The Doggie Trick Test
As those of you who follow my blog know, l’m a dog lover. I’ve got three here with me in Florida, two dachshunds and one terrier chihuahua mix. My ex just lost his elderly beagle Sammy at our home in Pennsylvania, who now joins the ten dogs and one cat we had over the decades we lived together that are either buried up in PA or in urns at our respective residencies.
I also fully recognize not everyone likes animals – l get it – but l’ve learned over the years that if a newbie (a guy l’ve connected with over the web or phone apps who l’ve never met before) doesn’t warm up to my dogs (who again aren’t intimidating pit bulls) the second he walks through the door, l can bet with 99.9 percent certainty our encounter will bomb.
Such was the case a couple of months ago when a guy from Chicago l met off Manhunt came over for a fling. He was a top and l’m a top, but he agreed that some of his best sex has been with other tops and that if he couldn’t plow me he’d blow me like a champ. Since l dig sucking too l figured we’d have fun. His face pics looked younger than the age he admitted to – 50 – but the body shots for someone who described himself as “athletic” looked on the mark. i even brought up the fact that all my pics were current – less than six months old – and he said the ditto about his and that he had had the same frustrating experiences of guys showing up at his door looking like their father.
Now l’m no gym bunny but l keep my weight under control and my body toned and expect the same from the guys l bed down with. But the first thing that caught my eye as he walked from his car to my door was his belly. Not huge but not a sign of an “athletic” build. And as l suspected, his slightly haggard face was that of an older man, befitting the fifty he admitted to, not the thirty something boyish one he had in his profile.
Standing by the inner door to my house as they always do when Daddy has a gentleman caller was my little tribe.
First words out of his mouth: “They don’t bite do they?”
Right then l should have told him l had just come down with Ebola. But l didn’t. Guess l am a masochist.
Then, as l always do, l asked him if he was okay with me. I’d rather beat a guy to the punch if he’s not happy with what he sees than wait for him to kick me in the balls with a “l don’t think this is going ro work out,” which what l should have said to him looking at his belly.
But l didn’t.
It wasn’t that l was overly horny, or pissed if l told him to get the fuck out that my dollar Viagra would have been wasted. No, but I was curious where this was going.
“l’ve got water or Gatorade. “
Now if someone offers me a free drink as a courtesy l gladly give him my choice without reservations, as do my fuck buddies whenever we get together.
“What flavor Gatorade have you got?”
He passed on the cherry colored bottle l held up for the bottled water.
We got in the bedroom, him still concerned about the dogs, l hesitantly agreed to close the bedroom door. Yea one of them may roam in and out but better that than whimping and barking on the other side of the door. (“Hey, what are you doing to our daddy?”)
We strip, and stocky he is, athletic he ain’t. My dick is up – thank you Canadian Pharmacy – his isn’t, so l begin demonstrating the talents that won me the Best Cocksucker Award for the Mid Atlantic Region in 1996. He gets hard – nice cock – and we go to the bed.
Now for someone who in his profile claimed he’d dive on your dick if couldn’t dive into your ass, he’s real slow to prove it, but after about fifteen minutes of making him feel good, l cheerfully (thank God for my acting classes in college) announce *My turn,” and gesture for us to switch places on the bed. He complies but, well let’s put it this way, my little mutt Pete can do better.
We try sixty nining which he mentioned in his profile, but he immediately complains that if l bend his dick closer to my mouth in that position, it hurts. Okay …
In the end neither of us got off. We rattled on for a while about Trump, and his job as private snow removal guy.which sounded like his only job. Since Chicago this year had baske in an Indian summer with barely a trace of snow, l wondered if he lived with his parents or had a sugar daddy to feed that belly of his.
“I gotta eat,” he finally said reaching for his clothes.
“Thank fucken God,” l thought to myself.
So what did l learn from this awkward, occasionally painful experience?
If the guy doesn’t pass the doggie test right from the get-go, tell him you’ve suddenly come down with a case of the runs and get him back his car as quickly as you can.
A Viagra that cost a buck is a terrible thing to waste but, hell, we all gotta make sacrifices, right?
Have a great Labor Day … chat with you Wednesday.