Back To Back Sex

Back To Back Sex

This, guys, is exactly as it happened. No bullshit.

Okay, it’s a Friday evening around seven a few weeks ago. My other half is already settled in for the night, watching marathon reruns of the forty year old black series, “Good Times” even though he’s a racist, “because they make me laugh.” He chides me about going out but offers no viable alternatives. And when you’re doing the town solo, you ain’t gonna do a movie or play or concert or museum exhibition (depressing), not if you’re gay and live in a metro mecca like Lauderdale. Hell, you go to a gay bar, even if it’s to hold up the wall.

I’ve been box office poison the last couple of days on the hook-up sites, so for the hell of it I reach out to one of my on-again, off-again fuck buddies, Donny, my 52 year old hairy beefy regular blond Irish guy who has shit to show for his life but has a dick just like mine. Hell, working his cock over is like sucking myself. After being unemployed for months, he’s now working crazy hours as a security guard at some factory complex just outside downtown Lauderdale but from past encounters I know he could be available 11ish.

Twenty minutes later, while I’m watching the CBS evening news with Scott Pelley I taped earlier, and not hearing anything from Donny, I reach out to my fuck buddy-in-training (hopefully), my 32 year old (shit!) half-Italian, half- Brazilian dark furry humpy, bi-man Miguel who’s also at work at the airport as a baggage handler. He texts me a few minutes later, says he might be up for it around 10 but “I got called in early tomorrow so we can’t play long.” Hell, ten minutes with this guy who was married, just broke up with his girlfriend and wants to explore the wild side with me is worth two hours with anybody else.

“Okay,” I text back, “give me a shout out by 9:30 if you’re up for it.”

I’m doing my usual 30 minute pre-bar buff-up on my Bowflex that sits in the living room ‘cause there’s no place else I can put it, figuring I’ll hit our sex club, Slammers first and at least get a blow job, then go on to the Ramrod, our leather bar, when, lo and behold, Donny hits me up. “Sure, let’s play. But I gotta give you my new address. Just moved this morning.” I mapquest it, and see he’s actually nearer to me than before. Now, since he won’t be free till after 11, and I gotta leave the house by 10 or otherwise George, between commercials, is complaining why I’m leaving so late (yea!), I figure I’ll kill some time at Hunter’s, our dance bar, (Ramrod is dead till 11:30) before moseying over to Donny’s once he gives me the high sign he’s home.

It’s 9:30, nothing from Miguel, but hey I got Donny, so who gives a fuck. I hit the shower, making sure my hairy manhole is nice and clean – Donny loves to stick his tongue up there with me sitting on my rim chair I left at his place – and just as I’m about to put on my cock ring and ball stretcher who hits me up – you guessed it – Bi-Man.

“Home. How soon can you get here?”

“Give me 15,” I reply. What the fuck, he said he didn’t wanna play all night anyway, so why not fuck around with Miguel till about 11, lie and tell him I’m meeting some buddies at the Ramrod, our leather bar, and then head over to Donny’s.

From zilch to a double feature. Go figure. All the typical cliques flood my mind as I try to rationalize my piggish expectations. Life is short. Play hard. Go with the flow. Or the best one, the title of that Joan Didion novel about the fucked up sixties.

Play it as it lays.

I don’t even bother shouting over to George that I’m leaving. He’s already asleep. I pop the other half of my Viagra and walk out the door.

It’s show time.

Part II, Wednesday.



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