Part 5 Waking Up
You know, sex is pretty funny stuff. At least, for me. I hadn't done anything with a partner for so long I'd forgotten how much I liked it. How much I love it! How much different it is than anything you can do by yourself even though you appear to achieve the same result. Donald is the exactly the right person for me to be with to get back in the game; by the time we started I was so angry with him that I didn't try to invest what we did with any deep, meaningful, or long-lasting emotion. So the fact that it wasn't there didn't disappoint me as it had before.
After I broke up with Greg over a year and a half ago, I went a little crazy for a few months and was very active. Actually, I went very crazy. It's not hard to do when you've just turned 23 and hang out in the French Quarter. I didn't really hang out there. It's just where I went hunting. And my pal Alan was encouraging me to "get busy" -- telling me that if I weren't promiscuous, I wasn't really gay. He said I had a lot of catching up to do. So I took his advice. In fact, I took his advice far further than he ever intended so I'm not blaming Alan. I'm not blaming anyone. The truth is I wanted company, I wanted acceptance, I wanted to be wanted and I'd quit believing in love, so I settled for sex.
There's plenty of company and plenty of sex if you want it. Especially the places I went-Good Friends, Oz, Quasimodo, Biblioteca. And Jimmy's when I didn't want to be bothered with names. Country Club was great for group scenes. And just past the old Ralph 'n' Kacoo's there is that green door where I got a membership, a locker, and lots of opportunity. It seems bizarre now when I recall it. A towel around my waist or more likely in my hand with my locker key and a condom, walking down the narrow passageway, pushing on any partially open door, lowering myself onto the waiting body, fucking to exhaustion, and leaving -- sometimes without ever seeing a face. Relaxing for a while in the Jacuzzi, a cool refreshing shower, then moving on to the next room and then the next. Sometimes things got kinky with a roomful of men all over each other and all inside each other; and some times things got risky from which I managed to escape untarnished.
Someone else is doing that now, not me. Not ever again.
I think I'm still the youngest guy who's ever been in Biblioteca. When I went in there, even without looking, I could feel the heads turning, I could practically hear the heads turning. I'd stand a few feet inside the doorway letting my eyes adjust to the darkness and inventory my choices. Then I'd walk the length of the bar for a closer look and on the way back, sit beside whoever seemed most interesting. Looking back on it now, "Hey, I'm James, I wanna fuck!" seems as rude as it was crude, but it was effective and efficient -- "no" means "no" -- the sooner you hear it, the sooner you can move on. More than once I got asked, "How much?" which was insulting the first few times, then funny, but ultimately, sad. Some of them wanted to turn the tables on me, to be in charge, to be on top, but I didn't have it in me. That was still a gift I gave for love.
I was never like that in college; then I was always scared, afraid of being rejected, waited to be approached, and normally went home by myself--more than normally--almost always. This time around I was very successful. Saturdays and Sundays I could nail one by noon, another in the afternoon, and another at night. At first the ease and variety were intoxicating, but after a month I started to suffer from the absence of any real affection. Even the absence of any superficial pretense of affection. At first, it happened when I got back to my apartment whether I was coming home to sleep or whether I was just going to take a quick shower and race to work; later it started immediately after sex and, finally, during sex. The better the sex, the longer it lasted, the more exciting, the more intense my orgasms, then the stronger this strange feeling became. I knew it wasn't guilt--there was nothing wrong with what I was doing--everyone consented, no one got hurt. I knew it wasn't disgust--I love my body and I love the look, the feel, the smell, the taste, the warmth, and the wetness of others--mostly men, mostly older. For want of a better word, I labeled this feeling emptiness, but it wasn't a merely neutral emptiness--like there's nothing there--but an assertive emptiness--like there's nothing there because something is missing.
This feeling grew in me both in strength and duration until it occupied all of me all the time. And I heard "Baby" so many times it made me want to puke. Still, for another two months I found at least one new trick every night. Always topping; always dominant. And at the end of the night or early the next morning, when I went back to my apartment, or in a few cases when I went straight to work, I felt not just empty but also angry.
By then I was trying look farther down the road in my life. No matter how hard I looked I couldn't see any future. Somehow about then, after a hundred unsuccessful attempts, I finally stopped smoking and I started riding my bike on the levee every day after I came home from work. Occasionally I rode to the point of exhaustion and just showered and slept instead of going out; then I did it more and more often until it was every night. Without really deciding to, I stopped going out and I stopped fucking.
Until Friday. Until Donald. If he hadn't called me I can't imagine how much longer it might have been before I made love again. Actually, when we started, it was more like a restrained fight than anything I could ever call making love. Actually, not so restrained. That's what he wanted; that's why he made me angry. Of course, I very much, very delightfully, very desperately love to be fucked (that's always how I dream about men) but even for all the other sex I've done, all the other men I'd fucked since moving to New Orleans - way more than a hundred guys in my three months of craziness as well as others - none of my tricks ever fucked me. I'd only shared that with two guys before. Only with Kevin and Greg, the men I'd loved. Hundreds and hundreds of times, for sure, but only two men and only one reason.
I know that for lots of men getting fucked is as normal as a handshake, but for me it's a very big deal. Something to do with self-image and trust and some other stuff I probably know but haven't really figured out how to put into words even for myself yet. So I just naturally figured I'd be the one wearing the condom. I just naturally figured as we were wrestling on living room carpet, battling for position to squeeze and tease and please each other, that there would come a lull in which I'd skip off to the kitchen, recover my newly purchases supplies needed for caution and comfort; then I'd return to prepare him and protect him and plow him. But when I did, just for a moment take a rest, Donald clamped his left hand behind my neck, kissing me as he rose and pulled me up with him; then, still kissing me, dragged my carcass into the kitchen to collect what we needed and dragged me back to the living room. Still holding me by my neck and staring up into my eyes, Donald ripped open the condom box with his teeth and extracted a packet that he opened in the same manner with a practiced ease.
"I'm definitely getting fucked!" I thought.
Any mental resistance or reservation I might have had melted as he dressed himself while still kissing me. I surrendered completely.
As Donald bent me over the arm of my loveseat with my cock trapped between my body and the soft smooth material, three thoughts battled for first place in my mind: "I'm definitely getting fucked, how cool!" "I'm definitely getting fucked, but I don't love him!" "I'm definitely getting fucked, how do you get cum stains out of dark brown imitation suede upholstery?" The swirl of these thoughts slowed when I felt the cool lube on my ass, then inside me. He was slow and gentle with his fingers. He was sweet with his touch. I surrendered my thoughts to my pleasure. It didn't take long for me to be ready; I was hot and I was hungry. Then it wasn't his fingers feeling me and filling me; it was the Prince of Darkness entering my darkness as I was entering the Kingdom of Heaven.
For eighteen empty months I'd been waiting for this. It's like riding a bicycle, but it's not. Sure my muscles remembered what to do; how to relax and open; how to accommodate and embrace--that was easy. What I'd forgotten was how I'd feel. How good I'd feel. How right. I'm a man for a man; I need to be fucked. After so long without, I was getting what I needed. As Donald stroked slowly and steadily in and out of me, my long listing ship-of-self righted and sailed smoothly ahead on an even keel with my captain setting my course and speed for me.
Just when I'd forgotten my name, Donald slowed, stopped, and ever so slowly withdrew. I was in too much shock to protest or question but I didn't have to wait long for my answer. He turned me over and reclaimed his rightful position; then he picked me up and, with my arms around his neck, carried me to the stairs. He laid me on the third step and drove into my shuddering body for several minutes before pausing to kiss my eyes and nose and lips, nibble my neck, and gnaw on my nipples, then lifted me up exactly one step. There are sixteen steps; we made it up to my bedroom in only thirty minutes.
An hour would have been better for me --two hours-- ten hours. I'd never been so perfectly fucked before; Donald teased me short fast jabs from different angles, he pleased me with long slow prostate massaging strokes, he pounded me with plunges that shook my whole body and soul; I wanted him to never stop! I clung onto his neck with my arms, wrapped my legs around his back, and threw myself back at him as hard as I could. Donald showered me with his sweat and on the ninth step with my neck acutely arched, my eyes rolled back into my head, and my eyelids fluttering uncontrollably, I sprayed my joy up at him.
When we reached the upstairs landing, I was again lifted with out breaking our connection and carried to my bedroom where Donald threw me face down on my bed and crawled on top of me. I felt his teeth sinking into my neck as his cock hammered my ass over and over. I extended my arms searching for some purchase to stabilize myself on the now bouncing bed. Donald reached under my armpits and over my forearms to clamp my wrists and stretched me even farther as if he were hauling in on a jib sheet to point up closer to the wind. My whole body was vibrating then -- humming like a sailboat close hauled into a force five blow, and crashing into oncoming waves in a desperate attempt to make port before the coming storm hits. Maximum speed, maximum pressure, maximum pleasure. Soon his hands were gripping me tighter and twisting my arms under me. Donald had forgotten all tenderness or mercy by then, he was slamming me harder and ramming me deeper than I'd ever felt before. I raised my hips to meet him even as I drifted into a delirium of pure passion. He scrambled my body as thoroughly as he'd scrambled my brain but even then I knew I'd wear my bruises and bite marks with pride. Suddenly with a giant expulsion of breath he collapsed on my back knocking me flat on my mattress. Shockwave after shockwave shattered his otherwise motionless body while beneath him I trembled with my own long neglected pleasure.
I felt his teeth withdrawing from my neck and then I felt his lips at my ear. His wonderful deep rumbling voice chanted, "Jamie, Jamie, Jamie, my Jamie... "
And I was cooing, "Donny. My Donny. My man. My sweet wonderful man. My captain."
But I was also silently, secretly thinking, "Viagra?"
The flip side of that coin is that later when we were downstairs demolishing the wine and cheese, as I threw Donald's legs over my shoulders and reached for the lube, he smiled and said, "I knew you wouldn't disappoint me."
I didn't disappoint him. He was very pleased and happy to say so. Of course, I had to do it. I wanted to and it was great. I loved it just like I always do, but the truth is I had to fuck him. I had to let him know I always had a choice. I had to know I always had a choice.
It was a good date. Good enough that we didn't get to the restaurant Friday night. Good enough that we didn't get there on Saturday. Sunday evening when we finally made it out of my apartment and were walking down Louisa Street to Bywater Barbecue, Donald held my hand. Somehow, this innocent public gesture seemed more intimate and more promising than all that we had done in private over the previous forty-eight hours. Promising enough that I'll spend next weekend with him.
It's a lot easier to find someone to sleep with than it is to find someone to wake up with. I liked waking up with Donny. So it was a good date.
copyright ©2003 Jason Carter
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Monday, November 17, 2003