Saturday morning I was blessed, I guess, with another young all American hottie on Manhunt – I suppose becoming Daddy material in your old age has its advantages – who, as he put it, wanted to serve me. A 30 year old guy most girls would willingly be raped by wanted to serve ME. OK, but out comes my obsessive-compulsive personality. I had a laptop at Office Depot that was infected with a nasty virus, I had to pick up Canadian dollars at my bank for my forthcoming long weekend in Montreal, and I wanted to get to the gym to look good for the boys. Plus the fact the beach was fucked that day, beautiful though it was, since the City of Ft. Lauderdale decided to sponsor a Beach Party which closed down the main drag and hiked up the parking to ten dollars for the day. But while Mr. All American didn’t come out and say he wanted it NOW, putting him off til the afternoon wasn’t the smartest thing a Pig could do, and he vaporized into cyberspace as quickly as he had materialized.
But no matter. Ray had a plan. Getting a little bored with Slammers which I had hit up not only Friday but Thursday night too, I thought a good change of venue would be to spend Saturday night at my old haunt, the bath house Clubhouse II, where I could get a room and instead of wandering around hunting for dick could just sprawl out and wait for dick to come to me. Yes, the place had gotten tired and old, particularly after Slammers opened and sucked all that young blood, but I naively thought there would be a few fresh faces in town for the weekend. And after all, all it took was one, right?
I got there around 8 to make sure I got a room, for thirty dollars, thank you very much, only to spend the next two hours with virtually nothing happening as my dose of Viagra slowly faded away. Oh, sure, there were guys there, plenty of them, the same guys I recognized from my snowbird days of fifteen years ago, aging in place like some childless neighborhood, incestuous since they only had sex with one another, if you could call some old man on his stomach all night while an equally antique fellow stood over his leathered ass pulling on his own hopelessly limp dick is sex. To call the place God’s waiting room would be an insult to God.
So says I to me, if I can’t even get a blowjob from one of these gum-less gargoyles with my eyes closed, I ain’t fucken wasting my Memorial Day Weekend Saturday night among The Living Dead, and at 10:15, a fresh 50 mgs. of the Blue Pill on my tongue, I got dressed and hightailed it to Slammers, ten minutes away. Forty seven minutes later – I think I broke a record – Mr. Peter and I had been satisfied by a tall, lanky bearded forty something guy who gave me a 15 minute Kodak moment blow job in one of the booths. This, guys, I call double dipping, hitting two high priced whorehouses in one night in search of the Almighty Climax.
Video tape replay: my last stop at Ramrod where I bullshitted and commiserated with a few fair weather friends and left.
Now, there were a some fuck buddies who had promised to get together over the weekend but with Sunday morning upon me and no e-mails from my friends, my game plan was to hit The Club, our town’s other bath house for the afternoon. In its hey day, again about the time I was snowbirding, the Club was a magnet for the young and the buffed and, while it still had its share of hotties, 7 out of 10 guys were those young and buffed men from the Club’s hey day who still thought they were young and buffed even if their waist lines said differently.
But I was able to rationalize the afternoon by the fact there was (a) an outdoor clothing optional pool where I could still work on my tan (b) a steam sauna where you hypothetically could find cock in the shadows, and (c) a buffet lunch served at 2 which quite frankly is what most of these former beauties were really there for.
I had my knapsack all ready when up pops on Manhunt “Cocksucker Pig,” a handsome guy with Irish features, a scruffy beard and sexy gray hair. Why not save the $$ for a room at The Club, so, e’s me, “when would you like to come over?”
“How’s now?” he writes back.
“Call me for directs,” I reply, my new rule to hopefully weed out the gameplayers. A minute later, my cell lights up. It’s Cocksucker Pig and he’s three blocks from my house. I swallow a Big V, jump in my pool to get the sweat off, and barely tie my sneakers when he pulls into my driveway.
He was a bit heavier than I imagined but, in his defense, I fell for the face shot which was all he had up. We proceeded to my bedroom where I stripped down and sat on a lounge chair, perfect for cocksucking. I asked him to take his clothes off too get my motor running but he waved me off and proceeded to dive down on my cock.
It looked like I would be spending a stressless, nonchalant afternoon by my own pool when halfway through his mouth action, he switched to jerking me like my dick was a ragdoll, then stopped all together.
“Sorry man, I’m beat.”
With my dick standing stubbornly at attention like a spoiled child wanting more candy, I tried to keep my cool and asked, smiling politely, “So what have you got planned for the weekend?”
“Going home and being a Dad,” he replied as he walked out to his car and sped away. So much for “Cocksucker Pig.” OK, I got it, a married man with a reined-in libido. Ten minutes later, I was on my way to my original destination.
Tomorrow: Sniffs, Licks – and Feet.