My Life As a Gay Man: 9/11 and Sam – Part II

My Life As A Gay Man: 9/11 and Sam – Part II

The streets were strangely empty. Everyone who was in the City and could get out had. Along the way, a cop here, a fireman there, was crouched beside the curb or next to a lamp post, numb, exhausted, or crying.  Then, as I approached the block where the guest house was, out of nowhere a lone, shirtless jogger flashed by.

The guesthouse had plenty of rooms – most of last week’s guests had left Sunday and this week’s couldn’t get into town since the airports were all fucked. As I waited for the flustered little queen at the reception desk to run my card, I felt the stare of somebody behind me. I turned around. Sitting on a chair in the corner of the tiny lobby, his legs sprawled over a nearby coffee table, was this cowboy with a thick red beard, the only other guy in the place besides me.

I called him that because he was wearing a white cowboy hat, sleeveless blue flannel shirt partly unbuttoned to show off some heavy chest hair, and a pair of worn blue levis that accented his bulge. There he sat, sipping a Bud and cruising me like I was the last man on earth.

Maybe ‘cause I was.

I gave him one last heavy cruise back, then started up the stairs to my room. I could hear him get up.

“Wanna beer?” he asked with a sexy smile and straight guy’s attitude as I fumbled with one of those god damn electronic cards that never opened your door on the first try.

I turned around and smiled back. He was a tall motherfucker.

“My room’s down the hall. And my door’s wide open.”

His name was Sam and he was in from New Orleans on vacation though he grew up in Georgia.

“It would be my friggen luck to be in New York when the A-rabs decided to bomb it,” he quipped, throwing himself on the bed, as he flipped his hat on the floor. He had a thick head of reddish gray hair. I was a bit jealous. While I still had most of my hair, I was beginning to develop a bald spot on the back of my head, though I was thankful I probably had inherited Mom’s genes, not Dad’s for this. You see, Dad was a cue ball by the time he was 30.

“I was supposed to fly back home this morning,” Sam went on, “but with everything going nowhere, I just stayed on. But I guess now there’s not even any action at the baths.”

He was waiting for me to pick up on his cue. I just sipped my beer.

Then, all bashful like, he glanced away. “You wanna play?”

I have to admit he was almost as hairy as Mafiaman Peter – reddish gray – and beefy, with a bit of a belly that made him even sexier. And besides being the first red head I ever made, he was also the first guy I ever fucked.

Up to now, I had been an oral guy, sucking dick, eating pits, rimming ass. Sure, there had been guys, hot guys and not so hot, who had wanted me to fuck them, or, more often, because of my cute hairy butt, fuck me. But thoughts of 9 inch L.A.’s Jordan would always painfully cross my mind and I would have to either politely decline their offer or push them off. And when the aggressive ones replied, “Why not?” and I replied, “Do YOU wanna get fucked?,” they’d get all indignant.

But just as today was the beginning of a new chapter in our country, tonight would prove a new chapter in my life as a career faggot – my debut as a top.

We had been sixty-nining when Sam, who for a big guy had a small dick, looked at my stiff tool and asked, “You negative?”

“Yep,” I lied. I had never been tested. Felt I didn’t need to be.

“Well, I am too, and I want that stiff tool up my butt raw. Think you can deliver?”

Thankfully his butt hole, actually not as furry as the rest of him, welcomed my cock with only some spit as lube, and taking cues from all the fuck porn I had watched waiting for some trick to love me in the bath house, I fell into just the right rhythm for both of us.

”Yea, gimme that hard, thick cock, fucker, stretch that hole,” he growled.

We went at it in all different positions, and finally, with those massive furry legs of his up on my shoulders, his butt half off the bed, and my cock way up there, Sam shot his load so high it hit my chin. It took me only two minutes to shoot myself, all over his furry belly.

“Shit, where did you learn how to fuck like that? Fucken A, buddy, fucken A.”

I always prided myself in being a quick study. And little did I know tonight would serve as a proving ground for my soon-to-be future as a South Florida gay man. In fact, we fucked twice more that night, all while the rest of the world was falling apart outside our hotel window.

The next morning, still unsure about the ferry and with my car sitting in Bayonne, New Jersey, I grabbed a bus back to Staten Island, and took the above ground train which left me off about a fifteen minute walk from my house.

George wasn’t around, but had left a note to walk the dogs when I came in and to call him at the hospital where I guess everybody was doing double duty.

So, before I called my office, I called him.

Now George was one of those guys who was committed to using the word “fuck” or a variation thereof at least half a dozen times in a sentence, and I honestly attribute the filthy mouth I, a former Lutheran Sunday school teacher,  cultivated in my later years to living with him.

“What the fuck is happening to this fucken country?” he blurted out. “What a terrible day, what a fucken terrible fucken day.”

Not for everybody, buddy.

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