Love and My Valentine’s Day
For a guy who felt he had little love left in his life, this year’s Valentine’s Day proved me dead wrong.
Tuesday, the day before, one of my fuck buddies, the 53 year old who looked a boyish thirty and had the emotional maturity of a 14 year but cocksucking talents that belonged in the Guiness Book of Records was supposed to come that afternoon. Twenty of eight that morning when me and my dogs are still in bed in some kind of coma mirage, he texted me:
“Confirming today at 1, Daddy Ray. Can’t wait!!”
Okay, but when 1 came and went and 1:15 came and went, l reached out to find out what was going on. I always have a Plan B for almost everything in my life and my Plan B if Chris didn’t show was to hit Crunch, my gym just a five minute drive from here. I also learned the hard way – no pun intended – not to waste a Viagra until l was damn sure the guy was going to materialize.
1:30 l get this text message from the guy who had played with me many times before and who at twenty of eight was more enthusiastic than a Black Friday shopper:
“I’m with my friend Simon and he would like to come over and play too. He’s a real pig.”
Pissed about this sudden abrupt change in plans l demanded a photo, a photo promised but which never came.
Instead l got this reply:
“We’re headed over.”
Now l have this unbreakable rule and Chris damn well knows it that a never have two guys who l don’t know come to my place for sex. One guy l might be able to handle if the sex was a pretext for something evil but two guys – no way. And while l knew Chris and could handle him physically if things went south, l knew absolutely nothing about this Simon and in this day and age when a pix can be snapped and sent on your smartphone quicker than you can take a piss, my red flags went up.
“No way,” was my response to Chris’ ballsy in-your-face message.
“I thought you trusted me and you were open to meeting new people.”
My response: “l trust no one, not even my mother if she were alive. And while l’m open to meeting new people, l meet them on my terms, not yours when l’m doing the hosting.”
l ended by telling my boy-man how his was typical faggot behavior and how disappointed l was in him.
Determined not to fuck away the afternoon l quickly checked if anybody else loved me on the hookup sites and apps even as l took my steroid capsules and slipped on my shorts and tank top for a workout at Crunch.
Bingo. Up pops a fifty something burly bearded stud from Texas l had played with last fall who was in town. He had been on one of the gay cruises that left from Fort Lauderdale but was around until tomorrow.
Three hours later after my workout, a quick Lean Cuisine microwave dinner and a shower, Chad was in my bedroom. Besides the usual suck and fuck scenario, Chad loved to get fisted, and while this was not the five hours down on my dick l had been looking forward to from Chris, to paraphrase my late old lady, an ass in hand – literally – is worth two butts in the bush.
But what was supposed to be a casual sexual encounter with a repeat buddy morphed into, at least in Chad’s mind, a budding daddy-son relationship. While he had a hunk of a partner back in Texas, they no longer had sex and each maintained their own respective daddy-boy connections. Chad’s other half was a daddy, but Chad, a burly furry 5’ 11 masculine guy loved playing the boy, and after a trio of such relationships, two in which his daddy would beat the shit out of him, he had suddenly decided as my two hands were nearly in his ass that l was to be his Daddy Number 4.
I played along for a while but as the night became morning and he kept staring at me with loving eyes as he made love to my daddy dick l wondered how this was going to end. It ended predictably in my heated pool where we mostly talked about our lives until the time came for him to leave for the airport and back to Texas with the promise to see his new Daddy when he returned to Lauderdale, something he did often as a kingpin in the pharmaceutical industry.
Coward that l am, l didn’t want to ruin his little fantasy that l did not want to play that kind of Daddy, nor did l want to get into any long term relationship having just left one.
All-nighters sound envious but in reality are terrible. Though l’m retired and thankfully didn’t have to go to an office and make nice to a bunch of assholes, all-nighters left me a zombie for much of the rest of the day. I straightened up, then hit the bed but was over tired and couldn’t sleep.
The phone rang. It was George, my ex who was up at our home in northeast Pennsylvania, where it was snowing – again.
Normally he’d called me to bitch about something in his shitty life or about a problem at the house or about the tenant at our other house a few miles away that we rented who was a Section 8 loser who had enough money to buy cigs but not the hundred dollar share of his monthly rent.
But today’s call was different and uncharacteristically George.
“I want to thank you for the Valentine’s Day card. It really made my day.”
A few days before l was at Walgreens looking for a card to send George. But as l commented to a housewifey type doing her own searching: “All these cards are so saccharin. Why don’t they make cards that say just because l can’t stand you doesn’t mean l don’t care.”
She laughed politely when – bingo – l saw exactly the card for my ex who l lived with for 42 years, who was my complete opposite, who l fought with almost every day of those 42 years about absolute shit, who l had been there for for every health crisis in his life and who l brought down every winter for the past fifteen years to my house in south Florida, until last April when he blurted out, ”You dragged me down to South Florida for the winter.” Yes.
The card? “YOU DRIVE ME CRAZY… but in a good way.” To which l added this note, “Just because we can’t live together doesn’t mean l don’t love you.”
Mr. Jock-Macho had been touched and we exchanged a few more pleasantries until he started complaining how the guy who had plowed his neighbor’s driveway had left his buried in snow.
I lay down on my sofa, Pete, my loyal chihuahua/terrier mix who l had saved from being euthanized, hopped up to be with Daddy.
But even after petting him and his two sisters, my mini doxies, who barked to be picked up, l felt totally empty inside. Yes, l have had a good life, two successful careers, an LTR though it had been a bumpy one, was a published writer, was financially comfortable and certainly had had my share of good looking men. In fact l was more popular now than when l was thirty. And as l told each of my guys, three of which were old enough to be my biological sons, l was flattered to be their dad. And yet …
That’s when they came, a quick succession of texts.
First from my handsome, handsome 42 year Irish fuck buddy “nephew” Dennis who was in the throngs of obtaining a renewal of his green card so he could stay here in the U.S. A smart cookie, he had a nice nest egg back in the old country but preferred staying here.
“Happy Valentine’s Day Uncle Ray, if you believe in such a thing.”
“I do. When l meet guys like you who are sincere in their expressions of affection to another like you are to me, it makes me believe again that two men can truly like one another besides for what they got between their legs.”
Next came a “Happy Valentine’s Day” from my neighbor and confidant and probably the only girl friend l’ve had in my life who while in her mid-fifties is still a hot chick and on my wave length.
But the piece de resistance was the “Happy Valentine’s Day” greeting that came next – from Jim, who of all my regulars, in fact, out of all the men l’ve had in my life, is the closest person l would choose as a lover, though we have both vowed that after our respective rocky prior relationships, an LTR was the last thing either one was looking for in our lives.
Just a bit taller than me, lightly furry with a chest that gets my dick instantly hard every time l see it, a rugged, handsome face and beautiful man’s body without the benefit of a gym, stable, intelligent, a professional with the same demands l had when l was in PR, well, just a regular guy, the kind you could bring home to mom or walk into a str8 bar without feeling a twinge of uneasiness.
At first it sounded like he was tired after another stressful day on the job and was going to stay in. But an hour later after l checked out our local supermarket for their addictive brownies to solace my empty soul with, Jim jotted off a text:
“I changed my mind. I wanna be bad.”
We had gotten together dozens of times before, had stopped seeing one another when l was getting mushy and he was adamant about not wanting a relationship but just a roll in the hay fuckbuddyship, but who a month or so later came back into my life like a puppy with his tail between his legs. There was also an apparent change in attitude. When he came down with a bad infection while l was visiting George in PA in December where it was 17 degrees, I advised him what questions to ask his doctor to make sure he didn’t have one of those antibiotic resistant variety. After that he started reaching out casually, messaging me how l was doing and when l was honest and told him l felt like shit he would give me the kick in the ass a minor manic depressant needed to get back into the game.
The wildest thing in my mind after all our rolls in the hay was that we had not gotten bored with one another in the least but found each encounter more lustful than the last. But last night Valentine Day’s Night was somehow different. Hard dicks became a footnote, and while l dared not use that four letter word love to describe it, l felt l was with the brother l had been seeking all my life, and l could see in his eyes he felt the same.
Every time l was with Jim, I’d tell him what a beautiful man he was, and l know the way he stroked my body and stared appreciatively as l worshipped his manhood he found me just as hot. But he had never enunciated that to me in words.
Not until last night.
Finally l just blurted it out, expecting a noncommittal evasive answer as l had gotten in the past. “So you like what you see? Do you dig me as much as l dig you?”
Yes l do, very much,” and he pulled me down and kissed me, not in obligatory way as part of the sex act but because he meant it.
So despite all my cynicism, l ended up having the most touching, intimate Valentine’s Day in my shitty little life.
When he texted me this morning from work to thank me for last night and about going with him in June to the Gay Pride March in D.C. l responded with an enthusiastic yes. Besides finally playing the gay activist after decades of being in the closet on the job as an executive of a Catholic healthcare system, we could go museum hopping, something two minds who think alike could enjoy (My George, the jock, thought museums were boring). Best of all, we could end each day naked in bed.
“What a winning combination,” l texted.
“Damn right,” replied Jim.
So what is love really?
Who the fuck knows.
And right now, ask me if I care.