Remember my meth head clone, Mitch? That five foot eight hunk of hairy man who died at 42 when he fell asleep at the wheel coming home from a weekend drugfest in Key West? (See my blogs 12/27-31, 2010.)
Well, granted he was fucked up in almost every other way, – no money, compulsive gambler, living off his enabling parents – but I never thought I’d meet another guy so close to my physical perfection again. You know, someone who looked very much like me. What can I say? Short, in-shape, hairy, masculine, articulate, intelligent guys are my ultimate turn-on.
So I thought Mitch would be the only one in my life.
That is until Kevin.
We “met” on Manhunt, he a 5’8” bottom, me a 5’6” top, so at least it sounded like the lid would fit the pot. And after an exchange of compliments, some brief e-chatter where he was up front about his positive status (“np,” replied negative me), and a quick phone call on directions – he sounded like a man – I jumped in the shower, wondering if I would really need my Viagra though I popped it anyway for insurance.
The small house he was renting with another guy (no sexual connection) who was out for the afternoon, was about fifteen minutes from me just outside Wilton Manors, Lauderdale’s gay ghetto. I wondered driving over whether my image of him, based solely on his pics of a naked, hairy, nicely built, not overly built, really good looking, as in black Irish good looking, balding guy with a beard would meet my expectations.
Or that I would meet his.
It was a typically warm April afternoon for Lauderdale and I emerged from my car intentionally shirtless just as he came out of his front fence door in shorts and leather boots he was still lacing up. That tight, lightly muscular hairy body was all my dick needed, and I regretted I had worn sneakers.
Close-up, as we stood shoulder to shoulder, his blue eyes hit mine like two lighthouse becons. So did his smile which told me in an instant without words that he was also happy with what he saw.
The house was small and his room even smaller, just slightly bigger than the sleep cabin I had taken once on Amtrak going to New Orleans. There was a cot of a bed in one corner, a sling conveniently hanging from the ceiling just above, a closet jammed with clothes and stuff, and a desk with a laptop where he told me he made his living online.
We stripped off our shorts and were both wearing jockstraps. As we stroked one another’s furry chests, abs and fingered our rising pouches, he recited a two minute Cliff Notes version of his life. Married 20 years, divorced, a grandfather, a former IBM software engineer out of work for two years, now making ends meet with two part-time jobs and I assumed a disability check courtesy Uncle Sam. And two weeks from turning 52, though he looked a good ten years younger. Mitch’s age.
“You know,” he whispered, finally getting back to the subject at hand – or I should say what he had in his hand, as he gently pulled my cock out of my jock, “I just went back on Manhunt after a six month hiatus. Nothing, nothing was happening. You know all the bullshit. Then I saw you. Thought you were out of my league.”
Looking at the beautiful man standing in front of me, I found that oddly ironic.
“With that body?” I replied, grabbing him closer.
“I actually was a lot heavier a few months ago. Getting off meth – yea I got hooked after I lost my job – means you start replacing one craving for another. What you’re looking at right now, my friend, is a work in progress.”
Would this have been Mitch if he had seen the light? Probably not as long as his nice, well heeled Jewish parents kept enabling their son’s habits.
Just at that moment, I wanted to thank him for not being Mitch, and though strangers, we kissed like two men who had somehow strangely lusted after one another for years. Then he sat me down in his desk swivel chair. He had made it a point in his profile and when we chatted online about his Grand Prix cocksucking skills and he wanted to make sure I became a believer. Soon we were on the cot sixty-nining, our twin cut cocks wet and hard, our bodies locked together like two pieces of a puzzle.
“Straddle me,” I told him and I soon had my tongue up his butt, about the only part of his anatomy that was as smooth as a baby’s.
“You’re pushing all the right buttons, fucker, ” murmured Kevin, and soon he was straddling his legs, this time in the sling, as I fucked him slow, then fast, then slow again, our eyes locked in unison, stroking one another’s chests when we weren’t straining to kiss.
It’s funny how the physical act of sex becomes so much more when you’re doing it with a guy who’s not just a body but a brother.
I wanted to blow him but he blew me instead, content with the long fuck I had given him.
“You know, it’s next to impossible to find a fuck buddy in this town,” he said as we lay side by side back on the cot. Then he looked me straight in the eyes again, stroking my beard. “Wanna be my fuck buddy?”
“Anytime you want me, Beautiful Man,” I replied.
Only time will tell whether our pledge to one another was something based on transitory lust and a heavy dose of Viagra, or whether Mitch, my Mitch, has come back to me.