My Life as a Gay Man: David

My Life as a Gay Man: David

I’ve done a lot of crazy things in my life lately at an age when I should be content with some pre-condom porn: been a paid escort, done some porn for hotoldermale.com., fist-fucked brothers, had a guy – who looked like a squeaky clean farm boy – rim my dirty butthole, and made love to a guy in a wheelchair. But this, this truly was a first.

His name was David, he was forty something, and every so often he would pop up on one of the  many hook-up sites he and I shared with a “hi.”  Black Irish cute with a mustache, and a hairy chest reminiscent of Jordan, my first truly hot hairy man from my formative LA days, he seemed personable enough when we chatted, but whenever I brought up about us connecting, or at least meeting, he always had a lame excuse.

One Saturday night, I had signed up for some sex party at one of the gay guesthouses by the beach but, with the all the non-stop rain we had been getting the past few days, it looked like it was going to be a washout. I mean, even though you may be walking around naked or near naked, trying to make a guy at the pool or one of the multiple patio areas the guesthouse offered, it isn’t all that sexy when it’s coming down in buckets. Which is exactly what it was doing less than an hour before I was supposed to leave.

So killing time til I decided what to do, I flipped on the hook-up sites when, lo and behold, who pops up but David after a good two month hiatus since his last sighting. I was almost ready not to respond since from my perspective I don’t think this guy ever wanted to connect and was just another gameplayer – his pics were probably 15 years old. But something – maybe my frustration with how what was supposed to be a lustful night was going – made me respond to his “What’s up?”

“So what’s up with you,” I typed back.

“Horny and looking.”

Hmm …  that sure as hell was a change in his usual script.

“You want me to come over?” I wrote, reasoning it was better to bed down with someone with nothing on than slosh around in the rain with nothing on. Plus after all these months, hell, years, he had gotten my curiosity up and, whatever happened, I could at least cross him off my trick bucket list.

“Sure, just one thing,” he wrote.

OK, I said to myself, here comes the “but.”

“I’m deaf.”

Now it all seemed clear – this long, drawn-out hesitancy about connecting. I’m sure that this was the moment when he expected some guys, maybe most guys, would  just cut him off. But not me. Hell, in my speckled gay career I had never made it with a deaf guy, in fact, had never really even known or met anyone socially who was hearing impaired, only seen guys, understandably in their little cliques, at a bar signing to one another. My only one-on-one social experience with a sensory deprived individual was in college when a classmate of mine introduced me to her blind friend who frankly turned out to be a conniving manipulative bitch exploiting her handicap to her full advantage.

“Who has to talk?” I typed back.

There was a few minutes lapse when I thought I had lost him. Then he came back on.

“You like to kiss?” he asked.

“Sure,” I replied.

Now as a way of, if not guaranteeing, at least covering my ass figuratively, of course, when I ventured out into the cold dark world (OK it’s Florida, folks, 70 degrees at night),  I would ask for the guy’s cell number in case I got lost. No cell number, most likely the guy was all bullshit. But obviously here, that wasn’t going to happen, so I mapquested his address – only a few minutes from me – and left, prepared to go to my sex party at the beach if he was a flop and the rain let up.

I knocked at his townhouse door but no one answered. Like duh. So I tried the door. It was open. I walked in and followed the light back to the bedroom.

He was sitting on his bed, watching porn on a 40 inch flat screen while dabbling on his iPad when he saw me and smiled broadly. I guess he thought I might be a no-show.

He looked pretty much like his profile pics, perhaps a bit grayer, but still black Irish cute, with a seemingly nice body underneath a white polo and baggy gym pants.

I moved up close to him, still standing, and said “hello.” He mouthed the word back to me, then pressing the biceps in my arms, raised his eyebrows in apparent approval.

I took off my tank top, and gestured for him to do the same. He was almost as hairy as me on his chest and abs and I could see in his eyes he liked what he saw. Soon naked, we lay side by side on his bed for a moment, like two schoolboys not sure about their “first time,” when I got up and began to kiss him – just like he wanted.

After that, the rest came easy, a bittersweet interplay of hardcore sex and soft gentle sensuality. And through it all, not a word, not a groan, not a murmur, not a sound, even when he came. Here, I had a doctorate in Dirty Talk which always added an undercurrent of unbridled lust to my sexual adventures with another guy (“Want that dick, huh, buddy, huh?”)  Now, I was speechless.

Afterwards, with the help of a pad he kept on his bed stand, I asked him about his life – he worked in computers – and encounters with guys which, as I figured, weren’t many. As we lay there, two young buffed guys were getting it on – really getting it on – on his flat screen TV, but he rubbed his hand across my chest and nodded affirmatively, then pointed to the two guys and shook his head. Yes, he liked ‘em furry.

I promised to see him again and meant it, and though the rain had stopped as I walked to my car and the beach sex party was only 15 minutes away, I decided to head to the Ramrod for a nitecap, then get home. I had had my fun for the evening. Our hour together was like watching porn with the mute button on, but after all, who needed words with the right guy?

And without feeling pity, I thought of all the shitty little problems me and my friends would bitch to one another about.

Then I thought of David, and realized how life was truly the luck of the draw.

“My Life As a Gay Man” resumes December 11.

 

 

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