Deep Inside Mancunt, or Titpig's Adventures In Barebacking, Part 4: Fucking Like Cougars, Cuddling Like Kittens

My rage was beyond measure at that point. I was seething, horrified at myself, but compelled to dance this dance through to its completion. Exhorting him to pull my tits like he meant it, I stared deeply into my face reflected in his black eyes, which dared hardly blink. I leaned in to kiss B36 deeply, grinding his knees into his shoulders, my right hand slapping his ass with hard, insistent fraps. Leaning even harder into him, I reached my right thumb between my legs, slipped my balls to the side, and pushed it up his ass, meeting my dick in rhythmic thrusts.

A steady deep growl began to grow in my larynx involuntarily. The harder I fucked him with cock and thumb, the deeper and louder my vocalization got. Swearing and cursing, ordering him to pull even harder on my nipples, I finally began to sense that itch, that tension simultaneously in my anus, at the base and at the head of my dick that signals the point of no return. My orgasm stepped up intensity, each moment growing exponentially in strength, until I was wailing, my entire body alive with sensation, every nerve pinging in unison at a fevered pitch. The first jettison of spunk shot like a bullet, deeply into his guts, followed by uncounted repeated jets. My wail transformed into something like an open-ended, barking grunt, immensely loud. I lifted my entire torso from his chest, grabbing his legs at the calves and beat them against my chest. The demon that seemed to possess me was in full-throttle glory. I threw my head from side to side, sending a rain of sweat in all directions, screaming without words. The spasms and aftershocks began while still deeply up his hole. Throwing his legs away to the left and right, I fell back on to his chest, my mouth finding his, open and waiting. Nibbling on his lips while jerking convulsively and groaning softly, my tongue flicked around his nose before returning to the deep recesses of his mouth. I was jealous of the very air he inhaled, wanting it all to myself. Minutes passed before B36 began to softly rub my glistening shoulders and back in sweeping circles. Clearly something unprecedented occurred to us both.
“Bucko?”
“Yeah,” I eventually croaked. “I’m here, somewhere.”
He exhaled in relief. “I wasn’t sure if I shouldn’t call an ambulance”
I grinned broadly in a grimace, my eyes burning with the sweat that soaked my head. “No need…it’s just me.” Then, in understatement: “Sometimes I get kinda loud.”

Finding his orgasm proved much more difficult. B36 favors tops who verbalize dirty talk, which is something I’ve never been entirely comfortable doing. I always wind up repeating something utterly banal and sound a great deal like the looped voicetrack of a poorly-dubbed porn vid circa 1983. Patience and persistence eventually paid off, and about twenty minutes after my head blew off, his prick rose to its modest dimension of full tumescence and shot his load into my mouth.

A few minutes of quiet cuddling and stroking brought us both back to our full senses. B36 got up and walked slowly into the kitchen. As he picked up his clothes from the kitchen floor, the music on WMP was playing something mellow and French, one of my favorites, “Un Homme Heureux” by William Sheller, alone at the piano in front of a small audience:

Pourquoi les gens qui s’aiment
Sont-ils toujours un peu les memes?
Ils ont quand ils s’en viennent
Le meme regard d’un seule desire pour deux.
Ce sont des gens heureux.

Pourquoi les gens qui s’aiment
Sont-ils un peu les memes?
Quand ils ont leurs problems
Ben y’a rien a dire
Y’a rien a faire pour eux
Ce sont des gens qui s’aiment.

Et moi, je te connais a peine
Mais ce s’rait une veine
Qu’on s’en aille un peu comme eux
On pourrait se faire sans qu’ca gene
De la place pour deux.
Mais si ca n’vaut la piene
Que j’y rievinne
Il faut me le dire au fond des yeux
Quel que soit le temps que ca prenne
Quel que soit l’enjeu.
Je veux etre un homme heureux.

Pourquoi les gens qui s’aiment
Sont-ils toujours rebelles?
Ils ont un monde a eux
Que rien n’oblige a ressembler a ceux
Qu’on nous donne en modele.

Pourquoi les gens qui s’aiment
Sont-ils un peu cruels?
Quand ils vous parent d’eux
Y’a que;que chose qui vous eloigne un peu
Ce sont des choses humaines.

Et moi, je te connais a peine
Mais ce s’rait une veine
Qu’on s’en aille un peu comme eux
On pourrait se faire sans qu’ca gene
De la place pour deux.
Mais si ca n’vaut la piene
Que j’y rievinne
Il faut me le dire au fond des yeux
Quel que soit le temps que ca prenne
Quel que soit l’enjeu.
Je veux etre un homme heureux.
Je veux etre un homme heureux.
Je veux etre un homme heureux.


[Translation:
Why is it that those who love each other
Are all a bit the same?
When they come together they’ve got
The same look of a lone desire for each other.
Those are happy people.

Why is it that those who love each other
Are they all a bit the same?
When they have their problems
Well, there’s nothing to say
Nothing to do for them.
Those are people who love each other.

And me, I know you but a little
But it would be inspired
If we could go out a bit like them.
We could try, if it were not too much bother,
To find a place for us two.
But if it’s not worth the effort
For me to return
You must tell me from the depth of your eyes.
‘Cause no matter how long it takes
‘Cause no matter what’s at stake
I want to be a happy man.

Why is it that those who love each other
Are all a bit of a rebel?
They have a private world
Not obliged to resemble anything
Which one might expect.

Why is it that those who love each other
Are all a bit cruel?
When they speak to you about each other
There is something which pulls you a bit out of joint.
Such are human affairs.

And me, I know you but a little
But it would be inspired
If we could go out a bit like them.
We could try, if it were not too much bother,
To find a place for us two.
But if it’s not worth the effort
For me to return
You must tell me from the depth of your eyes.
‘Cause no matter how long it takes
‘Cause no matter what’s at stake
I want to be a happy man.
I want to be a happy man.
I want to be a happy man.]


The simple, plaintive tones of the music and unadorned emotion of the vocal is stunning, even without the translation. As he got dressed, B36 cocked an ear to toward the computer but said nothing about it. But the next song on the pre-programmed playlist elicited a comment. It was a provocative, grinding, jangly punk anthem by The Fall called “Wings”. As the opening chords tore into the afternoon air in my kitchen like a switchblade, his face formed a strange cross between amusement and annoyance:
“You like this music?” He asked, somewhat incredulously.
“Oh yeah…it sends me straight to another place. I used to be famous for my punk rock collection. My friends would call Buckomusic.”
“Hmmmm,” he mused thoughtfully. “What are you famous for now?”

A blank face stared back at him. I was surely still famous for something…but standing naked in my kitchen, covered in lube and hair caked in sweat, nothing came to mind. I blinked once or twice and stammered before giving him a hug and deep kiss, wishing him well and telling B36 that I’d look for him, putting him on my Buddy List. Opening the door, I grabbed a cigarette from an open pack on the granite countertop and lit it, blowing smoke down and away. Swatting him one last time on his gorgeous butt, I reiterated that I’d be seeing him again and squatted down near the Murano glass ashtray I keep by the door on the step outside. Turning to wave, he opened the gate and quickly passed through, clicking it shut.

Finishing my smoke and contemplating all that just transpired, I grabbed a towel and jumped in the shower, soaping and rinsing over and over, musing along with Mark E Smith:
“So now I sleep in ditches
I hide away from nosy kids.
The wings rot and feather under me
The wings rot and curl right under me...”

I stepped out feeling somewhat cleaner but deeply disquieted. Walking into my bedroom, the crumpled bedsheet still wet from what had just transpired made me queasy, and I quickly stripped the bed and pillows, stuffing the sheets and pillowcases into my laundry hamper. B36 left his poppers behind in the fog or his departure, so I squirreled the bottle away in the drawer of my nightstand. Everything in the apartment seemed slimy with lube or Crisco, as evidence of my debauchery suddenly seemed inescapable in the tiny space. My head swam as I reached for the phone. Flipping it open, I paged through the list of contacts and, finding the one I was looking for, pushed send.

A warm female voice answered after a few rings.
“Hey Zeph...”
“What’s up, baby?”
My voice trembled slightly as I related what had just transpired, yellow clumps, blood and all.
“It was as if a violin string snapped in my head. I couldn’t help myself.”
“I wish so much that I could be there for you, sweetheart. Are you OK?”
“Yeah…I just wish I understood better what the fuck I’m doing…what I think I’m doing.”
With unconditional love and encouragement, Zeph calmed me down somewhat. She had grown into a vital means of support in my life. The phone that I was using was a lifeline for me. In early February, G had agreed to renew his cell phone subscription as a family plan, with 1000 minutes shared between us both. In gratitude for the gesture, I bought him a Razr phone (my cameraphone was free) and had been paying the $60 per month. My old, impractical expensive prepaid cell had been relegated to a drawer in my desk, almost forgotten. With this new phone I could talk without limit on nights and weekends, allowing me unfettered communication with my sister and Zeph. It was a vital link to the outside world beyond my apartment, and I had grown very reliant on it in the preceding few months.
“Just remember, no matter what,” she cooed with maternal warmth, “I’ll love you and be here for you, darling.”

After hanging up, I went to the computer and sent Matty an IM. We discussed my adventure with B36, with Matty focusing on the positive (“You seem to have struck a rich vein of powerbottoms, luv”) and getting me to move on. Pity and pathos not being our way of communicating, he quickly put me in a frame of mind for going out. It being Sunday, the hottest Tea Dance in Ft Lauderdale is three blocks down the road at The Jackhammer. I hadn’t returned since the evening I’d met G, although last spring and summer it had been the highlight of my week.

As the Jackhammer is notoriously bereft of climatization, it quickly becomes so hot in the crush of hundreds of men that a fog of aerosolized dry ice, sprayed at regular intervals, is the only relief from the humid, wet-towel air. There is also a back patio, which can be sticky but still cooler than the steambath inside. It was there, on the patio, that I’d met G on a sweltering evening last September. He was hanging out in one of the corners of that narrow, fence-lined enclosure, alone and brooding. We made eye contact but his body language wasn’t overly inviting, so I hung back longer than is my custom before walking over and introducing myself. His heavy accent, his look (he resembles nothing so much as a retired bantam-weight latin boxer: powerful upper body and arms, tight abs, narrow waist, my height exactly), and his cool attitude all piqued my curiosity and pulled me in close.

He repeated the usual rubbish about his being an interior designer and spent much of his time discussing his (formerly) fabulous life in WeHo and Midtown Manhattan. I saw through the smokescreen almost immediately, as anyone with a career speaks of it with much greater passion than he could muster. I redirected the conversation back to sex (and our having sex together) whenever the fibs became too obvious, as is my MO in such situations. We agreed completely as to the futility of condom use among long-term pozguys. I had startled him with the observation that he was poz, as it was evident to me in the hidden, intuitive manner of gaydar. Such parlor tricks came easily to me that night, as did a certain easy charm and aggressive forward attack. Choosing not to dwell too far on his various self-glorifying fibs (which failed to impress me all that much anyways), I was relentless in my pursuit of his ass. I tweaked his nipples, rubbed his muscular shoulders, surveyed his butt (which, although fine, wasn’t his strongest feature) with long glances and the occasional caress. Although not as responsive as I might have liked, he at no time asked me to cease.

But what really stuck in my head (in retrospect) was a seemingly simple sequence of dialog:
G: Do you party?
B: You mean drugs?
G: Yeah.
B: Nah…been there, done that. I stopped doing drugs in my early twenties when it occurred to me that I couldn’t continue taking them and pursue a career. I’ve always supported myself.
G: So you never party?
B: I love a good party…going out, having fun. I’d certainly never turn down a Valium or Percocet, but don’t need drugs to have fun. Why?
G: [slowly] Just asking, that’s all

It was time, I felt, to make my comeback at The Jackhammer, despite the uneasy memories of that September evening bubbling back into my head and my disquiet over what had just happened with B36. Matty concurred, and I signed off.

I gave the apartment a short once-over with the vacuum cleaner and Windex, getting most of the slippery lube off of doorknobs and the toilet seat and making everything look comfortable and clean without being fussy. Jumping into the shower for the third time, I rinsed off and got dressed in my usual slutty low-rise jeans, big black shoes and tank. After a ten-minute stroll over and twenty minutes waiting in line, I stepped into the dark, loud heat.

The music played at this Tea Dance is a mixture of Classic disco from the Seventies and early Eighties, which was popular when the majority of men attending were in their twenties and thirties (this is SoFla, after all). Pamela Stanley was booming about how she was “Coming Out Of Hiding” as I sauntered around the tightly-packed space around the bar, going to the far corner to see my favorite bartender, a sexy-looking, heavily tattooed black man with a beautiful smile. Dressed in his usual camo bikini, he smiled but didn’t greet me with the usual kiss and hug. I’d been away too long and had evidently been forgotten. Taking my beer, I tooled around to the dance room and surveyed the crowd, wiping the sweat from my eyebrows. Seeing no one familiar or very interesting, I exited out to the patio, and made the circuit around to the “backroom”. Lit dimly primarily by several TV monitors all showing different snippets of hard-core porn, it, too, held no real allure. Retracing back to the dance room, passing by the billiard room, the Pet Shop Boys were imploring us to “Go West” and Liza was asking “Are you just being kind, or am I losing my mind?” Everything seemed stale, replayed and redundant, the crowd morose and somewhat desperate. The scene just wasn’t doing much for me. Thinking perhaps another beer would help, I got one from the bar in the dance room as a light rain of sweat-condensation dripped down from the ceiling and on my tank. Feeling overdressed even in that, I pulled it off and tucked it into the top of my jeans. Taking the long-necked bottle, I inhaled the twelve ounces in several hungry gulps. Feeling somewhat fortified, I made my way to the packed dancefloor just as Cher was inviting us all to take her home.

As I’ve never been put off by dancing alone, and as there were no likely candidates within ten feet of me, I stepped on to the parquet and joined the crowd. Donna Summer was feeling love and France Joli reminding us to come to her when our world was empty and cold as I swayed and stepped to the beat, eyes scanning the crowd in vain for someone I might want to introduce myself to. Looking to my left, I recognized a heavy-set Latino who sets up residence in a specific corner of the dancefloor every week. We had always been cordial if never especially friendly. I danced over to him and flirted a bit. As the Candi Stanton was being a victim of the very songs she sings, I tried to get him away from the shelf he seemed to balance on as he danced. Shaking his head and pointing to a cane I’d somehow missed in the dark, I nodded in recognition and came closer to him, smiling a broad grin.

I introduced myself and learned that my dancepartner’s name was Ernesto. His voice betrayed a pretty significant hearing problem. Now, I’m not put off by infirmities, but neither am I necessarily attracted to them. As we talked over the din I made a valiant attempt to understand him through a heavy accent and speech impediment, but in the end, begged off to get a beer. As I left, Ernesto tweaked one of my sweaty nipples and licked his lips. The BeeGees were staying alive as I quickly excused myself.

A tour of the patio revealed nothing new. It all seemed so tired. Where were all the hot guys? Why did everyone seem so old, so hopeless? Sucking down my fourth beer, I wound my way through the crowd, bored and restless. Re-entering the dancefloor from the opposite side, the Weather Girls were ripping off the roof and staying in bed just as the pressure-sprays hissed out an enveloping mist of cool dry-ice fog. For a few instants, the temperature lowered down to body temperature as the light of the strobes and searchlights caught the air-borne crystals in a multi-colored, otherworldly glow. Through the vaporous haze I spotted a man leaning against the mirrored back wall whom I’d never seen before.

His appearance suggested gins-and-tonic on the deck of a yacht moored in Newport. His features all spoke of privilege and quiet wealth, of prep-school nicknames and a family house in Cohasset or Little Compton. His blonde hair was silver at the temples, his sunburned face crinkled up at the corners around his bright blue eyes. I wiggled through the crowd and came in for a look. A closer inspection confirmed my initial impression of that indefinable quality of Eastern-Establishment old-money. I startled him out of his reverie with my introduction, which was evidently unexpected. I quickly noticed that he was drunk, staggeringly drunk. There clung to his demeanor a melancholy and loneliness, along with a quality of ruined finery. He was entirely out of place on the dancefloor of a leather/denim bar in Ft Lauderdale.

I asked his name:
“Mark…name’s Mark. Waddya want with me? I’m old.”
I scanned him quickly and asked how old he was.
“Old…I’m 45.” He made a face as if being forty-five was worse than being a convicted felon.
“That’s not so old, Mark” I smiled, “I’m older than you.”
“Nah!” His eyes focused, scrutinizing my face and sweaty torso. “I’m OLD, you’re still young.”
“I’m forty-six, Mark.”
“Damn…We’re both old. How come you don’t look it?”
“Must be all the antiretrovirals.”
He looked at me with an uncomprehending look.
“I’m HIV positive, Mark. Those are my medications.”
He still looked like I were speaking a foreign language.
“It was a joke…never mind. Wanna dance?”

Dancing with a drunk is never easy, but he made a heroic effort to keep the beat as Cheryl Lynn was meeting someone behind Mars and Shannon was letting the music play so he won’t get away. Abruptly, Mark pulled us off the dancefloor, bumping into several irritated couples in the process, announcing that he needed some air. Grabbing my hand, he pulled me out to the patio in an unsteady gait. Offering to buy me a drink, I asked for a Bud and stood against the fence, feet from where G and I had met seven long months previously.

G: Do you party?
B: You mean drugs?
G: Yeah.

Handing me a cold bottle, Mark sipped noisily from a plastic cup, dripping a little bit on his chest. I could smell the Scotch from where I was standing and my stomach suddenly turned. I used to love Scotch, but the meds have made all hard liquor distinctly unpalatable to me now. Pulling absent-mindedly on my right nipple, he looked at me with a dull gaze:
“What do you like?”
I blinked and shrugged.
“You like to fuck?”
“Sure…I love to fuck. But I have a rule.” Both hands were on my tits now. “I only fuck with HIV positive guys.”
“Oh…” his face went suddenly childish.
“You’re negative, Mark”
“Yeah, I know” His face combined a childish, open gaze with something approximating a slurry, drunken lust, his voice sing-songy. “We can be safe, ya know.” He cocked his head to one side and licked his lips.
Brushing his hands from my chest, I told him that I eschew condoms and reiterated that I only fuck pozguys.
“Don’t you find me attractive?”
I sighed, looking into his blue eyes, wondering what they looked like sober, glinting in the sun. “That has nothing to do with it, baby.”
“So you won’t fuck me?”
I paused and considered him carefully.
“I’d blow you” I replied.
His face brightened considerably, and he smiled again.
“I’m starting a new job on Wednesday.”
“Really? Doing what?”
“CFO for a company who’ve been interviewing me for months.”
I gulped from my beer bottle. My mind clicked off numbers, all in six figures, that would be his salary. “Sounds interesting.”
“It’s horribly, terribly boring. But I’m overqualified.” He gulped more from his highball. “The drive’ll be a bitch, though. It’s in South Beach.”
South Beach! My Eldorado down here in SoFla!
“Would ya ‘scuse me a second? I gotta pee so bad.”
I nodded and he turned quickly back into the bar. Lighting a cigarette, I contemplated my options. I dismissed the most practical and responsible one, going home alone immediately, as having no interest. But Mark was clearly not up to anything that evening, nor had I much hope of finding anyone more interesting about.

Not that, in truth, was he even especially attractive to me. A perfect 40-Regular, six-foot, 170, 31 inch waist blonde WASP, blonde and blue…Mark wasn’t my type. But his clothes were obviously expensive…old, but expensive, not like the things one can buy at A&F, but custom-made. His shoes alone cost half of my month’s rent, probably more.

G: Do you party?
B: You mean drugs?
G: Yeah.

I walked over to the bar and, flirting with the musclegod behind the counter, got another beer. Minutes passed with me contemplating how much easier my life might be with someone like Mark looking after me. And just the thought of living in South Beach sent me into delirious fits. Maybe this was my chance?

Lighting another smoke, I pulled my phone out and looked at the time stamp glowing on the cover. Nearly twenty minutes had passed since Mark had excused himself. Where was he?

B36: Three, actually. You gonna make it four?

I got another beer and lit an impatient cigarette. I’d never married for money, never really thought about trying to attach myself to anyone out of comfort or monetary gain. But my life was half in a tailspin, half sinking into a bog. Could I honestly say that fisting drugged Latinos was better than an apartment in South Beach? I’d compromised so much in the past to ensure stability in highly unstable relationships, how was this any different?

G: Do you party?
B: You mean drugs?
G: Yeah.

I kicked at the gravel on the ground of the patio. Who was I kidding? When he sobered up, there’d be no way he’d even contemplate entertaining a relationship with the likes of me. I felt too far gone, too irredeemably soiled, too defiled to be anything remotely presentable as a partner to a CFO. Gawd only knew what I’d been exposed to by fucking B36’s bloody ass just five hours previously. A knot formed in my stomach as I lit yet another cigarette.

B36: Three, actually. You gonna make it four?

I tore out of the patio, tossing my cig into the gravel and went right to the dancefloor. Ernesto was still at his post and I danced over, summoning up a brave little smile.
“Where did you go?”
“I just walked around, I’m back now.”
“Well, I’m glad. I like you.”

A wave of emotion pulled my stomach up to my throat, making breathing impossible without laborious deep gulps. I looked into Ernesto’s kind eyes and burst into tears. Racking sobs tore through me, the first tears I’d shed in many months. Racing images dumped out of my brain like a printer that couldn’t be stopped; G cooking a wonderful meal; we two working out at the gym; his desperate bargaining with me in the ER before being admitted to the psyche unit at Imperial Point; discovering all the evidence of his proliferate unfaithfulness; The endless IM nights with Matty; Lechero and Lover and me in the mirrored doors; Dawgpound’s absurdly beautiful face and ass; Zeph’s kind voice; B36’s bleedout; Mark’s drunken face imploring like a child’s. So many thoughts, images and brainfarts rushed me at once that I was fearful of my sanity. They were terrifyingly real, and each new image fed the despair I felt into a plaintive wail. I hugged Ernesto desperately, my face buried in his enormous chest.
“What’s wrong?”
How could I possibly explain any of it? As Miquel Brown began singing “So Many Men, So Little Time”, I tore to the bathroom, using my sweat-soaked tank top as a handkerchief to blow my nose. Splashing tepid Florida tapwater on my face, I felt human enough to make my way out of the bar.

I was four feet from the exit when I saw Mark leaning against a column, looking lost. I walked over and asked why he’d left me on the patio.
“Guys like you never want guys like me.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a party boy.”
I looked at him confused. “I don’t do drugs, if that’s what you mean.”
“You guys never want anything to do with me.”
“What kind of guys?”
“Party boys… popular guys…hot guys”
“Look, what are you doing?” I noticed the keys in his hand.
“I’ve had enough…going home.”
“You can’t drive.”
Mark looked indignant. “Sure I can!”
“Where are you parked? Can you take me there?”

We left the bar and mark found his car with surprising ease. It was an SLK two-seater retractable hard-top. Using my most authoritative voice, I demanded the keys, relieved and somewhat amused when he handed them over to me.
“I live on the beach”. He started giving me directions.
“Never mind. I need to go home and take my meds, You can spend the night with me.”

Once in my apartment, Mark moved quickly to the bedroom and peeled off his things unselfconsciously. His cock stood out from a trimmed, blonde pubepatch, balls shaved. He was cut and very average, with a flabby ass. I found nothing tempting about him at all. Getting us each a bottle of water from the fridge, I bade him to stretch out on the left side, away from the alarm clock on my side. He looked at the pile on books on the nightstand next to him. “What are all these?”
“Books. I read at night.”
He guffawed. “You fuck at night.”
I shot him a look, but chose to say nothing except to wish him good night.

I went to my nightstand and took out the several bottles of medications I take every night. In response to his questions, I told him what each was and what it did for me. Then I pulled off my jeans and slipped into bed next to him, shutting off the light. Mark made his move quickly, pulling at my dick with a dry hand and fumbling for my tits in the dim light. I was hot, tired and entirely out of the mood. I pushed him away.
“You said I could blow you.”
“No,” I replied with a forced yawn, “I said I’d blow you. But not tonight, I’m tired.”
“So why’d you bring me here?”
I blinked in the dark, pulling the sheet over my shoulders. “Go to sleep, Mark.”

I woke up to his mouth on my dick. For someone so enamored of fellatio, he could have done a better job. He would bob a bit up and down, never taking more than a quarter into his mouth before spitting and jerking. Turning around, I squinted at my clock, which read 8:45. Maneuvering myself down his body, his smallish, freckled dick was fierce and red with an erection. Surveying for a moment, I easily gulped the length of his shaft, as if showing by example how to suck a cock. My attention shortly paid its dividend, and I swallowed his thick load with a minimum of effort (or, really, much interest). The whole thing took about seven minutes. Swinging around, I asked if he’d prefer coffee or tea.
“Aren’t you gonna cum?” His voice showed disappointment.
“Nah. I’m not much of a morning person.”
“But you swallowed my load. Is that safe?”
I looked at him for a second, contemplating a variety of possible responses, before settling on the simplest: “It was for you.”
Mark began arguing with me about that not being what he meant, but I just waved it off as something I’d prefer to not discuss. Thoughts of the sheet in the hamper on the other side of my mirrored closet door, and his reaction to it, gave me a soft interior chuckle. Climbing out of bed, I put on a pot of coffee and set WMP to some mellow French standards sung by Juliette Greco.

Over coffee we decided to go to the beach and grab a small lunch, as I was working that afternoon around 3:00. After a few minutes in the bathroom, we were off to his place, which I was most anxious to see. With a push of a button, the top slid into the trunk of his sportscar and we were off.

Beachfront property in Ft Lauderdale comes in many different types and qualities. Mark lives in a mid-rise building from the fifties, near the hotels, on the south side. It was a solidly respectable building, if somewhat unglamorous. The lobby was very tasteful in a SoFa fashion, with brass tables and overstuffed floral upholstery. Nodding to the concierge, we made our way to the elevators and up we went. The apartment was furnished in a pastiche of expensive things with nothing really relating much to anything else. Most of it looked like stuff inherited from a very old woman who disdained dusting. Huge ashtrays were overflowing everywhere and everything smelled of mildew and stale smoke. The rugs, in particular, were disgraceful, with ruinous stains deeply set into the wool pile. Taking me out to the balcony that wrapped around the corner of the living room, Mark was very proud of the view, which showed the ocean peeking out from several buildings nearby. Much like Mark himself, the condo was both quite impressive and terribly ordinary, with a strong whiff of not-so-benign neglect and careless disregard.

Showing me into his bedroom only confirmed the negative impression. Heaps of cigarette butts overflowed from several ashtrays which littered the oversized, mismatched furniture. His unmade bed was rumpled with old, pilly poly-blend sheets. The art on his walls was a mixture of expensive-looking old lady paintings with poorly-executed examples of amateurish “homoerotic” art (done by an ex of his who was, not surprisingly, “self-taught”). The bathroom was accessed through a dressing room piled with dirty laundry. Toilet and sink were filthy, the marble tiles on the floor and walls spattered with filth.

With no hint of embarrassment about the deplorable state of things, Mark pulled a bathing suit from one of the piles on the floor of the dressing area and changed quickly. With a flourish of cigarette smoke, we left the apartment and piled back into the car. Even though he lives on the beach, he prefers to drive up to the gay beach about a mile north. Parking nearby, we rented chairs and stretched out for a few hours diversion of sun and surf.

Our conversation focused almost exclusively on our exes. He began relating how this Puerto Rican had taken him for a terrible ride, costing him thousands with nothing to show for it but those dreadful paintings adorning his bedroom. In so many ways, from the overgrooming and diva complex right through the bad problem with Tina, he sounded a lot like G. Mark’s ex evidently favored being the hole du jour for acreages of men in Miami and Ft Lauderdale, too. Mark belabored the illusion that it had all stayed “safe”, but we both doubted it even as he was saying so. I commiserated, giving highlights of my life with G, which served as inspiration for stories from Mark’s life unrelated to what I was discussing.

We passed a couple of hours this way, conversing about our lives and musing about the damage of drugs to the gay community here in SoFla. But he never really listened to me, and there was precious little humor in our banter. And even at the depths of my rage and depression, I love a good joke, quip or one-liner. A sober Mark was simply a drunken Mark waiting for Happy Hour, and I resolved to lose his number as soon as we parted after lunch. My evening reverie of a condo in SoBe, married to a CFO effectively shriveled in that abominable condo and died in the hot tropical sun.

Dropping me off at home, I quickly showered and moisturized before running to catch the bus for work. A curious optimism seemed to fill my spirit. I somehow felt that things would be all right. Flipping my phone open, I sent a call to Zeph to let her know that I was feeling better. The phone rang twice in the usual fashion before a recording came on announcing that my service had been discontinued, and to contact the primary subscriber for more information. I stopped dead in my tracks and redialed the number, getting the same response. So G had finally shut off my phone and another little piece of my soul flecked off like a piece of chipped paint. My interior mono/dialog went silent as I wended my way to work.

Arriving back home that evening, I signed on to Manhunt with Matty my companion on IM. Paging through the various profiles, I unlocked my private pix for several hopeful prospects and sent the usual opening e-mail about how much I admired their asses. Several minutes passed this way, with very little sign of interest, until I stopped and clicked on the main photo of someone I’d seen much of online and hadn’t approached, but whom I’d stopped to contemplate before. His handle is Lilredgreg:

See why RED HEADS have more fun

Red head w/goatee, hairy, 27” wst, 7+c

Fun in more places than bed!
Love to have passionate sex with men who really know HOW to, not really into “quickies”, but sometimes they’re hot and you never know where that will lead to, even a long lasting friendship.
Am a vers. uninhibited top who loves a man who knows how to kiss~

PASSION is the key.
What’s the point to all this? To enjoy what it means to have an intense time with someone who KNOWS how to. If you want to take a chance, take it. Life’s too short NOT to take chances~

Shy at times, so break down that barrier! What are you waiting for?

I’m into: Sucking, Fucking, 1 on 1, Group Sex, Voyeurism, Exhibition, Toys, WS, Nipple Play, Rimming, Fuck Buddy, LTR, Friends, Dating, Kissing, Feet/Socks

When: Right Now! Ethnicity: White
Where: Anywhere Status: Positive
40 / 5’6 / Slim / Blue/Auburn/Red / Top/Vers

His profile and pix reminded me very much of someone I’d met just once before, socially. The guy I’d remembered was a hot, humpy little guy with a sharp wit and bright eyes. Looking again at the pictures, I was convinced it was him. Curious, I unlocked my pix and sent a non-committal greeting.

He responded right away, affable and pleasant. I wrote that I liked his playful tone and wondered if he’d be interested in arranging for a powerbottom we could doublefuck together. His enthusiasm was immediate, and he sent me the handle of a sweet, youngish bottom he’d played with in the past and who’d most definitely be up for the challenge. Opening his profile, the bottom seemed sexy, his profile suggesting that if he had ever met a limit he’d overcome it immediately. I unlocked my pix for him, and we, too, began a dialog, smutty if without the humor and good nature of mine and Greg’s.

But Manhunt is notorious for hot talk and little action, and the hot bottom evaporated suddenly, leaving us to try again. Another round of e-mails, another close call, another sudden disappearance, and we were getting pretty frustrated. Being a Wednesday night, the traffic was relatively light and we didn’t have the options available to us on, say, a Saturday. And it was getting late, nearly 3:00 by the time we found ourselves alone once again with no real powerbottom in sight, at least none who were in any condition to drive.

Our conversation shifted focus from looking for hole to the possibility of his coming over. His profile did state that he was a versatile top, and I was curious, damn curious what he was really all about:

> On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:05 AM, lilredgreg wrote:
>
> You know, I think we’ve met before.
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:07 AM, buckob wrote:
>
> I wasn’t gonna mention anything, but yeah. We met when G****** was moving to >Wilton Manors. You helped out…
>--------------------------------------------------
>On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:09 AM, lilredgreg wrote:
>
> Yes, that’s it. How is G****** doing these days?
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:12 AM, buckob wrote:
>
> He’s in Texas with his sister. He was hospitalized for a terrible withdrawal from Tina last month. It was pretty intense for a while.
>--------------------------------------------------
> On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:13 AM, lilredgreg wrote:
>
> He’s OK now? He was a pretty heavy user when we knew each other.
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:15 AM, buckob wrote:
>
> I presume so. We broke up when he wouldn’t come clean about his addiction. You >know, I’d have tried and worked through anything if he could have been honest. 
>--------------------------------------------------
>On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:18 AM, lilredgreg wrote:
>
> Too bad, but you seem OK…
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:19 AM, buckob wrote:
>
> I’m working it through. But let’s discuss the rest of the night. You wanna come over?
>--------------------------------------------------
>On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:21 AM, lilredgreg wrote:
>
> mmmmmmmmm…Sounds tempting.
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:22 AM, buckob wrote:
>
> Come on…We’ll fuck like cougars and cuddle like kittens.
>--------------------------------------------------
>On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:24 AM, lilredgreg wrote:
>
> Hot! And poetic, too. I’m very tempted…
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:26 AM, buckob wrote:
>
>Resist the temptation to resist and get your ass over here. I promise I’ll be gentle >(at first)
>--------------------------------------------------
> On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:28 AM, lilredgreg wrote:
>
> It’s been a while since I bottomed, but I’m really into it. You’ve got me all fired >up.
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:29 AM, buckob wrote:
>
> Then come over. Let me give you directions. Where are you coming from?
>--------------------------------------------------

It was a little after 4:00 when Greg walked through the door into my small kitchen. Looking around for a second, he cracked a smile and looked into my face with a warm look of recognition. I leaned in and kissed him, gently at first. He was somewhat apprehensive about even coming over, and his first kisses were tentative and soft, his goatee tickling my upper lip and chin. I smelled soap and mints. Gingerly, his hands began exploring my chest and he rubbed my nipples up and down with his index fingers. My breath quickened as I felt his ass through the outside of his shorts, hands slowly moving around to the front. Rubbing his crotch, I pulled at his belt and lowered his zipper. I could feel his breath grow more labored as my right hand reached into the opening of his shorts and tugged here and there on his underwear.

Coming up for air, Greg asked for something to drink. I turned on my heels and fetched a bottle of water from the fridge. He took it, giggling.
“So are we gonna stand in the kitchen all night?”
“Of course not, come on…”

I took his hand and led him down the hall to my bedroom, which was softly lit by the lamp next to my bed. Sitting him on the bed, I lifted his left leg and pulled off first one sneaker, then the other. Coming up close, I took his head in my hands and gave him a deep, soulful kiss before directing it down to my left tit, urging him to suck it. As he flicked his tongue over my tit his free hand rubbing my bulge. I opened my shorts and they dropped to the floor, my hardon bobbing and drooling precum.

Stepping out of my shorts, I lifted his T Shirt and pulled his nipples between my index and middle fingers, where I’d ordinarily hold a cigarette. As they stiffened, I switched to my thumbs and index fingers for greater force and dexterity, twisting in quarter-circle turns. He leaned in and took my dick in his mouth, going way down before pulling back to the head, juicing the precum, his fingers working my tits more aggressively.

I told Greg to relax and pushed him down on the bed. As he is quite small and light, I spun him easily around so his head was just off the mattress face up, my preferred angle for throat fucking. Looking apprehensively at me for a second, I grabbed the base of my dick and fed it to his open mouth from that position. He got most of me down in two or three swallows, being careful not to gag. Falling over his torso, I took his dick in my throat and inhaled it to the root, pausing just once. He raised his hands up to my tits and we began 69ing in earnest.

I lifted his legs up high, exposing a clean, tight, fragrant rosebud. Alternating his balls and ass with my mouth, I wet the entire area thoroughly before diving in and eating his ass with gusto. My tongue darted and curled into his anus as my hands pulled his plump cheeks apart and it began responding. I swung my face back and forth, nuzzling his moist hole from nose to chin and back, stopping to linger with my tongue before repeating the circuit. Several minutes of this had him ready for a finger, which I wetted and gently applied to his winking hole.

Spinning him a quarter turn around, I placed a pillow under his head and frotted insistently, rubbing my hardon against his belly and crotch and kissing deeply, his hands pulling with more intensity on my tits now. I lowered myself down and, pausing to suck his rock hard dick for a spell before I twisted his pelvis and dove into his ass with vigor, lapping greedily. Sensing he was ready, I opened the cabinet of my nightstand and withdrew the bottle of Eros I use when Crisco seems somehow the not right thing, and the bottle of poppers B36 had left two nights previously.

“Go slowly, remember I’m not used to this” He had a concerned, tense look on his face.
“But you want it, don’t you?”
Somewhat more relaxed: “Oh yeah, just take it slow.”
“No problem, just relax and enjoy the ride. Tell me when you want a break.”

Twisting off the cap from the lube, I squirted some on his asslips and massaged it in before slicking my dick. Looking deeply into his eyes I began penetrating him tenderly. Letting out a gasp, his hole clung tightly to the head of my dick and I let it linger there, pulsing madly. After a moment, he nodded and I pushed in a few more increments, cooing encouraging words of pleasure and reassurance. With time and patience, I eventually sunk my length down and in with deep wet kisses.

Pausing again to gauge his reaction and comfort, I began sliding out, stopping half-way down before returning back to full penetration. He let out a yelp and grabbed my hips, so I stopped where I was.
“You OK?”
“Yeah” he replied through long breaths, “It’s just been a while.”
“You’re doing great.”
He smiled a small, pained smile. “You are too.”
I looked deeply into his clear blue eyes. “You want me to keep going?”
“Slowly”, he nodded.

With patient, measured strokes and frequent pauses, I got Greg comfortable with my dick. We spent several hours in various contortions of sodomy, aided by poppers and occasional water breaks. We ended up with him at the edge of the bed on his side, my feet on the floor, sawing in long volleys. So unlike the “rich vein of powerbottoms” I’d experienced lately, there was an undeniable satisfaction to our sex in the tenderness of our approach and the grasping, needy tightness of his hole, which by then was accustomed to my fucking. At times I’d be gentle, other times more insistent and vigorous (might I say cougarlike?), at all times playful with flavor of erotically charged fun. The clock on my nightstand showed 6:30 before it ended, first me, then him, in torrents of cum and delirious spasms. Pulling up the topsheet, we snuggled in a spooning position and dozed lightly to the sound of my bedside fan.

To be continued...