7 Men, 32 Hours

I’m taking some time off from the daily blog grind to write my next work of fiction, “Buy Guys.” It’s about two bi  brothers from Pennsylvania who, in the middle of the recession, lose their menial jobs and decide, with really nothing to lose, to move to Fort Lauderdale and ply their wares as paid “escorts.” The results are at first chaotic and funny, but soon lead them down a tragic path.

In the meantime, I’ll be reprising my most popular blogs with you, my readers, based on hits. And if I have something new to say – like a first hand report on the Beach Bear Weekend coming up May 11-13  here in Lauderdale –  you know I’m not bashful – I’ll say it!

Today its:

7 Men, 32 Hours

I could go into cum dripping detail about each of the seven guys I played with, got blown by, blew or fucked in my 32 hour sojourn in St Pete’s that began one Friday evening coming back from visiting family in Pensacola. Though I’m sure you’ve seen and heard it all before.

But what struck me about the whole episode was how what should have been delirious, decadent fun became cumbersome work. Some of my intended victims I had lined up in advance on the web, three came through on a spur-of-the moment posting on the Craigs personals, and a few popped up as “I want it now” boys in between playing with the others. (I kept my laptop up and on most of the weekend hidden away in a walk-in closet.) But to pull it off took timing, scheduling and an overdose of Viagra that rendered me almost blind by 4 a.m. Sunday morning when the last guy walked out of my room.

Was there any common thread among them? Well, they were all over 40, at least moderately hairy with facial hair and, in general, nice masculine bodies. They were also all willing to come to the gay guesthouse I was staying at a few blocks from St Pete’s Alibi. So what was there for me not to like?

Well for starters, that one might not show after I had popped my Blue Man Candy, leaving me all horned up with no man in sight. Luckily, that didn’t happen.

Another was that almost every one of them sort of looked like their profile pics if you used that “Have You Seen That Child” milk carton computer aging program and pushed the timeline up by at about ten years to replicate what they look like today. (Me?  I’m a hopelessly honest faggot – all my profile pics are, at most, a few months old.) The most depressing was the six footer who was a very lean and mean handsome in his profile pic but a genial shadow of himself when he showed up at my door, obviously a victim of Big A. I know there are a lot of neg guys (unlike me) who won’t even shake hands with a poz guy but we played and both our Mr. Peters were grateful.

One guy came with grass, though we never ended up smoking it. Another showed up plastered, at 11 in the morning, thank you. I had to remind him to “watch the teeth” a dozen times while he kept blabbering about his city wide reputation as a cs. Yea.

Hey, I like a hard dick to feel, touch, and taste to keep me up, and a couple had big cocks to gag for. But half of them, though they were obviously into me, judging by their mouth action on my cock, couldn’t keep their tools stiff. Thank God their furry butts were able and willing to give themselves up to me; even I was amazed by my own stamina, fucking one of them 68 minutes straight. (He was a real bad boy.)

My biggest anxiety was that I had booked them too close together. I had allowed two hour windows like I was scheduling job applicants for interviews, but when a guy ran late or we started bullshitting too much before or after “the Act,” I began nervously glancing at my watch. Would the guy be out of here before “Next” came a-knocking? Would I have time to shower (again)? Would my last dose of Big V carry me through or should I re-dose? Did I have time for it to work (a minimum of 20 minutes)? It all became too fucking complicated.

Of the 7, only two were working, one as a mechanic the other as a waiter. No corporate attorneys among this crew. Signs of the times I thought. None though, as far as I could detect, were “fuckin around on the side.”

Feeling quite satiated by 10 Saturday night, (there would still be one more guy off the web who came over at 3 a.m.), I went out barhopping, first to 2606, Tampa’s leather bar which had resumed its backroom action though I partook in none of it; then back to St.Pete’s Detour bar where I had a 20 minute romance with a 32 year old baby faced bearded guy in a wheel chair who obviously was being tenderly patronized by his friends. At first he was faggy sarcastic with me when I told him how handsome he was, but after I bought him his second vodka tonic and my fourth rum and coke I could see he genuinely began believing I meant it. And I did. We chatted about The Life and our lives – his forever changed by an auto accident. Once a bank clerk, he was back at community college studying to be a lab tech.  But it wasn’t pity when, ready to leave, I kissed him on the lips, and he raked his hand across my hairy chest. I gave him my e mail address, was emphatic about staying in touch, then I turned around and walked the long corridor to the exit, just like the defrocked Audrey Hepburn did as she left the back room of the convent and bulleted out to the street in that final scene in “The Nun’s Story.”

All that OD’ing on dick and ass and I had found what I had really wanted all along in a guy I didn’t even grope.

Romantic fool that I am, I’m still waiting for that e-mail.

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