eastern European, he instead revealed he was Argentinean, lived not in Miami as I might have guessed but right here in Lauderdale, and owned his own hair salon. For once I had played with an enterprising guy, not a loser.
Embolden by Enrico, I strutted out to the pool without my towel and with half a hard-on still lingering in my dick. Twenty minutes later, lunch was served and within the hour I was on my way home. For a change, I had gotten my money’s worth. And then some.
And yet, four hours later, the insatiable pig in me, my childlike need for constant gratification and attention demanded more. After all, I rationalized, it was a three day holiday weekend which made Sunday night Saturday night all over again, and there was Slammers beckoning me like the Sirens wooed Ulysses with its half price eight buck entry fee if you got there by 8 o’clock. I guess horny guys think alike because I got one of the last spots in the place’s one and only parking lot. I spent the next two hours sucking and getting sucked, while a handsome dark young Latin followed me around all night, groping me in the dark til I held my hands tenderly to his face and whispered with a smile, “You’re a good looking guy, really you are. You’re just not my type.”
In the end, it wasn’t my type that won a mouthful of my cum that night, after all, but a tall, buzzed, thirty something athletic guy donned in only a black jockstrap and boots who sucked me dry at the open pit of the “suck-arium.”
Boom, our local dance club, was having a Studio 54 night and the place was pure electric. Maybe it was all the people, in all shapes and sizes and generations everywhere you looked, or maybe it was the disco beat, capped by a medley of Donna Summer, that made those of us who had lived the Golden Disco Era feel young again. A baseball capped guy, older than Enrico but short and with that same sexy, scruffy beard, was standing at the foot of the stairs as I came down shirtless from the second level bar. Our eyes met but for a moment– I could see he was with his partner – but my smile carried me all the way back to my car.
Driving home, I could see my vision was very blurry, a side effect I think of popping Big V all weekend like Halloween candy. Too much of a good thing is no good. I envisioned what a failure any of my three little dogs would be to me as my “service animal.” Fortunately, I didn’t end up legally sight impaired, though that old adage that playing with yourself will make you go blind might have some truth to it after all.
Monday was another glorious beach day – I got one of the last spots in the lot closest to the beach at quarter of 11. And that afternoon when I came home there was a message from a suck buddy of mine who had his own glory hole and wanted me to come over. Fifteen minutes later, as I stood there, him slobbering over my cock like some schoolboy, I remembered the guy I had seen the night before at Boom whose T-shirt sported “Pig” on the front. Maybe he was wearing it, but, judge me if you will, I had lived it.
“Hugs,” ended a message from Enrico when I went one last time that night to the hook-up sites to see who loved me.
“You meant licks and sniffs, didn’t you buddy?” I asked.
“Keep talking dirty to me, bro,” was his reply.
