My Life As a Gay Man: Derek – III

My Life As a Gay Man: Derek – III

It was supposed to be my last fuckfest before my departure for the summer to the vacation home in PA’s Poconos George and I had owned since our New York days. My beach buddies jokingly referred to my PA hideaway as the Betty Ford Clinic for Recovering But Unredeemable Lauderdale Sex Addicts and they were right: no bars to speak of, no sex clubs, no book stores or truck stops, and tricks on the web or phone apps were scarcer than coke at the end of the Winter Party.

So, having had two super star guys in just the last few weeks, Derek, and Brent, an ex-military, lightly muscular, lightly fuzzy fiftyish hump and a versatile bottom who had been trying to connect with Derek himself, my solution to the happy dilemma was to have a threesome at my place where I would underwrite the party favors – shots in the dick included. After all, both of them had been product-tested by me (I had even given one another great references when I played with them separately), and if I ended up on the sidelines watching them, shall we say, get acquainted, having two naked hunks in my bedroom with me, all of us high on smack, and with three dicks as hard as the Rock of Gibraltar – what more of a send-off to Nowhere, PA, could a boy want?

Brent arrived a few minutes early but I could see by the grin on his face when Derek came in that I deserved a finder’s fee. We dispensed with the pharmacological segment of the night by 10:30 (though their chat about their respective, repeated stays in drug rehab bothered me) and soon after we were immersed in undoubtedly the hottest threesome I ever experienced in my gay career. More times than not, I’ve been the sex toy to rekindle a stale relationship; in others, I’m the star as I play with one guy as the other plays voyeur. But this Friday night and this threesome were from a different planet. We were into one another almost equally, me tonguing Derek’s butt hole while he sucked Brent’s eight incher, or Brent fucking Derek while I fucked Brent. Hell, once, Brent and I had both our cocks up Billy’s butthole at the same time, a very first for even this jaded, around-the-block-a-few-times fag. We were in lust, incredible, utter lust in one another and it showed.

About the only bizarre thing that night – at least up to that point – was the nature of our conversations. Other guys in these strange Kama Sutra positions would be spitting out four letter words like a Porn Film Script Writing 101 thesis, but instead we chatted on in smack-speed-talk about the last political gaff or what was on sale at Target, all while we were eating dick and fucking ass in the most delectably decadent ways.

After going at for over three hours, Derek declared he was hungry (slamming totally killed my appetite for days,  somethimg l called the Tina fuck diet) and while I went at my third round fucking Brent, Derek left the room to order pizza. The delivery guy either took no notice to Billy answering the door in his jockstrap, after all this was Lauderdale, or was too homely to invite in. We soon were munching our slices of extra cheese and guzzling down Coke in my kitchen, our three hard cocks waiting to be served when both of them almost on cue announced they were done for the night. Brent said he was bushed, Derek that he would be semi-officiating the following afternoon at a Celebration of Life memorial open house for a 75 year old close friend of his named Tom, who had died just the week before of lung cancer, at the old man’s Coral Ridge– smell money – home. He even invited both Brent and I to come: “The Alibi will be catering and they’ll be an open bar.” And so at 2 am I was alone, two slices of stale pizza sitting on my stove, still horny.

And still hard.

Cynical me thought that they were actually planning a rendezvous that night to continue the evening’s fuckfest as a dynamic twosomee ( l found out later they hadn’t) but if so, so what? I had had my fun and my money’s worth even if it meant scouring the hook-up sites in the middle of the night to find one last ass to fuck before Mr. Peter thankfully called it a night.

I hit up over a dozen guys who were online and supposedly “looking,” but no takers. It was a Friday night, damn it, so were my hunches about the web correct, and most of these guys just on to dirty talk and j-o? I finally nailed a 39 year smooth Latin who was in Miami but wanted his Daddy bad.  “OK if I party?” he asked on his next to last email to me before hitting the road.  “NP” was the understatement of the night from me who was still flying high, real high.

His profile said ,42, his pics said cute, but the reality that walked into my house at close to 4 a.m. was closer to 50, tired and loose. But no matter. After I had had the best of Lauderdale, even God would have looked like an also-ran.

At first Meeko really sounded like he was into it and my hard dick big time. (Gee, drugs will do that to ya, won’t they?) And we went at it for well over an hour. Not able to get off fucking him, I asked if he could suck me off to which he obligingly lay back and worked my dick tenderly with his mouth.  But I was beginning to get worried. I had remembered earlier how Brent had complained his dick hurt if I bent it at a certain angle, and now my dick was beginning to ache – bad. Derek had given us the shots in our dicks around 10:30 which meant they should have worn off (as they had my last two times I had done the needle with Derek by 4. But here it was almost 6 and my cock remained as hard as a thirteen year adolescent boy’s.

Something was wrong.

Realizing all the mouth action in the world wouldn’t get me off, I told Meeko very nicely that I had had it for the night. But instead of taking the cue to leave like most tricks would, he suddenly switched on some persecution complex, complaining how he had treated me right, had come all the way from Miami – high – and how I was an ungrateful bastard to reject him like this. He who just a year before had had major surgery for colon cancer (Now, that explained the Frankenstein scars across his abdomen – but he still liked to get fucked – odd, huh?).  All my pleas that it wasn’t him, it was me, went nowhere. I had only wanted a hole, not a live demo on psychoses. But I realized it was better to say nothing – why throw gasoline on the fire like bringing up his 20 year profile pics  – and finally, finally, he collected his things and left, continuing to mutter to the door what a real fuck I was underneath my cool veneer.

I played with myself another hour, watching x-tube til I came, but my erection remained unabated. I remembered when I had left Derek’s place last time how he had mentioned Benadryl was good at bringing the hard-on down, and in fact had given me two for the road. But I had no Benadryl in the house and instead devoured what cold med tabs I had lying around. I waited a half hour and when nothing changed I called a buddy of mine around 8. He knew all about what I had planned for Friday night. After all, what’s the point of having a threesome if you can’t brag about it to your friends?

“You got any Benadryl?” I asked when Sam picked up the phone.

“No, why?” he said, obviously still groggy-eyed.

“My dick won’t go down.”

“Shit. How long?”

“Derek gave me the shot 9 – no 10 hours ago.”

“Shit.” There was a dead pause in his voice. ”You better go the ER at Holy Cross. They – they might – have to drain the excess blood out of your dick. You – you want me to take you?”

“No, no, I got myself in this mess, I’ve got to face it myself.”

On my way to the hospital – 20 minutes away – I stopped at Walgreen’s drug store, bought a box of Benadryl and popped the tabs – eight all total –like candy on my way over, hoping for a fucken miracle.

There were only two people – an elderly couple – sitting in the ER waiting room when I arrived, dressed in baggy shorts and an oversize button down shirt I usually only wore to cover up my leather harness while I drove over to the Ramrod on a Saturday night.

I was coolly clinical with the perky black registrar at the desk and white-lied about suffering from erectile dysfunction, and how the pills did nothing but give me a headache, and how a friend had prescription medication injections for his penis and how I had asked him to try it on me. Only, only what should have been a six hour junket had turned into a 10, going on 11 hour nightmare. My dick hurt bad – real bad.

I repeated my tale for the intake nurse who said they would have to call in a urologist.

Then she led me to an exam room and instructed me to strip, leaving a hospital gown on the side of the exam table. Several other hospital personnel, a patent rep and a staff doctor useless for anything more than asking questions came in over the next 45 minutes while, still smacked out but getting dizzy from my Benadryl overdose, I sat, stood, sat, stood, trying to find a comfortable position for my aching dick but to no avail. Twice, I even ventured out of the room, oblivious to the bump under my gown, to ask if they had heard from the urologist.

“He’s on his way.”

From where? Bulgaria? I think they were taking secret delight in watching this stupid bastard suffer.

Finally, finally he arrived, looking like an absent minded professor, gawky, egged head, with dark horn rimmed glasses. He spent the first ten minutes that felt like another eternity going through some fucken medical history form – Jesus !  Then he had me lie on the exam table as he and the nurse – female nurse – took a gander at my never–quit pecker.  I was still high from last night’s slam, but quickly brought up all the Benadryl I had swallowed which seemed to work as a good cover story to explain my erratic behavior and non-stop gibberish.

Now I confess I’ve had my share of Nazi sex fantasies, you know, being tied to a cross bar butt naked while hot, young, blond, blue-eyed German soldiers play with my privates under some evil commandant’s orders. But this – this made my fantasies look like a Shirley Temple flick.

After scrutinizing my dilemma, Herr Professor sat down beside the exam table and uttered his pronouncement.

“There‘s blood trapped in the chambers of your penis. I will first have to drain the excess blood, then fill the chambers with saline solution. Hopefully that should diminish your erection.”

Then without a pause, he added the kicker: “This procedure will leave you permanently impotent.”

Crazy as it sounds, I actually felt half relieved by his life sentence. I could finally free myself of my addiction to the hook-up sites and hang up my jock-strap. This insatiable hunt which was only leading me into darker and darker realms of depravity would finally come to an end.

He had shaved my pubes, dick and balls and my upper thighs (remember, I’m a hairy guy) and was ready to numb up my dick for the “final solution” when it happened.

“Well, you’re a lucky man,” he proclaimed genuinely happy about what he saw. “It looks like it’s going down. We may not have to perform the surgery after all.”

Had the Benadryl finally kicked in?

Thank God for Walgreen’s.

For the next hour, I lay there, an icepack on my crotch, as I contemplated the insane merry-go-round ride I had been on the past few weeks, recognizing that if this phallic fiasco wasn’t a wake-up call, I was dead. But through all this doom and gloom of what might have been, I still got a chuckle when I overheard the nurse who had been in the room mutter to her cohorts at the nurses’ station just outside my half open exam room door, “He’s got a nice one.”

Back home later that morning, I called my buddy Sam to let him know I had avoided the knife and what the urologist had described would have been a “bloody, very bloody procedure,” then  went on about finishing up the preparations for my trip up to the Poconos and George. I had planned to leave the following morning – Sunday morning – and now it looked like I still could. I first thought about canceling a rendezvous with Terry, my furry 45 year old “boy” in Jacksonville but then thought I would use the opportunity to test whether King Peter was still King, having suffered the most hellish night of his realm. And if he didn’t perform his royal duties, well, so be it. I deserved it.

Cleaning up my bedroom from the fuckfest of the night before – it seemed like it had happened centuries ago – I found that Derek had left behind a pile of accruements –  cockrings, leather gloves, and my favorite oddity, a gas mask for inhaling his home made poppers – and I e’d him, without divulging my little episode in the ER, that I’d bring the shit with me later that afternoon to that Celebration of Life for his old pal, Tom.

The house was loaded with older gay men like me when I arrived about 6, and Derek made it a point to give me a hug when he saw me. Interestingly, Brent never showed, but I wasn’t about to open a can of worms and call him to see if he had suffered a fate similar to mine.

I didn’t want to know.

A large blow-up of the late Man of The Hour stood on the fireplace mantel. I instantly recognized him and soon figured out from where.

After chatting  with a few brittle types,  I was  finally able to retrieve Detrek from the maddening crowd and asked if we could talk privately. We snuck out to the empty patio where I relayed to him my tale of terror. He seemed unruffled by what the urologist had said to me about the procedure rendering me permanently impotent as if he had heard it all before.

“I gave you and Brent 2 cc. Next time, I’ll cut it back to 1.5.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I lied. I had vowed to myself I would never play with fire again. If Viagra couldn’t cut it, so be it.

Back inside, a tall, thin older guy with a mop of hair that was a cross between Einstein and Harpo Marx, asked if I went to the Zoo, the old Gold’s gym. No, I replied, I went to LA Fitness, but the query had served its purpose as an icebreaker.

We soon drifted as only gay men could to what our preferences were in guys. Ernie liked ‘em hairy and built and pointed to his partner three conversations away. I took that as a cue to hold up my polo shirt.

“Think I qualify?” I asked.

His eyes lit up as he scanned my hairy chest and abs.

“Sure do,” was his reply.

“So how do you know Derek?” I asked innocently, dropping my shirt. .

“Oh, Derek gets around. He and I and my partner Bob have played a few times. He’s one hunk of man.”

“Sure is.”

“And you – how do you know Derek?” he asked in a half patronizing, half probing tone.

My response came out of my mouth like butter melting on a hot corn on the cob.

“Oh we’ve played too, in fact, he and I had a threesome with a mutual hottie just last night.”

Ernie, obviously hiding his stunned reaction, suddenly excused himself to the bar.

A few minutes later as Derek and l left in his truck so he could drive me to my car a block away and discreetly retrieve his toys, I voiced my opinion that I had recognized Tom from his picture and that I was sure we had fucked around in the bath house years before.

“No surprise to me, “said  Derek. “Tom was a pig. Capital P-I-G.”

As I handed him his goody bag from my car, Derek bid me farewell, and added, “Text me when you get to PA. I want to know you made it in OK.”

I nodded I would. Funny coming from a fuck buddy I thought. Or did he feel just a little guilty about my penis crisis? But I was an adult male and had nobody to blame about what happened than myself.

My Jacksonville web bud, Terry, whom I connected with the following evening, had once been something of a heart throb. We had met on the web and first played a year ago on a similar trip up to PA. We were clones – short, nicely built and very furry – and I invited him down for long weekend where people instantly took us for lovers. This time, though, the blush was off the rose. He had gained weight and looked his age, 45. But with a Viagra coursing through my loins and hope in my brain, I was determined to make him feel good, and happily fucked him awhile til Mr. Peter began to fade, more I think from the long drive and the fact I was, well, bored with Terry, who in the end was just another bottom who did little else but shove his ass in my face, than from the ordeal my dick had gone through a mere 36 hours before.

Two days later, settled in PA, George already nitpicking me about leaving a half empty water bottle from my trip in the frig and complaining for the two hundred fifth time that our next door neighbor was running a meth lab that was slowly poisoning us, I texted Derek a non-committal message.

“Hey buddy. Arrived in PA yesterday, Hope all is well with you.”

Next day, I got my reply.

“Was waiting to hear from you.  Glad you’re OK, See you soon.”

Derek and l played only once more, briefly, when l returned after Labor Day,, and a few months later he moved to Portland with some new love.

As they say, you can’t go home again. The same applies to the hottest man in your life.


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