Have You Had One or More of the Top Twenty Five Men in Your Town?
Or maybe you’re one of ‘em (Wanna text me?).
A buddy of mine once claimed every town, be it the big Apple or Missoula, Montana, has its Top Twenty Five Men who the rest of us poor mortals either salivate or pre-cum over. I must confess even this rapidly shrinking, rapidly aging gay man has had his share for which I gratefully thank the Gay God or just good timing or the guy’s meth high.
The funny thing is, and maybe this has happened to you too, when these guys appear in your life it’s not something you plotted or dissected the algorithms of Manhunt like some Silicon Valley guru or pulled out Aunt Susie’s Ouija board to summon. Or figuring those twenty extra reps at the gym or dyeing your chest hair with Just for Men medium brown instead of dark brown made the difference. No, more times than not, he just, well, pops up. And then proceeds to tell you he’s been eyeing you for a while, either on the web or in the twenty items or less aisle at Wal-Mart or at the local watering hole where you’ve stood in the same fucken corner for the last eleven years where the same fucken guys, totally oblivious that you’re standing there, have stepped on your steel toed boots in exactly the same spot. (Right foot, third toe in.)
Your next reaction is one of wonder and amazement like some peasant saint-wannabe seeing the image of the Virgin Mary in her laundry soap suds. “How can I be worthy to have this prince, this specimen of manhood, like – ME?”
Sometimes he turns out actually to be a nice guy and the two of you hit it off like soul brothers-in-sin for the night – or a lifetime – or two weeks. Whichever comes first. Or sometimes he’s a totally self-absorbed jerk with nothing but his looks – that handsome, rugged face and body sculpted by God – to carry him.
So what? Isn’t that fucken enough?
Well, maybe. I was at our local bath house a few weeks ago on Leather Night which I think better described the condition of the skin on the guys there rather than what they were wearing when this colossus of a man, 6’4″, porn star body with the fur and face to go with it, came up to the door of my room and, pulling on his nips asked, “Are yours hardwired?”
“Yep,” I replied.
And with that, he closed the door, instructed me to play with his nips for the next five minutes while he stroked his thick cock (which I couldn’t touch) until he shot all over my cot. Then he turned around, mumbled, “Nice fur,” and left.
So much for romance.
But the main flaw in my buddy’s premise is that once you’ve had your pre-ordained share of your town’s Top Twenty Five Men, or gone through them all, you pig, you’re stuck with either settling for someone who’s real and not some Men’s Fitness cover mirage, or leaving town to start trolling some other town’s Top Twenty Five.
Or, like me, if you live in a gay vacation mecca like Fort Lauderdale, waiting for the next jet to bring a sampling of some other town’s Top Twenty Five Men right to you.
Thanks, Jet Blue.