Fifty Shades of Ray … And Counting: Part II, My Introduction to E-stimulation or E-stim for short
From my memoirs, ”Furry Man’s Journal: Remembering Some of The Furry Men I’ve Known, Loved, and Even Slept With….”
The closest I came to being adopted by the Mafia, besides living and working on Staten Island, a borough of the Big Apple, and the most Italian American county in the U.S., was Peter, a short (like me), stocky, swarthy, hairy, Italian gorilla with a shaved head and thick black beard and a build that Tom of Finland would have used as a model.
Plus, looking back, he made me an offer I shouldn’t have refused.
It was 1985. George, my other half, was still on Wall Street, doing well as a back office processor for a trading house called Rothschild; I was doing even better at St. Vincent’s Hospital on Staten Island where I had climbed the corporate ladder from an assistant to the director of community relations to vice president of public relations and marketing when my hospital took over another and several nursing homes and expanded into a system, giving my old boss a place to move up to as a senior vice president of operations..
But my six figure salary also meant heavy taxes (feds, NYC, NYS), and looking for tax write-offs, I figured buying a house – with George – in what was then the hinterlands of Staten Island’s West Shore just made good financial sense.
Financial sense, yes, but everything else about prolonging our twosome was crazy.
We fought like cats and dogs about the silliest shit, not, like most str8 and gay couples, about money and, sure as hell, not infidelity. I really think he had no one he was fucking around with on the side, and many times I wish he had. He also rarely wanted to go out to the Village or out at all – I was a Mets widower in the summer and a Jets widower in the fall. But I knew George too well, super conservative George who frowned upon almost every aspect of gay culture except for sex with men, and even mentioning a possible “open relationship” would have led to fire and brimstone. Maybe I should have, that would have been the end of things and both of us would have moved on. But I didn’t and neither did he. And Saturday nights on my own, plus his occasional Saturday days in the office, and my weekday evening “community meetings” as a PR guy gave me plenty of opportunities for discrete play.
So I played. Not just for the sexual pleasure but for the attention and adoration, something I didn’t get at home. With George, I could have my cake – dick – and eat it too – someone to share the bills and household chores with, and even an occasional argument. It beat talking to myself.
In the summer of 1989, we decided to rent a small house in rural Pennsylvania just across the border from Jersey and New York in a no-nothing town called Dingmans Ferry. This way, we could take the dogs – we were on our second generation: Charlie, George’s beagle, an apartment dog all his life whom George had promised a big backyard in the country, passed away at 16 just before we moved to the house, like Moses never entering the Promised Land. Now we had Mollie, a beagle terrier mix, who we got at a local no-kill shelter, and Annie, a stray terrier who just showed up at our door one day in a storm, wet as a mop.
One rainy day while there that week in PA we went to a local retail estate agent purely out of curiosity and ended up buying a little bungalow of a house on three quarters of an acre, away from it all, all for fifteen thousand dollars. Now we would have a getaway place to take the dogs and maybe have a life together.
Instead, I can blame Dingmans Ferry for my first real “extra-marital” affair.
About 45 minutes away from our new place in PA was, of all things, a gay resort, called Rainbow Mountain, run by an older lesbian couple. It attracted a NYC and Philly crowd, but its pool and dance bar were also a mecca for local gays, men and women, on the weekends. Despite the ride on a winding country road that at night was frequented by deer, I think the stupidest animals God created, I managed to pry George off the couch and out to the pool on a summer afternoon or to the bar on a Saturday night. We even began meeting other couples and singles and were cultivating a social life we lacked back in New York.
Now one of the first guys we met, actually who came up to us, was thirty-something John, a NYC police detective, a broad, burly blonde and very personable guy who lived a closeted existence in the Bronx with his folks but led his secret life up here at a place a few towns over with his much younger Puerto Rican lover. It was John, who in turn, soon after introduced George and me to Peter, that swarthy Italian piece of beef who had just lost his long-time partner to cancer, then often used as a code word for AIDS in those early days of the genocide when guys were still too ashamed or afraid to talk about it.
His eyes opened wide as he shook my hand and I was seasoned enough by then to realize that there was more going on at that moment than simply meeting new friends.
A few weeks later, Peter invited us to a pool party at his summer home in Bartonsville, about 30 miles from us, a house, or I should say a mansion he built himself. You see, Peter had worked in construction, had even run his own company, and at 49, had recently retired, living off his rental properties, Treasury note coupons and tax exempted munis. But with all the gumba boys at his party, str8 and gay, I had my suspicions his money wasn’t all clean. But, hey, I lived and worked on Staten Island, where it seemed everyone was Italian and somebody’s cousin, and I learned not to ask questions.
Maybe it was my paranoia, but he seemed to be watching me all afternoon with that same wide stare and silly grin I remember the first moment we met at the bar. Only this time, we were able to feast on one another’s near naked bodies – after all this was a pool party. And his was a five course meal for this fur hungry boy. Massive shoulders, bull arms, barrel chest, only a bit of a belly, and thick thighs, all covered in dense black hair. There was some gray on his chest but even if his beard looked dyed black, he was all man, and after a few drinks he asked if I could help him in the kitchen with the appetizers. George was engrossed in some jock talk with John the cop and a couple of Peter’s buddies so in I went.
It took Peter all of three minutes to ambush me from behind, enveloping me in a bear hug.
“So you fucken hairy sexy fucker, does George ever let you off the leash?”’
George was maybe five yards away but I knew I wanted Peter too and I followed him to the den where he closed the door, peeled off his speedos, shoved me to my knees and stuck his huge, stiff, thick cut cock in my mouth. It didn’t take much for him to cum down my throat, but not a totally selfish guy, he pushed me down on the neighboring sofa, threw my legs up, rimmed my hairy hole, then blew me like a pro.
Not another word spoken, we were back outside with the pigs in a blanket and chicken fritters 15 minutes after I had left G, who was still bullshitting with his new jock buds.
At first I thought it was all a one-time thing though I masturbated in the silence of my bedroom at night imagining Peter’s hairy dick in my face. So when he called me at work – he obviously had made it a point to dig me up – and asked if I wanted to get together again, well …
The next time, we rendezvoused at his home – another estate – a bit closer to the City in Caldwell, Jersey. I took the afternoon off from work to play, and this is where Peter introduced me to a new kink, electro-stimulation, e-stim for short. With us squatting on the bed, face to face, he placed a long metal rod beneath our ball sacs wired to a large lantern battery and another wire around the base of each of our hard cocks, then flipped some switch and began slowly racketing up the voltage with a dial. It was the first time I shot without touching myself, and the sight of globs of cum spurting from our twitching cocks up onto our furry bellies and chests almost in unison would have been a ratings winner on xtube.com if it had existed then. To this day, I attribute my big balls to Peter’s little experiments.
But it wasn’t all sex. Peter liked to kiss, in fact, was a great kisser and knew again how to turn this hairy guy on with just a few soft strokes against my chest. As for me, my tongue and his burly furry body became fast friends.
Funny, I thought with the tool between his legs Peter would sooner or later ask to fuck me. But he never did. Was it because he was positive, though he didn’t look it? After all, I still thought his partner of ten years, Carl, had been a victim of the gay genocide. Who knows? All I do know is that each time we got together, I felt more relaxed – and more fulfilled as a gay man.
Plus George thought he was a nice guy.
Then one day, as we were playing up in PA on a weekend George was stuck in the office with end-of-month options, Peter popped the question I never expected.
“So when are you gonna leave George and come live with me fucker? You know I’ll take care of you, Christ, I got enough so you’d never have to work another day in your life.”
I had just turned 42, was already a VP and had my own wad of dough put away, maybe not Peter’s millions, but I didn’t need Peter or anyone to support me. Yet as much as George and Peter were alike in demeanor – masculine, manly, furry and cock-sure of themselves – I knew which one would keep my cock hard.
But I was headstrong about my career and I cherished my independence. And I was a self-reliant bastard, and never wanted to depend or count on anyone, not George, not my parents, no one, unless I had absolutely no choice.
But instead of being upfront with Peter, I back-pedaled a few more weeks, then just stopped answering his phone calls.
It was a beautiful June evening when I got home from work that Friday to find George sitting on the deck of our above ground pool.
“Why aren’t you in the water? “ I asked him. “I can’t wait to get out of this monkey suit.”
“Peter called,” said George in an uncharacteristically low, calm voice.
I put my attaché case down, and sat down in the other lawn chair
The gig was up.
“You had to fuck around with somebody we knew?” he continued, again, very quietly, very un-George.
There was no rationalizing out of this one. Peter had told him everything.
“So you want to break up?” I asked, matter-of-factly.
“What do YOU want?”
“Right now, I want to get my clothes off and get a stiff drink.”
I never did give him a straight answer but we barely said a word to each other for almost a week.
Maybe I should have used the opportunity to call it quits.
But I didn’t.
Neither of us went up to Rainbow Mountain for the rest of that summer. And I didn’t bother calling Peter to yell. What the fuck was the point? The damage was done. Besides, in a strangely twisted way, I think he had done this, lashing out at me through George, because he had loved me.
Really loved me.
More than I loved him.
Two years later, we ran into Peter at the bar. He was with a taller, haggard looking guy who looked like his new paramour. Funny, even when he had the balls to come up to us to introduce Harry, neither he nor George acted as if anything had happened. And I just continued playing Mr. PR.
Looking back, I think I was a silly boy for not leaving George for this rich slab of man. Peter might be dead by now, and I would have been set for the rest of my life like some jerk I met on the beach years later in Fort Lauderdale who after taking care of his “partner,” 30 years his senior, for 15 years, and not working a day all those years, is now living off a trust fund.
But hell, at least Peter didn’t hire a hit man when I deserted him. And years later, when I named my new shelter dog, a chihuahua terrier mix, “Pete”, George, never one to forget, was convinced I had named him for the guy I let get away. (I didn’t.)
P.S.: Years later, John the Cop retired with his fat pension and his slim lover to Miami where he bought a home on the water. He was an avid bike man and nothing made him happier than being with his motorcycle bros, str8 and gay, traveling the highways and byways of Florida. A non-believer in wearing a helmet in a state that didn’t demand it, he was thrown off his bike one breezy afternoon by an truck making an illegal U-turn and found the thousand pounds of machinery he loved come crashing down on him.
He was 49, and the handsome, burly blonde with the million dollar personality had a closed coffin at his wake.
More Fifty Shades of Ray… And Counting Friday with a look at my career as a fist fucker.