Friday Night and Saturday Morning

A few weekends ago I hit one of those milestone birthdays and Birthday Boy here wanted to have some fun. It looked by mid-week I had lined up a potential five guys altogether off the hook-up sites who professed their lust for me and availability that weekend.

Well, guess what.

Two, in the last stages of our negotiations, asked if I “partied,” and when I responded with my stock answer, “No, but you can if you like. If I party, my dick ain’t  gonna keep your butt  happy,” they vanished from cyber-space like space junk burning up in the atmosphere.

The third I met on a quiet Wednesday night at the Ramrod, Lauderdale’s leather bar, and was actually someone I had casually chatted with in social circles there and at other places. A little taller than me, sexy balding, with a scruffy beard and a nice tight body, my dick always twitched a bit when I saw or spoke with him. But nothing more ever came of it til that Wednesday night when he approached me and without much provocation confessed he had had his eye on me for years but had always felt intimidated. (Huh? Little 5’6” me.)  After we casually explored one another’s chests with our hands – I was shirtless, he had a T on which I lifted to find, as  remembered, he was fuzzy too – he punched in my number on his smartphone and we agreed to get together sometime Friday late afternoon or evening.


Early afternoon on Friday, I got a text from him that he wouldn’t be able to connect because he was “tied up with friends from Kentucky.” OK, but when I texted him back and asked if he had any time over the weekend, nothing came back. Game player?  Cockteaser? I’m tired of playing Freud and trying to figure out potential tricks and why they act the way they do.

The last, a 37 year old Portuguese  hottie with a matinee idol face and body to go with it, had hit me up on Manhunt a few days before, and though his profile said he was a bottom, I couldn’t figure out from his broken English (alright, my Portuguese is zilch) who would be fucking who. But the timing was all off;  when I e’d-him that I was free,  he wasn’t, and vice versa, and soon my opportunity for a foreign adventure faded into the pages of “Old Messages.”

The least desirable of the 5 men I thought I’d have was Kevin who, in his defense,  was open about his age on his profile – 55 – though his pics were of a guy ten years younger. Not my personal best, very slim, smooth and tallish, he nonetheless was the only guy of the 5 who actually showed up at my door Friday. Looking his age. And though there was an effeminate tinge to him, I was determined to have fun whether I liked it or not, and once I got into the zone, we fucked for almost two hours straight, amazing me even more than it surprised him.

OK, so now we’re up to 10:30 Friday night. Kev has left after we spent a half hour discussing world affairs;  he was a CPA and had been following some of the financial shit going on.  I’m tired, my legs are aching from all the awkward positions I had been in, off and on the bed, screwing his butt every which way I could, but I gulped down a cup of coffee and a No Doz, and went out, rationalizing to myself it was only for a beer or two. After all, it was Friday night of my Birthday weekend. Bad enough I was hitting a not so desirable milestone for a gay man;  I didn’t want to start acting my age by staying home watching reruns of “Blue Bloods.”

It’s off season in Florida and our bars, even on weekend nights, are not the sweaty crowded dens of iniquity they are in Jan and Feb when all the horny boys from Chicago, New York and Berlin come into town to get away from Old Man Winter for a hot roll in the hay with a hot honey.  I take my shirt off, almost in defiance, in Bill’s, our bear bar, knowing no one will care. Then, at about quarter of 12, I drive  down the street to Ramrod, for a nightcap beer. Frankly, the place is a bore; there are the usual cliques, the usual gym bunnies,  and the usual Jenny Craig failures who still think they look hot in a harness that, at least, acts as a bra to hold up their sagging tits. So I prance around, accelerate the sips of beer so as I complete my second circuit of the dump  my bottle’s empty and I’m ready to leave.

I’m a firm believer that timing is everything in life and that everything happens for a reason. For, just as I was walking out of the bar, who should be walking up the driveway in leather chaps, a hot gray T and leather cap than Todd, Todd of my “The Two most Sensual Hours in My Life With The Sexiest  Man I’ve Ever Known.”  I had dropped him a message on the hookup site where we had first connected but had not gotten any in return, and was content to cherish the time we had been together, as methed up as it had been, or maybe because of that.

Our eyes meet and he smiles that engaging, infectious, “I got ya, don’t I, fucker” smile and says, “Got your message. Wanna save me five bucks for a beer?”

“As long as you got a shot for my dick.” I replied. Almost on cue.  If I was going to play again with the hottest man I ever fucked after a two hour fuck session with Kev, a 6.5, I wanted my performance to be an Academy award winner.

“Sure,” he replied, “I got just one left and your name’s on it.” A minute later I’m following him over to his place, chewing a Viagra – I always keep a few in the car just in case – as additional hard-on insurance …

More tomorrow.

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