My Life As a Gay Man: Lauderdale James, Part I
Like I said before, men of the Club Med countries like Italy, Greece and Spain are on the top of my hit parade, and when I think of all the hairy Italian hotties, str8, bi, or in-between, that I could have wooed on the web which was just getting hot in my final years living on Staten Island, the most Italian-American county in the U.S., I want to either go postal or on a masturbation marathon.
But I really didn’t get hooked on the hook-up sites til I got down to SoFlo and had more time on my hands where I played the sites, in between marking papers, like a day trader. These early years were fun for an exhibitionist like me who loved to have it all hang out in my profile pics and chuckled as my profile became some guys’ own private porn site. The adoration from men – hot or not – from Des Moines to Dubai fed my fragile ego like a drug.
Today, the web has morphed into safe haven for chatty Cathys who think if they small talk with a hottie somehow they’ve made him in their wet dreams, or for mindfuckers, game players, and pseudo-personas who dirty talk and edge you up but have no intentions of pressing the flesh. But as the bars went from cruisy to social and the baths aged into God’s waiting rooms, the web, and its children, the smartphone apps, became and remain, for all their fucked-up-ness, my main source for sex. Sex clubs like my local Slammers were OK for efficient, drive-by, 7-11 style sucking and fucking, but I always preferred a bed under me where, with the right guy, you could feel some affinity, even if it was for only 42 uncivilized minutes.
James was one of the first guys I connected with on the web in SoFlo though, if the true be told, I really considered him something of a hybrid pick-up. You see, we had eyed one another a number of times on Leather nights at the local bath house. But the evenings usually played out like the altar doors in the Russian Orthodox Church where my mother’s mother’s funeral mass was held, the priest donned in robes and a crown, entering one door then disappearing into another. Either I was “occupied” when James was roaming the halls, or vs. versa.
Then one afternoon, he hit up on Manhunt with a poetic line straight out of Shakespeare. That is, if Shakespeare had penned porn.
“Hey fuzzy, wanna fuck my furry butt?”
A half hour after James hit me up on Manhunt, I was at his place, a non-descript studio apartment hidden away on one of those dead end streets off the beach.
Now the best way to describe James – it was always James, never, never Jim – was to compare him to the bronze statue of Zeus that stands in the lobby of the U.N. He wasn’t super tall – maybe 5-10 at most – but, at 45, was well defined, built more like some primitive hunter, with muscles that meant something, tanned and furry all over, with short cropped hair and a thick beard, and a cut cock that hung half way down his solid thighs. He was masculine without being over the top, articulate without sounding nerdy, personable without being pushy.
The perfect butch fuck.
He met me at the door of his place clad in the same yellowed jockstrap and high laced boots I’d seen him at the baths. His bike, I learned later his only mode of transportation since he couldn’t afford a car, was leaning against his stove.
“So where did you get all that fur?” I asked, running my hands across his chest as I stripped off my running shorts, the only thing I had on besides my sneaks.
“From my mother,” he answered. He had a funny kind of laugh, round tones and all, stagey like, like one of those laugh tracks on TV. “She’s from Argentina, Spanish and Italian blood. My grandfather and uncle are gorillas.”
“And that bod? All man…”
“You should have seen me six months ago, I was wasting away.” He handed me a bottle of Poland Springs from the frig. “Then the clinic changed my meds, and started me on testosterone and HGH, human growth hormone – that made all the difference.”
It was then I realized I was playing with fire with my first openly poz guy.
Not that I hadn’t played before with men I knew were HIV-positive. I distinctly remember one while I was on vacation – alone as usual – who I had picked up in one of the bars in Houston’s Montrose gay ghetto, a tall, balding, non-descript looking guy with a hairy swimmers build bod and clipped mustache who was OK with oral sex. Maybe because he knew it would be easier to get. It was the mid 80’s, even ATZ wasn’t on the horizon yet, and after we played, Herb took a dozen eggs out of his frig, and separated the whites from the yolks which he then chucked down with some OJ. He was insistent that this newest craze in self-medication for AIDS was helping him. I never met him again so I’ll never know.
And then there were guys, mostly at the baths, who wanted me to fuck them, some with condoms, some without. We’d exchange statuses quickly – of course neg/neg – but I hated the condoms; putting them on mid-stream was like some porn director yelling to the two hotties fucking away, “Hold it, we gotta change the camera angle.” The “go with the flow” spontaneity of man-to-man sex that made it lustful and wicked went out the window for me, often along with my hard-on. Plus the sensation for me just wasn’t there. Hell, a so-so blow job was a hundred times better.
But now, living here in Fort Lauderdale, with one of the highest HIV rates in the country, standing here in James’ humble abode, I was facing one of the most manly furry butts in my gay career – the butt of a poz guy – that wanted my cock raw. He claimed the virus was almost “undetectable.” And, after all, he looked great.
Greater than great.
So I fucked him.
First slow and deep, doggy style, then facing me, quick and hard, pounding his butt ever faster on my cock til we both shot almost simultaneously. I collapsed on top of him, our super hairy bodies bonded with a thick, warm layer of sweat.