Fifty Shades of Ray … And Counting, Part I

Fifty Shades of Ray … And Counting, Part I

Okay, enough of me politicizing, pontificating and philosophizing . It’s time for some true confessions. It’s time to talk sex. S-E-X.

Not just any kind of sex.

No, I mean kinky sex.

fifty pic a

I don’t apologize for what you’re about to read. I’m neither proud nor ashamed of what I’ve done in the name of pleasure; I am what I am and, well, it is what it is.

The long anticipated BDSM erotic romance, “Fifty Shades of Grey” opened this past weekend in theaters. While it was largely panned by the critics as “insipid,” it will probably make a fortune off wives who drag their husbands to it in hopes its dirty tale inspires them. (It’s already made $80 million its first weekend out, double what it cost to produce.) I didn’t read the book nor plan to see the movie. But from what I gleamed from the internet, my response is one big yawn.

I mean what’s the big fucken deal?

I can’t speak for str8’s, but unless you’re totally vanilla without sprinkles in the bedroom, most of us gay guys have “been there, done that” somewhere along our checkered careers. I know I certainly have as a seasoned leather man: I’ve been cuffed. had my balls tied up and weighed down with fish hooks, had hot wax dripped on my cock and balls, have e-stimmed, have deep fisted and punched fisted at least a dozen men, tightened a belt around the neck of a guy who craved breath control till he passed out, wore a gas mask while a guy shot poppers up the hose and a third blew me, and get a hard-on in Home Depot and Office Depot when it comes to looking for new toys for my tits. (How do you think I got ‘em that big?) That’s just for starters, and most of the time I wasn’t even high.

Not bad for a former Sunday school teacher, huh? (No, you’re right, pretty awful.)

There was the time P. invited me over one Friday night to his Miami luxury condo. One studly bearded furry handsome Cuban, P wanted one thing and one thing only: for me to pound his bull balls with a mallet or, when he was really warmed up, a baseball bat, while he lay there, those thick muscular, hairy legs spread. No touching, no kissing, just three hours of solid whacking while we smoked meth.

Or how about the time I was in a bath house in Montreal and a big brute of guy, J, asked me to punch fist him and was disappointed when no blood showed on my hand.

Get now why I can’t understand all the hoopla about “Fifty Shades?”

I’ve included my experiences (enhanced a bit, of course, hey I’m a writer not a priest) in my short story collection, “Basic Butch;” in my memoirs, “Hairy Man’s Journal,” and in my latest novel, “The Czar of Wilton Drive.” And all this week I plan to give you a taste of my darker side just to show you what real kinky m2m sex is all about.

Let me start with an excerpt from my short story, “Guilt Gift.” West Village leather boys David and A.B were fuck buddies who enjoyed a lifestyle that revolved around the next leather event. They thought a mysterious invite to a very private party in San Francisco from a couple they had fucked with at the last Mister International Leather Contests in Chicago would be just another opportunity to play rough. In the end, they got far more than they ever bargained for…

Most nights Dave took the subway home from Macy’s and his job as manager of Menswear, but occasionally, when his silly ass clerks didn’t hold things up by fucking up the register tapes at closing, he would hoof it. This warm, dry August evening was certainly one of those nights. As he approached their three story walk-up on Christopher Street, he noticed A.B.’s black Schwinn Flyer chained to the “No Parking Tues and Thurs 7 am to 3 pm” sign pole just outside the front door. He trotted through the tiny first floor foyer, glanced quickly above the buzzer at the bulletin board, full of ads and notices, to see if there was anything worth considering, then spiked up the 27 worn, splintered wood steps to their third floor flat. He could smell burnt tomato sauce in the hallway.

“You did get the mail, didn’t you?” said Dave as he opened the door. A.B. was hovering over the tiny oven, obviously trying to hide his culinary faux pas.

“I’m – I’m sorry, I forgot, I was so hungry, I wanted to make the spaghetti before you got home –“
“And instead you burnt the sauce?”

“Yea- yea –”

“And left your bike on the street, when you already lost two that way.”

“But they told me that bike chain was in- invincible –“

“Abel, I wonder how you survive as a Wall Street messenger boy – excuse me, courier,” said Dave. “You’d probably leave two million dollars worth of bonds sitting on the table at Subway,” and he turned around and trotted back down the stairs.

Stuck in between another endless promo for Verizon DSL and his credit card bill from Citibank was an oversize ivory envelope addressed to the two of them. It was just like the invitation, a bit smaller, that he had gotten last spring to his brother’s wedding in Las Vegas – Jesse’s second – the one he passed on since it fell on the same weekend as the annual Houston Leatherfest. On the flap was scribbled, “817 Harrison Street, San Francisco.”

Though curious, he waited until he got back up to the apartment to open it. He left A.B. to salvage the spaghetti dinner in the kitchenette.

“You are very cordially invited to a very private leather party at 817 Harrison Street (third floor), San Francisco, beginning at 12 midnight Saturday of Labor Day Weekend hosted by your playboys Eden and Elee.

You will find your fully paid airline and hotel reservations at, passcode YZS4433452.

Don’t need to bring toys – we’ll be fully stocked.

“Who’s EE?” asked Dave from the sofa.

“Oh, they’re those twin brothers, cue balls, you remember, smooth-as-silk bods, we met them Memorial Day at MIL. Why, I think I even have a picture of them.”

A.B. swung open the closet door. He had this photo fetish of taking pics of guys whom they hung out with on their weekend or vacation leather romps with a CVS disposable digital camera and had all four years worth of their lives and trips together hanging like a scrapbook on the closet door. There at the end of the fifth row were the four of them by the back pool table in Touche’s. Thirty somethings like them, tall swimmer body types, but no hair at all.

Suddenly it all came back. Dave may have forgotten their names but he never forgot an ass. The four of them had cabbed it back to the motel where, ironically, they were all staying and had spent the night and most of the next morning in a quintessential fuckfest that got so sloppy that they flipped to the other’s room when the Crisco on the sheets had gotten too slippery.

Dave showed A.B. the invite.

“But how did they get our names and addresses?” asked A.B., curious. “All you gave them was your e.”

“Abel, if a 12 year old can hack the Pentagon, two leather boys in SF can get our addresses,” said Dave already at his laptop, checking the Travelocity code. Sure enough, everything was right there, all in perfect order. They had nothing else planned for Labor Day except maybe doing an overnighter on Fire Island. And a perpetua-fist fucking session beat that any day of the week.

“But Christ, that’s next weekend,” said A.B. and he rushed back to the closet rummaging through the boots and sneakers and gym bags on the floor. “I got four Fleet Enemas left. Think that’s enough?”

“Just remember this time to put ‘em in the check-in luggage, not the carry-ons so they don’t think they’re some new type of plastic explosives, thank you.”

The anticipation suddenly stiffened Dave up and he grabbed A.B. from behind and stripped off his Nike shorts. Then he pulled his own jeans and underwear down to the floor.

“But what about the spaghetti?”

“Feed it to Belvedere.” Belvedere was the cat of their 75 year old neighbor Mrs. Sylvester, a former Rockette, who lived on the first floor. “There’s always take-out.”

Dave preferred using a glove but the open can of Crisco sitting on the window sill beckoned him and, seconds later, he was plunging his fist into A.B.’s dirty, but obedient asshole, back and forth, back and forth, picking up the pace ever so slowly until A.B. squirted. Then A.B. quickly turned around and caught the sperm that was already spurting from Dave’s dick with his tongue. After all these years, they had it down to a science.

Dave decided to vacuum the apartment, while A.B. pedaled to the Chinese restaurant on West 12th. Dave was still vacuuming when A.B. got back with the lo mein.

They had stayed at the SoMar twice before so Dave was glad their hosts had booked a room upstairs in the rear away from the pool that could get noisy with token straights and their kids. They had time to take a nap and walk up to Sally’s Coffee Shop off Ninth and Folsom, about the only place around to grab a sandwich unless you hiked to Union Square. South of Market, with its dingy streets littered with homeless, wasn’t glitzy Castro but all the real S and M stuff was within a few blocks of the SoMar.

So was 817 Harrison.

They left the motel around 10:30 in their chaps – Dave wore his harness and A.B. his tight, waist length leather vest, both of them showing off their dark hairy pecs to their best advantage like good bearded brothers – and scooted over to Mountain Men, the bear/leather bar just around the corner. The front bar was half empty, but out on the back patio the bellies and hairy chests were bumper to bumper.

After two quick Buds, they began their slow stroll down Harrison. A youngish, bearded guy with long hippyish hair that he kept pulling lice out of, was begging on the corner two doors from the address. They ignored him, then pushed the buzzer.

No one came to greet them but they heard the click and took the freight elevator – there was no place else to go – to 3. The loft was well lit if sparsely furnished and there at one of those home bars you bought at Target’s, donned only in black jocks and high- laced black boots, were Eden and Elee. Their metal tit rings sparkled in the light almost as brightly as their shaved, waxed heads.

“Guess we’re early,” said Dave after they had jock-talked and small-talked a few obligatory minutes.

“Not really,” answered one of the boys – he didn’t know who was who and, frankly, what did it matter. He soon learned the one with the tight mustache – a new addition since MIL – was Eden.

“We did say a very private party on the invite, didn’t we?” said the other.

A.B. looked puzzled. Dave just grinned.

A.B. liked being tied up spread eagle when he got fucked and the twins had no problem complying, duct-taping him down to a large slab they used in mortuaries for embalming. For the next couple of hours the three of them took turns fucking and fist-fucking the by now very coked-up A.B. Then Eden lay beside A.B., ass up, and Dave started using one hand to fuck Eden and the other A.B. while Elee knelt down, grabbed Dave’s dick from behind, and rough-sucked him off. Eden quietly extracted himself. A.B. just continued to writhe on the slab, waiting for more.

“So cowboy, like being lassoed?” asked Eden, not waiting for a response. Dave, buzzed out by endless lines of coke and beers, gave him little resistance.

“Dovid,” said Elee as he watched his brother tie Dave to a wooden cross that had been hidden behind some old plastic shower curtains.

No one had called him that in almost twenty years. Not since he had run away from North Miami Beach at 17, away from a life that he couldn’t, wouldn’t live. He tried to clear the haze from his brain.

“Remember Yakkov Bickerman?”

Eden came close enough to Dave that he could smell the onions on his breath.

“Yakkov was our brother. Our poor miserable fucked up brother. Remember him now, Dovid?”

Dave said nothing and remained expressionless.

Dave felt Elee hooking something to the back of the cross beam.

“It took us a lot of years to figure out what happened,” continued Eden.

“That’s why you ran, isn’t Dovid – to SoBe, til you found some rich old faggot to finance your trip to New York,” added Elee.

Suddenly duct tape blocked Dave’s vision as he felt endless rows of tape tighten around his neck. His boots began to dangle off the floor. He was being raised up. The prayer for the dead raced through his brain.

A.B. squirmed futilely.

“Sorry, Abel, you had to come along for the ride,” said Elee.

“Well, Dovid,” said Eden in an undertone, as the top of David’s head slammed against the cement ceiling, “now it’s your turn.”

Then, he cut the rope.

What to know how it ends? Check out “Basic Butch,“ my short story anthology of tales on the edge at

Wednesday, another Fifty Shades of Ray… And Counting: Peter and My Introduction to E-Stimulation or E-Stim for short

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