Via xtube, I cyber-reconnected with T, an executive pastry chef at an exclusive hotel here in town. We haven't seen each other in about 3 years. He's handsome, about my height (5'8"), masculine, openly-gay, thick-built (maybe 170# but HELLO he's a pastry chef), has an infectiously upbeat personality and is rib-splittingly, milk-out-of-your-nose, replete-with-impersonations HIlarious. Seriously. He's also won a ton of awards and recognition for his work. The first time we met, we must've sat and laughed for well over 2 hours until I finally got down to blowing that big penis of his. He doesn't have any face pics in his xtube profile, only his cock pic. He hit me up by saying something to the effect of, "hmm. I think I know who you are. Can't really see your face too clearly, though. See if you recognize this dick." And you know what? After a few days, I did figure out who he was. So we started communicating again and he promised to fill me with some of his heavy loads upon his return from New York. Speaking of which, I performed in Brooklyn on Saturday with the jazz band. It was fun and we did well. Picture it: A speakeasy set up in what looked to be a huge converted storage space, patrons dressed appropriately for the era (except for the dude in the red Billy Jean jacket. Um, I don't know either): burlesque, tap dancers, alcohol. And then there was Gideon.
I feel perfectly comfortable mentioning his name, a first for The Cum Log. It's not like we hooked up. In fact, we shared little more than a few words and the clink of our plastic, alcohol-filled cups as he looked down at me (he was about 6'2"), smiled charmingly (and seductively, though I think it was just his way) and asked my name. My friend and I had been eyeing him for the past half hour as he walked, no prowled around the joint. As I told him my name, his natural scent wafted over me and I guess I sort of, well, short circuited. Just for a moment. He smelled of...sex. If that smile hadn't done it (and it had), the sensual BO definitely made me want to spend the rest of the night in his company talking (and sucking, fucking, kissing, licking, spitting on, gnawing through and filling up each other over and over and over (forever and ever, ad nauseum, amen.) But, alas, our love was not to be. He spent the rest of the night cutting a rug with a few other ladies, and one in particular. Still, I couldn't help getting the vibe that somebody's dick had been in him at some point. By the time we finished our final set, it was going on 2 a.m. and time to drive back to Boston. There was some talk about attending the Black Party. (Mmm hmm, you know what I'm talking about.) But the flier for the event had been thrown away and we weren't exactly sure who to ask and how to follow up on its exact whereabouts. We also briefly toyed with the idea about heading back to the sex booths in Chelsea (we went there as soon as we hit Manhattan, but nothing was happening at all: wasted $10. Again, oh-fucking-well.) It's hard to go to La Manzana Grande and not hang out, but that's how it had to be.
Backing up a bit to Monday a week ago, my fellow sex buddy R came over and we split one of his viagra. Stop me if you've heard this (two black guys walk onto a boat, see the all white crew and say "oh HELL no. Nuh uh. Not again"...just kidding). R is the small-hung, mid-40s yet still fucking ridiculously baby-faced Italian macho homo with the equally small-hung also gay (but slightly more fem) brother P. I've been naked with them both, separately. I know. I keep mentioning that. That's my story and I've got to stick with it. While I never had sex with P (we attended hot nude yoga together and then a private, one-on-one, completely non-sexual, nude massage exchange about 2 years ago), I've had R's loads in me a few times. Last Monday was my chance to put my load in him. Until that day, I wasn't ever aware that his ass was for anything but evacuation. It was a very very (lower your voice a husky octave here) very pleasant surprise. He brought a bag of goodies (straight and gay bareback porn, lube, a towel, paper towels and two dildoes [one with a handle].) Yeah. Let the good times roll, right? He tried the smaller dildo on me, but those things just don't work on me. I can never get open because I prefer the real thing. After several utterly futile minutes in a very hot position (I was on my stomach sucking R's cock, while he was on his knees in front of me draped over my back trying to sodomize me with that thing,) he asked if I wanted to see him take it. Well, yeah. Sure. And he did.
It was so fucking hot watching his very masculine self moan and groan while I fucked him with it. Then, as if that weren't enough, he asked if I wanted to get in there. Folks, I did not have to be asked twice. I had that dildo out and my dick in faster than you could've sang Al Green's famous "Love and Hot Penis." (Those are the lyrics to that song, right?) R is a wonderful shit talker. He coaxed my cock by telling me to feel how soft he was inside. Fuck. I've never heard anyone refer to his hole and lips as soft, but they were. They drew me in, milked me and I felt so fucking good in that space. Normally, I can't top chest to chest. The position just doesn't work for me. This time it did. His eyes were half-lidded as he started to gently perspire, all the while beating his dick. Finally he brought himself to orgasm, but I knew it wasn't over because he always shoots at least twice. Fast forward about 35 or so minutes. He sat in The Chair, the very same one that P (not R's brother) pounds me on. BTW, he's scheduled to be here this afternoon to attempt impregnating me yet again. It never works, but I don't have the heart to tell him. It's still fun to try, though. We would have such cute, white and black/Native American kids. Even though I don't want to have kids with P. I'd rather have kids with donkey-dicked C (who I'm also meeting later tonight), but more on that budding half-romance a bit later. Le sigh.
So right. R's seated in the chair and I've got about 6" to 7" of the 10" handled dildo inside him. This time, I don't need to be asked. I pull it out; he slides all the way to the end of the seat; he holds his thick, strong legs up in the air by grabbing the backs of his legs; and I stick my dick right back inside him. Back at home at last. Oh God. Whatever you do. Please do not come back right now. At least not until I cum, which I knew I was going to have to do this time around. But to bust inside or not. That was the question. I mean, R's asshole had turned into an Accu-Jac and if I didn't decide soon where to put my spooge, that decision was going to very quickly be made for me. My thoughts went something like this: what2dowhat2dowhat2dowhat2dojesusohfuckohgodohshitmmmmmhmmmmmmmmmdontfuckingmovebecauseifyoudoimnotgoingtobeabletolionsandtigersandbearsandmammasaymammasahmammmacoosaaaahhhhh..........................................................................................................................................................................Um. Yeah. I came inside. Hey, you know what they say: too slow, you blow (inside.) But my fucking dick was still on brick as I pulled out. I don't think he knew. Mark that as the second time I ever blew my load inside anyone, two days back to back. (I am now doing the cabbage patch.)
Fast forward (again) to my feelings about C. I'm a little sad and I always get tears in my eyes whenever I'm alone and think of him. Granted, I'll be the first to admit it's not specifically him (though it ain't specifically not either). It's the idea of having a boyfriend again. Someone who sees that I'm not the most handsome man in the world, knows what I look like first thing in the morning and might possibly even like me anyway. C has seen me wake up with a halfro. You know when the side you slept on is all jacked and flattened, while the other side is still fluffy and round. It looks like someone halfway let the air out of a tire. Yeah. Not cute. I'm sad because he doesn't know that I'm a sex worker (as well as another hearty little tidbit, which I shall not divulge here quite just yet.) How can you love someone when you don't know who he is? You can't really. I have absolutely no moral issues having sex for money. When anybody asks what I do between music gigs, I can honestly just say sales. (Insert big shit-eating grin here.) Anyway, I miss being held through the night. I miss being softly kissed as I either wrap my lover around me or fold him into my arms. I don't necessarily want or need that every night, but I do need it sometimes. I miss walking down the street holding hands. And most of all I miss connecting emotionally and recognizing that we're working on something together, openly and honestly. I definitely had issues with those last two previously. But I'm not the same man I was 4 years ago for a lot of reasons and in some very important ways. I can be honest now (even when it hurts) and I'm no longer afraid to be communicative and trusting. And while I'm still a hard ass with a chip on my shoulder a lot of the time (I really am working on that), even hard asses need a soft place to call home.
The pic above is me.
