My Life As A Gay Man: Derek – II
A few weekends later it was my birthday and Birthday Boy, with no George around to berate me about my advancing senility, wanted to have some fun. It looked by mid-week I had lined up a potential five guys altogether off the hook-up sites who professed their lust for me and availability that weekend.
Well, guess what.
Two, in the last stages of our negotiations, asked if I “partied,” and when I responded with my stock answer, “No, but you can if you like. If I party, my dick ain’t gonna keep your butt happy,” they vanished from cyber-space like space junk burning up in the atmosphere.
The third I met on a quiet Wednesday night at the Ramrod, Lauderdale’s leather bar, and was actually someone I had casually chatted with in social circles there and at other places. A little taller than me, sexy balding, with a scruffy beard and a nice tight body, my dick always twitched a bit when I saw or spoke with him. But nothing more ever came of it til that Wednesday night when he approached me and without much provocation confessed he had had his eye on me for years but had always felt intimidated. (Huh? Little 5’6” me.) After we casually explored one another’s chests with our hands – I was shirtless, he had a T on which I lifted to find, as remembered, he was fuzzy too – he punched in my number on his smartphone and we agreed to get together sometime Friday late afternoon or evening.
Early afternoon on Friday, I got a text from him that he wouldn’t be able to connect because he was “tied up with friends from Kentucky.” OK, but when I texted him back and asked if he had any time over the weekend, nothing came back. Game player? Cockteaser? I’m tired of playing Freud and trying to figure out potential tricks and why they act the way they do.
The last, a 37 year old Portuguese hottie with a matinee idol face and body to go with it, had hit me up on Manhunt a few days before, and though his profile said he was a bottom, I couldn’t figure out from his broken English (alright, my Portuguese is zilch) who would be fucking who. But the timing was all off; when I e’d-him that I was free, he wasn’t, and vice versa, and soon my opportunity for a foreign adventure faded into the pages of “Old Messages.”
The least desirable of the five men I thought I’d have was Kevin who, in his defense, was open about his age on his profile – 55 – though his pics were of a guy ten years younger. Not my personal best, very slim, smooth and tallish, he nonetheless was the only guy of the five who actually showed up at my door Friday. Looking his age. And though there was an effeminate tinge to him, I was determined to have fun whether I liked it or not, and once I got into the zone, we fucked for almost two hours straight, amazing me even more than it surprised him.
OK, so now it was 10:30 Friday night. Kev had left after we spent a half hour discussing world affairs; he was a CPA and had been following some of the financial shit going on. I was tired, my legs were aching from all the awkward positions I had been in, off and on the bed, screwing his butt every which way I could, but I gulped down a cup of coffee and a No Doz, and went out, rationalizing to myself it was only for a beer or two.
After all, it was Friday night of my Birthday weekend. I didn’t want to start acting my age by staying home watching reruns of “Blue Bloods.”
After hitting Bills, Lauderdale’s bear bar, where no one even looked at hairy shirtless me, I drove down the street to Ramrod for a nightcap beer. Frankly, the place was a bore; there were the usual cliques, the usual gym bunnies, and the usual Jenny Craig failures who still thought they looked hot in a harness that, at least, served as a stand-in bra for their sagging tits. So I pranced around, accelerated the sips of beer so by the time I completed my second circuit of the dump, my bottle was empty and I was ready to leave.
I’m a firm believer that timing is everything in life and that everything happens for a reason. For, just as I was walking out of the bar, who should be walking up the driveway in leather chaps, a hot gray T and leather cap than Derek I had dropped him a message on the hookup site where we had first connected but had not gotten any in return, and was content to cherish the time we had been together, as methed up as it had been.
Or maybe because of that.
Our eyes met and he smiled that engaging, infectious, “I got ya, don’t I, fucker” smile and quipped, “Got your message. Wanna save me five bucks for a beer?”
“As long as you got a shot for my dick.” I replied. Almost on cue. If I was going to play again with the hottest man I ever fucked, damn, I wanted my performance to be an Academy award winner.
“Sure,” he replied, “I got just one vial left and your name’s on it.” A minute later I was following him over to his place, chewing a Viagra – I kept a few in the car just in case – as additional hard-on insurance.
His apartment was cramped and against the wall were moving boxes so maybe his story about buying that condo in cash wasn’t bullshit. He led me to the back bedroom where we both stripped down as he prepared the night’s magic brew. A few non-descript paintings decorated one of the walls surrounded by huge empty picture frames, mostly wood and ornate, sitting on the floor, and hanging from the wall.
“They’re art, too,” Derek replied as he held up a needle. From the poetic to the clinical. “Before I do your cock, wanna shoot up this time?”
Snorting the junk last time had burnt the inside or my mouth and throat, so crazy me welcomed getting it straight into my system. Crazy, ain’t it, having some one l barely knew stick a needle in my arm. I made a fist, he found a vein on my left forearm and in two minutes I was in Warm and Wonderful Wonderland where Tinsel tickled every square inch of my body. Next came the jab in my dick which I massaged in my hand – I was getting to be an old pro at this – as he shot the junk into his own arm.
For a moment as he slowly sucked my cock, both of us lying on the bed, I sitting up, this hunk of man nestled in my crouch, I thought maybe my fatigue and the two beers I had had earlier that night were going to interfere with my erection. But I was happily mistaken and soon that beefy, furry, manly butt of his was my cock’s dominion.
Maybe junk is some kind of truth serum too, and makes you say things you never would otherwise though always wanted to, because I just blurted it out.
“I know you’re not into LTR’s and I’m already in one, so I’m not saying this to impress you, but I’ve got to tell you our last time was the most sensual sexual experience in my life with probably the handsomest man in Lauderdale.”
“And I thought I was looking at him right now,” Derek replied, drilling right through me with those deep black eyes of his.
For the next hour or so we fucked and kissed and licked and sucked. Then as I was taking my third circuit at fucking him from behind, I could see he wasn’t responding to my usual dirty talk and actually starting to softly snore.
“Had a rough week,” he replied. I wondered whether that had been in the office or bedding down and getting high with other guys.
“You wanna sleep? I got no problem with that.”
“No, No,” he protested, “keep fucking me, I love your cock inside me.”
But in a few minutes I realized my cock was no match to the Sandman and I gently pulled out and lay beside him on the bed, my dick, as hard as the Rock of Gibraltar, staring at the ceiling.
“You want me to leave?” I said softly before he drifted into Comaland.
“No, no, please – please stay.”
And I did. And not because I was hoping we might play later. I rarely spent a night in bed with a guy for three very pragmatic reasons: most were looking for drive-by, 7-11, slam, bam, thank you ma’am sex; I move around a lot in bed; and sooner or later my three little doggies would be wining at the bedroom door to come in.
So I took advantage of this sensual treat and for the next four hours, I just lay there, completely awake because of the junk (the fact Derek was asleep showed me he was getting immune and probably was taking it in larger doses to get the old high), not even clearing my throat so I wouldn’t wake him and just admired every inch of this beautiful specimen of naked manhood next to me when I wasn’t admiring my own hard-on which was good enough to fuck every guy in Ramrod on a Saturday night – twice.
Around 7:30 he awoke and tried to get me off, but without success.
“I’m supposed to go to the beach today,” I said, “but with this boner I might get arrested.”
“I’ll give you two Benadryl. They’ll bring you down.” It was something I remembered and would save me in my hour of horror just a week later.
I took a quick shower as he lay in bed, asked him what I owed him for the junk – forty bucks – and threw out the invite to do it again at my place soon.
“Sure, sure,” he replied with a smile that just couldn’t lie.
“Oh, by the way, “I said, “Now I know why you’ll never have an LTR.”
“Why?” he smirked.
And as I walked out to my car in the beautiful beginning of a warm, sunny day in my Lauderdale, I mumbled, “Happy Birthday” to myself and held up my finger to those four guys last night who couldn’t find time for me.