Deep Inside Mancunt, or Titpig's Adventures In Barebacking, Part 3: The Sicilian Wedding Sheet
The next day I took a cab home from work so as not to waste a second away from Mancunt and see who might be on. I was in the deeps of several obsessions. Like a lash under my contact lens, G’s betrayal of me stung and burned with a blinding rage, but had you asked me about it I doubt if I was cognisant of any connection to that yet. I told myself that I was just horny and lonely…
Paging through the profiles, I came on something completely different from the usual posing and bravado and was most intrigued. It belonged to someone calling himself Pornandplayguy and went like this:
I’m not sure I’ll get any responses to this, but here goes. My fetish is for hardcore straight anal gang-bang porn and I’m looking for someone who enjoys it as much as I do. Anybody interested?
When: Right Now! Ethnicity: White
Where: At My Place Status: Positive
I get into: JO, Sucking, Fucking, 1 on 1, Group Sex, Voyeurism, Toys, Nipple Play, Rimming, Fuck Buddy, LTR, Friends, Dating, Kissing
41 / 5’9 / Muscular / Blonde/Blue / Bottom/Vers
There are very few gay men, certainly none of my generation, who had any exposure to gay porn growing up. The first erotica that we came into contact with was straight, to varying degrees of hard-core. My dad was something of an obsessive collector of extreme hard-core smut, including but not limited to heavy bondage, torture and gang-rape scenarios, both in the text and printed photos of various books cached everywhere as well as 8mm films which he would watch on our home-movie projector. By the time I was in my early teens, I doubt if there was an act possible between two (or more) of people of opposite sex to which I hadn’t been exposed.
My personal collection has always been rather heavily slanted toward straight action, with an emphasis on multiple men (hopefully European and uncircumcised) and one or two women. Very few gay men I’ve met share this taste, although I’ve met a few who tolerated having it play on the VCR because of the effect it has on me, which is like mainlining drugs. My heart races and I sprout wood just thinking of it, overwhelmed with an urgency to relieve myself as if it were the only option possible. But finding gay men who share this enthusiasm is exceptional, indeed.
I clicked on the profile and studied the pix. He was extraordinarily pale, with a skin tone more reminiscent of a termite than a man, with scarce blonde hair, so unlike my usual type of swarthy latins. His physique was magnificent, however, with heavily muscled arms, shoulders and chest and legs. His ass was a superb bubble. I sent him an e-mail and waited for a reply, which came in minutes. He enthusiastically approved of my profile and pix and would love some company. As luck had it, a new DVD he’d ordered online had arrived just that afternoon. He lived less than a mile from my apartment, so I elected to head over after a quick shower and was there in less than an hour.
His condo is in one of those buildings favored in SoFla that looks like nothing as much as a motel, with the second-floor apartments accessed by an exterior corridor running along the outside of the building like a long, deep communal balcony. I pressed his bell and was quickly ushered into a large room, lit only by the flickering, bluish glow of his television. The carpet and sofa were covered with bedsheets and assorted pillows and tuffets. A short stack of white towels was folded in one corner, with a bottle of poppers and several types of lube organized methodically next to it. His face set off a dim bell of recognition, most probably from some Sunday Tea Dance at the Jackhammer, which was probably visible from any window at the back of his place. He flashed a broad grin and complimented me, saying that my pictures don’t do me justice. Nor did his, I replied, tweaking a nipple the size and color of a pencil-eraser. With a firm eyelock, I moved in and gave him a deep, soulful kiss, reaching around and groping his perfect butt, giving it a hard slap through his nylon shorts.
With a minimum of fuss but a maximum of lasciviousness, I stripped off the board shorts and oversized tee I’d been wearing, settling down on the sheet with my back leaning against the front of the sofa, pulling off my sneakers with an impatient tug. He pushed a couple of buttons on a remote and within moments images of six buff Hungarians and one very beautiful woman appeared on the screen. P&PG knelt next to me and began sucking hard on my left nipple, pulling on the right. Spitting on my hand, I wanked his hard dick and reached around to check out his bright pink, hairless hole. Looking at the images of all that hard uncut cock and lean muscle, I immediately began pulsing and drooling precum.
Rolling my head and groaning, I reached for the tub of Elbow Grease, scooping up a healthy dollop with my middle and index fingers and pushing it into his eager hole, which yawned open with precious little encouragement on my part. Standing up, I pushed my ass into his face and lifted his legs, bending low and fingering his ass with first two, then three digits, digging and slipping very rapidly in and out. He reached up and pulled on my tits, his tongue pushing into my ass with a hungry wet lapping maneuver. Withdrawing the full length of my fingers, I slapped his asslips insistently in a volley of taps and probing fingertips. Repeating this for several minutes, his ass first opened fully then began inverting into a bright red rose of needy mangash.
The sight of his ass extending in full goatse, combined with the terrific sexual jolt I got from the images flashing on the TV tore through me like a chemical charge. Reaching for another dollop of Elbow Grease, I greased my dick and fell to my knees in a quick move, entering him with one long deep thrust. P&PG moaned and growled, inhaling deeply from a bottle of poppers he had nearby before holding the bottle under my nose. His face was a contorted mask of lust untempered by moderation or reason, as (undoubtedly) was mine as well. Veins bulged on his forehead and neck as he muttered nasty little epithets and curses. His powerful arms wrapped around my back, hands grabbing my pelvis to push my cock as deeply into him as it could go, our two wide open mouths meeting in deep lung-filling gasps, tongues exploring each other’s gums and molars.
Not wanting to cum too quickly, I eventually slowed down and, looking deeply into his blue eyes asked for a break. He got up and opened a couple of beers, the cold wet suddenly sweet against my dry throat. I commented on the quality of the video, which was excellent, and the quality of his ass, which was even better. Leaning back against the sofa, we spent several minutes giving play-by-play on what, precisely, we each found so profoundly erotic about the video. For me, it was the casual intimacy shared by the men, insanely beautiful and utterly uninhibited, leaning against each other or gripping each other’s shoulders as they took turns in various multiples fucking the woman, who was enjoying herself immoderately judging by her expressions and demeanor. The possibility of a slipped hand or the sight of two straight dicks meeting in an open hole is highly homoerotic, as is the documentary quality of men in erotic thrall inherent in porn. For him, it was the lack of obvious direction and editing that was so impressive. Everything flowed naturally, with a minimum of cuts and no off-screen voices suggesting the next position or combination of participants. These people were professional fuckers and obviously loved their work. The fearlessly uninhibited quality of the sex, sans condoms or any kind of safer consideration, is also electrically erotic, as we both agreed.
I asked him if he’s seen some of the more esoteric vids being released under such titles as Rough Sex, Whore Abuse or Cream Pie For The Straight Guy (in which a guy feltches his own cum, but not that of the other participants). As we talked, his arms reached around my shoulders and pulled on my tits, straining my hard-on to a constantly dripping, pulsing, needy rod. My hands kept busy on his hole, which was one of the hungriest I’d encountered in my life, and his dick, which was rock hard and ideally proportioned for easy and satisfying fellatio.
Our play continued through three or four scenes, rising and falling in shuddering ripples of urgency until finally, we could no longer hold it and let go, me planting my, and he feeding me his seed with an intensity beyond description.
After several minutes of moaning, twitching and jerking with aftershocks, I came to and suggested a cigarette, which we smoked outside his door, leaning against the railing, watching the hissing irrigation system spraying the landscaping fringing the parking lot below out to the street. P&PG made noises about follow-ups, some of which sounded beyond the parameters of fuckbuddyland. I got an uneasy feeling and tried to explain my state of mind at the time, ending with:
“Look, I’m not gonna lie to you. I’m having an insane time with you tonight. It’s beyond beyond. But I’m not emotionally available right now.”
He looked at me thoughtfully, inhaling his smoke and measured his words carefully. “It’s cool, Bucko. I just thought that such a good time deserved an encore.”
“I agree…I’m good for one more tonight, I think. Are you?”
“And we can set up something kinda regular if you like. Just, please, don’t make any emotional demands on me right now. I’m not ready.”
“Whatever you want, buddy.”
“Let’s get back inside” I replied, tossing my cigarette as far into the center of the parking lot as it would go, a mischievous grin lighting up my face. “I want to see the rest of the movie.”
Round two was only slightly less intense, and I finally pulled my shorts back on around three thirty, my having arrived shortly before eleven. I trudged wearily home and went straight to bed stopping only to take my meds and a brief shower, as I stunk of sweat, sex and Elbow Grease.
The next day was an unusual Sunday off (retailers always work weekends) and I slept in. After a pot of tea and a few cigarettes, I perused the threads on AIDSmeds and responded to a few half-heartedly and without much concentration. The little blue down-arrow button on MIE seemed to exhort me to push it and see who was trawling Manhunt. As my previous activity there always took place in the evening or early-morning hours, I was curious as to what I might find on a Sunday afternoon. But I’d gotten laid several days in a row, beginning to FtLJeepStud, and an uneasy feeling took root in my chest. What, precisely, was I exposing myself to with all this unprotected sex? Why wasn’t the previous night’s revelry enough for a day or two? Where was all this going?
Then I pressed the little blue arrow and clicked on Manhunt.
At first, I didn’t see anyone interesting. The crowd seemed older, with most of the profiles I found interesting proclaiming themselves negative or circuncised. I was probably on page twelve or thirteen when I stumbled on this:
Relax, It’s Just sex
Beefy bottom here, not looking for love nor running from it, either. But wanting fun, adventurous, dominant tops to play with and explore our sexual needs, can go from nice (Vanilla, kissing + cuddling) to nasty (oink) depending on U. Chemistry is key. Don’t worry if I’m not your type, it won’t hurt my feelings. Want to know more, just ask.
When: Ask me Ethnicity: Latino
Where: Ask me Status: Positive
I get into: Fucking, 1 on 1, group Sex, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Leather, Toys, Role Playing, Pig Play, FF
39 / 5’11 / Muscular / Brown/Black / Bottom
His handle is Btmman36, and his main picture shows him spread-eagled on a bed in chaps and a black jockstrap which highlights a magnificently full, round ass upturned for the camera. All of his pictures, in fact, feature his ass and thick, muscular legs as the main points of interest. Even his face pic shows him facing a mirror and wearing a cap, which does much to obscure his actual features, although his ass is displayed to full advantage.
I unlocked my private pix and sent him a note complimenting him on his derriere and inviting him to come over. His replies were curt but not rude, really. He was on his way out but would be back later in the afternoon. We agreed to keep a look out for each other and I bade him well, disappointed, but, since I wasn’t really hunting in earnest, philosophical and non-chalant.
Leaving Manhunt in one window, I opened another on MIE and returned to AIDSmeds, continuing to post replies with muted interest. Occasionally the blue rectangle at the bottom of my screen would flash, announcing a new message from Manhunt in my mailbox, but the senders were uninteresting and I ignored most of them, responding with a thank-you-but-no-thank-you. About ninety minutes passed this way when I noticed the box flashing with not just one, but three messages, which must have all been sent within seconds of each other. Reopening the Manhunt window, I clicked on the flashing red e-mail notification to check it out.
Btmman36 had sent a string of brief notes, asking if I were still on and if I might be available. The urgent, imploring tone contrasted sharply with the coolness with our initial communications. Among his notes was a request for my phone number. I smiled a private little grin and sent him a note that included my phone number along with a smutty statement regarding how much I was looking forward to seeding his pozass.
My cell phone lit up, jumping with vibration and sounding a loud ring within moments. His voice was soft but masculine with no trace of a Spanish accent:
“So you like small uncut cocks?”
“My favorite…What do I need with a fat choker?”
“You got overhang?”
“It’s all overhang, stud.”
I was getting all hot and bothered, my breath shallow and quick. “Get that beautiful ass over here, NOW.” I gave him directions from Oakland Park Boulevard, which is about two miles from where I live.
“Oh, I need to ask you…”
“What should I do with the load up my ass, wash it out or leave it?”
I blinked and mused on various possibilities for a second, “Bring it, we’ll figure out something when you get here.” I was rock hard.
He arrived in minutes, parking an expensive European SUV in my spot and bounding toward the high wooden gate to my garden, which I’d left open. His appearance caught me somewhat off guard. All of his photos had him regaled in an assortment of black leather accessories. But the man approaching me was dressed in full A&F drag, complete with a baseball cap whose curled brim was artfully distressed just so, chino shorts and a loose, pale blue T shirt. He looked as threatening and debauched as a bouquet of hand-picked daisies in the hand of a five-year-old. Taller than I’d expected, his face had the quality of an Aztec painted by Picasso, all angles and wondrously intriguing, but devoid of expression. Smiling and standing in the doorway, I bade him welcome and gestured him to come in with an open arm.
Entering in my kitchen, he glanced about and looked down into my eyes, scanning my face with an inscrutable passivity. Going up on my toes, I leaned into his face and kissed his full mouth, pulling his neck down to the height my head, my free hand reaching under his shirt and tweaking a very responsive nipple. Pulling away, he scanned my naked chest and pulled on my tits as if he’s been trained for weeks on the exactly proper technique, neither too hard nor too gently, with a cool professionalism. Opening the front of my boardshorts with a rip of Velcro, I ordered him to chow down with a pull on his shoulders. Falling in a squat with a “Yessir”, he took about half of my dick into his mouth and slurped, stopping only enough to spit a couple of Altoids into my trash. I leaned over and stuck my right hand into the gap at the back of his shorts, kneading his pliable ass and snaking down to his hole, which was wet and showing signs of recent use, open and inviting.
Jerking his face back with a grip on the back of his neck, I spit a big gob of saliva on his upturned face. Momentarily caught by surprise, his eyes flashed for an instant before his passive expression returned. “Thank you, sir,” he murmured. Leaning down I inhaled the spitball and kissed him deeply, growling.
Taking his head with both hands, I looked deeply into his black eyes. “Take those things off.”
“You wanna see my little boycock?”
“Now…meet me in the bedroom.” I turned and walked down the short hallway, he followed me in an instant, ass bouncing. His dick, as promised, was exceedingly small and totally flaccid, with a long, thick foreskin nearly doubling its length. Bounding into the bedroom holding a bottle of poppers, he leaned over my bed, face down. I spent a moment spreading his cheeks and fingering his hole before squatting down and inhaling his dick from underneath, my tongue curling under his fabulous overhang, my own dick throbbing and bouncing off my belly. Ordinarily an unresponsive dick cools my passion somewhat, but his just incited me to a new level of urgency.
Standing up, I reached inside the cabinet of my nightstand and withdrew my tub of Crisco, slicking my hardon and rammed his pouting, slack mangash in one stroke, a grunt signaling that he approved of my rough treatment. Pushing his ass back against my pelvis with a squirm, he met my drives with vigor and enthusiasm, incurring several hard slaps alternating my palm with the back of my hand. Lost in the moment, I looked up into the mirrored closet doors and didn’t recognize myself. It was as if something outside of me had possessed my flesh and could only fuck and fuck and fuck…
We flipped around here and there, rotating positions at my request, frenzied in our thrall. At one point he asked permission to take a hit from the poppers he’s brought. Agreeing to his request, I took a hit as well. The explosion in my head was as unexpected as it was thorough, with a sharp ringing in my ears. I couldn’t seem to breathe enough and withdrew, falling on my back next to him, arms covering my face. My hardon evaporated as I moaned loudly.
“I should have warned you. They’re strong…I just got them in England a few days ago.”
“What the fuck?” My senses were only just beginning to return, heart beating as if my ribs would burst.
Rolling my head and attempting to focus my eyes, I muttered something about needing some water. We were bathed in sweat, the topsheet drenched with perspiration, precum and palm-shaped Crisco stains. Raising shakily to my feet, I made my way back to the kitchen and took two water bottles from the fridge, opening one and taking deep gulps, regaining something of a balance.
Stopping first in the bathroom to pee, I padded back into the bedroom. B36 was sitting up, leaning against my headboard, my down pillows crumpled and soaked against his back.
“What” I asked, “Were you doing in England?”
“I’m a flight attendant and was in Europe last week. I just got back last night. Next week I’m off to Central America.”
An image, not entirely unsexy, of his ass stretching a pair of tight navy trousers meandering around an airplane flashed in my head.
“Must be fun.”
“The travel’s fun, but it’s mostly work. You don’t get to see much of most places.”
I nodded and reached for the can of Crisco that was sitting on my nightstand, rubbing a healthy dollop in my right hand. “You’ll probably want another hit off those poppers.”
He raised his legs and leaned back, nodding and unscrewing the cap from the small brown bottle. His sloppy open gash winked and puckered as if it were attempting to speak. I moved my fingers slowly but with determination until all four were in his ass to the knuckles. Meeting no resistance whatsoever, I paused to relube the back of my hand and thumb, twisting left and right and pushing another few increments up into him. Grabbing the back of his knees with his left arm, he inhaled again from the poppers and I sunk the rest of the way in.
I felt something gooey and clumpy, like clots of snots in his ass, lots of it. Withdrawing slightly, a big yellow blob slid past my wrist and fell onto the sheet. Quizzically, I looked up into his face, lost in the moment as fistbottoms usually get, and inched my hand back up to where it had been. Twisting slightly to the left, I stretched his hole past its elasticity and saw that bright red blood was covering the veins on top of my hand.
I let out a little noise and called his name:
“What is it? Am I bleeding?”
“Yeah”. I was horrified.
“Take it out slowly, it’ll be fine.” Then with a funny look on his face, he said: “I should have told you…I’m a bleeder. Just get an ice cube and I’ll be fine.”
I blanched. “I don’t have any ice cubes. I don’t like ice.”
“I’ll be fine. Just take your hand out.”
I nodded and gingerly withdrew my folded right hand. As I pulled out, a veritable puddle of the same gooey yellow clumps fell on the sheet, accompanied by an alarming amount of blood and some clear fluid I took to be lube. Looking down, my sheet looked like a crime scene, a biohazard of DNA from all over Broward County. Kissing him softly, I got up and washed my hands in the bathroom sink over and over again, feeling like some twisted Lady Macbeth.
B36 was completely nonplussed by what had just happened, sipping from the water bottle and asking me if I were OK.
“I’m fine, but what about you?”
“I told you, I’m a bleeder. I’ll be fine.”
Looking once again at the smear of congealing fluid on my sheet, I asked him exactly how many loads he’d had that afternoon (with all the playful tone I could summon), as he’d already copped to one.
“Three, actually. You gonna make it four?”
A dark cloud passed over my face. Anything approaching my limits had been annihilated, torn as completely as his ass lips. My hardon shocked me, but it had returned with an exigent ferocity. I was panting with lust.
Clambering on top of him, I pulled his legs up on my shoulders and stared at his blank face.
“Open your eyes and look at me, goddamit!”
His eyes snapped open and met my gaze, surprised.
“You want my load? Make me cum…”
To be continued…