Turning 40 - Gay Edition 2
Conversations With Gay Men
It never ceases to amaze me, the hilarity and ridiculousness of online conversations with guys sometimes. Take this morning’s outing on bear411 for example. One guy is talking to me about video games, one seems like he wants to hook up with me (and god I hope he does, I have needs) and the other, some poor sod that lives in the current frozen wasteland of Texas, just constantly wants to get his rocks off. I usually tell him whatever it is he wants to hear, something sexy and/or nasty, something you’d probably think I was sitting here jerkin my gherkin while I’m writing it to him when in actuality I’m sitting here with this exact expression:
Men are pigs, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Men are also confusing after a fashion. The guy I just mentioned that I hope wants to hook up? He’s one of many that contradicts himself by saying ‘I don’t like it when guys do (fill in the blank)’ but he just did the thing in conversation that he said he doesn’t like. (Spoiler alert, he wants to hook up. Thank the gods!) The virtual meat market has become something of a past time for me in the time of COVID, swiping left and right and hoping that studly daddy or handsome boy likes me too. I’m usually pretty thrilled when there’s a match, but the joy immediately turns to despair when I see that they’re hundreds of miles away, or they’re actually uninterested after the fact.
All of us out here looking for the next hot thing, the next fix, the next hit of dopamine. And I see you over there, prudes, acting like you’re not out for some sexy fun like the rest of us. You might as well give up and join the debauchery with the rest of us while there’s still time.
The Sacred Jock
The jock strap has often been a symbol of the masculine male. It conveys power, potency, virility, and just that certain something that men find irresistible. We have taken this usually heterosexual, heteronormative symbol and made it one of our own. Yet again, it is celebrated and fetishized by gay men and often thought to gift manliness upon anyone that wears one. None of those frou frou sissy boys here, no sir. Only pure, virile, red blooded men. I coined the term ‘the sacred jock’ from an Instagram post by Mack Sturgis who let it slip that he has a ‘sacred jock’ that has adorned the bodies of every man that’s come to his farmhouse studio. Ah, the stories I’m sure this jock could tell. What wonderful sights it’s seen, what scents it holds, what penises it’s cradled within. All of my jocks are sacred to me, even if the only dick and balls they’ve held are my own. Perhaps the jock is, in some ways, analogous to the bra. They give lift and form to an ass that’s normally rather boring and flat (like my own). Suddenly there’s a bubble butt where there wasn’t before; cheeks that need to be clapped where there was but a flat, flabby, hairy wasteland before. And let’s not forget about the front. You didn’t have a bulge before, but after stuffing your buddy and the twins in one, you have a meaty handful for all the thirsty boys to drool over.
Scrolling through Instagram/Twitter/Facebook I’m always amazed when I see hordes of men at all these events every year: Sitges, Burning Man, pride in various cities, and I just don’t get it. If you’ve made friends at these things, then why not just save a lot of money and visit one another at home? But if you’re going to be a whore and fuck everyone there then have fun, just be smart and use protection. I’ve been to a pride event in Philadelphia and I’m good, I can mark that off my bucket list. It’s a fascinating spectacle, and it’s nice to be among my own kind but it’s so commercialized. I had a good time for the most part, don’t get me wrong, but I’m just not sure I would ever want to go back.
The Underwear
Once, a couple years ago, I had a local friend that we’ll call “Dan” ask me if I could/would make a cum rag for him. He’s not the first that wanted to have my cum and my stink all over him and I know he won’t be the last so I agreed. Upon our next meeting he left with me a pair of his underwear, some skimpy blue Fruit of the Loom number that I was sure would never fit me and my fat ass, so I did the next best thing. Instead of trying to wear them and get my scent all over them that way, I stuffed them inside a Ziploc bag and waited until nature called. Session after session after session I would unload in the bag and even (since he did request it) pissed in it, but only a few small squirts here and there and not my full bladder. There was no way the fabric would hold that much moisture. Upon our next meeting, I handed him the bag with his cum and piss soaked underwear in it. The inside was all scummy with my old, splattered jizz covering the walls and reeked of piss and stale cum but he looked at it the way Gollum looked at the One Ring. At least that’s what I’d like to tell you happened. I put all that…effort…into it only for “Dan” to just never show back up. Oh he responded to messages and everything, just that things in his life were going off the rails and he wouldn’t be back to see me again. Ultimately I threw the bag in the trash and decided I was never going to make another one of these again.
I don’t get why people who remix music feel the need to give it a ridiculously long name. Oh hey, it’s the Buttfucking Sonofabitch Double Ugg Boots Squad Goals In Bed By 8 Remix. Like, why? I’d be the kind of asshole that would call them Remix 1, Remix 2, Remix 3, etc. just to spit in the face of people that like to give them ridiculous names.
I personally find it to be a huge betrayal of sorts when I found out some of my favorite male models were/are actually straight and just did gay stuff for money. And don’t get me started on all these straight assholes on Instagram that have a (sometimes huge) gay following and have made a Just For Fans / Only Fans to try to get money off of them.
I’ll never understand why beautiful men want to RUIN their chests with a full chest tattoo. Like, your pecs were perfect the way they were whether they were covered in hair or smooth as a baby’s ass.
The Slave
One of the most titillating and eye opening experiences I’ve ever had in my life was the period when I had a sex slave. It was around 2005, I think, when I met a man in a gay.com chat room (remember chat rooms?) whose screen name was ‘pjnhky’ and he was looking for someone to use and abuse him. After seeing his message in general chat pop up a couple times and no one else - at least none of the regulars that I knew - took the bait, I thought why not? What’s the worst that could happen? After a brief conversation, during which we kept getting disconnected because of shitty internet at his place, we agreed to meet at my apartment the next day. I wasn’t really sure that he would show since we kept getting interrupted so many times. During the conversation he pretty much laid out what it was he was after; he wanted to be tickle tortured and denied the ability to cum. I thought ‘this sounds easy, I can do this no problem!’ but boy did I underestimate the impact this was going to have on me.
He showed up the next day at my door but I had to reluctantly turn him away as I had made plans to Christmas shop with a friend since I wasn’t sure he was actually going to show. The man that appeared at my door was very handsome. Neatly trimmed buzz cut hair, square cut jawline, brown eyes; I was definitely taken aback that this guy wanted to be used and abused. He looked the type to be the one that should be doing the abusing instead. The whole time that I was out shopping though, I was at home in my apartment using him.
The day finally came for us to meet and I was nervous. Hands were shaky, mouth dry, and I couldn’t stop doing the leg bounce thing while sitting at my desk waiting on him to arrive. He knocked and I dashed down the stairs to the front door to let him in. He followed me up to my room where I closed the door and nervously turned to face him. He was wearing blue jeans, a white t-shirt and a brown suede jacket. I watched as he undressed, my arms crossed over my chest. Once he was naked, I was shocked yet again because this guy was built. Pecs, muscular arms and legs and a flat washboard stomach with a faint Adonis belt tapering off to a nice fat cock with a thick bush and fat balls underneath. ‘This cannot be real’ I thought to myself as I stared at him in all his glory. This guy, this muscle man, wanted to be used. By me. By my fat slob self. He submitted to me and allowed me to do whatever I wanted, so that’s what I did. I got naked and told him to put his hands behind his head and he did.
I began to tickle him and watched in amazement as he grew harder and harder and harder. I stifled a giggle as he was laughing while I tickled him, but his laughing stopped when I stopped tickling him and grabbed his penis. I looked him dead in the eye and slowly, gently stroked him. He started to put his hands down but I told him no and he obeyed. He moaned and groaned and begged to be allowed to cum but again, I told him no. I stroked him and tickled him at the same time and the longer this went on the more he begged to cum and the more I liked it. Torturing him was making me very horny to the point that I was beginning to drip on the carpet. I caught a drop of my seed on my finger and shoved it in his mouth and made him swallow it. I told him to get down and suck me and he did. I was in total control of this man; he did everything I told him to do. Eventually I came on his face and chest and made him stand up so I could rub it into his skin. “Smell this later and remember who you belong to” I said to him as I marked my territory. “Yes sir” he said quietly. I gave his cock a few more strokes before it was time for him to leave, but I never allowed him to cum. He thanked me for everything and I escorted him to the door.
Over the next few years, the meetings and the torture continued. One particular night still plays out in my mind from time to time. I had moved since he and I met and was living in the basement of a house. I had music playing and in an effort to cover up his screams of “PLEASE LET ME CUM MASTER!” I turned the volume up a bit. I was naked and underneath him while he straddled me; his cock in my fist. I stroked him slow and gently like I always did, bringing him closer and closer to release but never allowing it to happen. He was bent backward, head tilted toward the ceiling and screaming to be allowed to cum and I was enjoying his cries for mercy. Louder and louder he begged but I denied his every request. I made him service me until I came then made him get dressed to leave. He looked at me with a pleading expression, eyes full of wanting and mouth agape in frustration. He got fully dressed with his cock hanging out, still throbbing, still sensitive to the touch. “Please?” he begged again and again. “No!” was my reply each time. And each time he grimaced, eyes closed, mewling like a child who had just been scolded by a parent. After a few pleas, I grabbed his cock and gently put it inside his underwear and zipped up his pants. I pulled him close to me, grabbing the back of his head and kissing him and hugging him tight. “No” I whispered and he understood. I’ll never forget that night as long as I live.
But then came the betrayal.
After I had moved, yet again, to where I live now, he and I were to meet. Now that I had a place all to myself, surely we could make that night happen again and again, but alas it was not meant to be. He did come here, once, after I moved in but I could tell that he just wasn’t as into it as he once was. He didn’t care about my commands, he didn’t care about my desires, my torture, none of it. I came and he left. We made plans to meet again at the end of the meeting - it’s what we always did; lay out plans for the next session - and he left. I didn’t know that I would never see him again. The day and time that we were to meet came and he didn’t show, which was not like him at all. I sent him a message demanding to know what was going on and his response was 'I don’t think I can make it today, my wife has the car.’ Wife?! Wife?! Not once, out of all the conversations we had, out of all the sessions we had did he ever mention that he was bisexual or that he was married to a woman. I was so disgusted with him and myself. I deleted his message and decided that I would never contact him again. That was 13 years ago.
I never bothered trying to find a replacement slave - I wouldn’t even know where to begin - nor did I think I wanted to; at least not at the time. As of late the urge to find a man to abuse has been on my mind, but at 41 I doubt I’ll ever find anyone as obedient and entertaining as Patrick was.
Sometimes I sit and ruminate on the cruelty and satisfaction that point in my life brought to me. I learned things about myself that I never knew, but 13 years later I’m still undecided if that version of myself is a version that I like.