Here’s my story of the handsome young man who came in and went out of my life a few days ago and gave me back what I was in gay life for to begin with. Not the scene, not the politics, just the smell of a man’s sweaty armpit in my face.
My partner’s back up at our place in the Poconos in Northeast PA, and I won’t be going up til July 1. Our long term relationship morphed into a lifetime friendship a long time ago, though we have our affectionate moments, and while I’m a promiscuous bastard, 95% of my sexual encounters have been purely physiological.
Alone now again, and yes, sometimes lonely, I searched the web and the sex clubs and even the hook up apps on my new Samsung Galaxy S III, hoping to find more than just 17 minutes of sex. What I wanted was a guy whose masculinity I could appreciate and smell and taste as much as he appreciated mine.
Instead, this past week, I felt like box office poison: decent looking guys coming on to me, three e-mails in, were looking for drugs, or guys not my type who have been stalking me forever, kept on doing it, a handful of guys who said they wanted to connect did not return my messages, and one guy, who only had a blurry face shot up on his profile but who sounded OK in his descript, proved a no show. He said he was on his way but never showed up. He had already blocked me on the website but since I still had his phone number, I texted him the following day. Rather than take the obvious approach and tell him to go fuck himself which would only show I was annoyed, something this type of fucked up dude relishes, I instead thanked him for not showing since that left me free to hook up with a hottie from one of the other websites. A total lie since I went to Ramrod that night to drown my sorrows and my wasted Viagra hard-on in free drinks (it was underwear night and I am an exhibitionist). But at least I had put a Band-Aid on my wounded ego and he, realizing I was being sarcastic in my message, replied he was glad to have been of help.
Then last night, HE entered my shitty life. A very handsome, tight bodied 39 year old personal trainer, he had wanted to get together with his Daddy for a while but, the justifiably cynical me thought he was all bullshit as so many other cyber-cockteasers had been. Even when he said he was on his way to my place on Wednesday night, I didn’t believe it was going to happen and left the Viagra on the counter til he became a flesh and blood reality. After all, I had already wasted one the night before.
But, though ten minutes late, showed up he did. As his car pulled into my driveway, I quick slugged down my magic blue pill, but was only in my underwear and shoeless when I met him at the door.
He was short like me – we could see eye to eye – with a tight, muscular body that even with his tank and jeans on I could tell carried not an ounce of fat on it. We sat on the sofa for a good 20 minutes talking about working out, me practically naked, he still fully dressed, as I admired his powerful shoulders and arms. No gym bunny duh boy, my handsome young man with the chiseled European features of a Spaniard, a shock of black hair, piercing black eyes and faint goatee, was quite knowledgeable about the musculo-skeletal system and, in the course of our chatting, I learned he had been a personal trainer in Mexico and was attempting to get his certification here. Currently working as an LPN, he had already completed his RN degree at a local community college and was about ready to take his boards. But personal training seemed his first love.
The word “healthy” came up a dozen times in our conversation, and he made it a point to divorce himself from the usual gay fare I had come painfully to know in this sewer of a town: he didn’t drink, didn’t smoke and didn’t do drugs.
Now when a guy chats for twenty minutes from the get-go, it usually means it’s not going to happen and he’s just waiting for the right moment to politely bow out. So I was actually surprised when I suggested we get continue our little talk in the bedroom – naked – that he padded my hairy thigh, smiled, hopped up and followed me over.
We played almost non-stop for the next three and a half hours, and while there was plenty of raw hard dicked sex – both of us had tits wired to our cocks – it was much more than that. We fell into the Daddy-son roles almost instantaneously and played them to perfection, as I worshipped his Men’s Fitness cover abs, lightly fuzzy chest, and hairy muscular butt, and he went crazy over my blue eyes, licking my beefy frame and body fur, and was electrified each time I rubbed my scrappy beard against his crotch. (“What I would do to have just 20% of that hair,” he exclaimed.) He said he wanted to bulk up to look like his Dad but all I saw was absolute perfection in front of me. Old enough to be my son, this handsome man was what I had needed very badly for a very long time and we kissed as much as we played. Kissing him was like kissing my own soul. Even with AC on full blast, we dripped sweat on one another’s flesh which made his ripe armpits all the more sensual for my tongue.
He muttered how he wanted us to work out together, how he wanted to show off his Dad on the beach or in the leather bar, the two of us decked out in cowhide. Now I’ve been around long enough to know that this was probably all talk in the heat of the moment, but for three and a half hours I made love – yes, love, not sex – to a beautiful man who thought I was beautiful too. Life is of the moment and we made these moments count and, for me, they have become an indelible track in my memory.
It was only after he was pulling out of my driveway that I realized I had never even gotten his name.