Date: Wed, 03 May 2006 23:45:36 -0400 From: A. Cheshire Cat Subject: History of Sexuality The History of Sexuality By: A.Cheshire Catt email me of course, kierkegaard_is_cool@hotmail.com (I love getting pics with my mail -- not really of you, as such, like don't feel like you have to send me a picture you, but your idea of what you think is hot -- inspire me -- these stories are yours.) It was my day off, I was calling it My Saturday but it was only Tuesday, just some Tuesday afternoon. The weather had been nice the last few days so I was somewhat excited about the prospect of taking it easy in shorts and barefeet. I'd slept on the couch in my place and there were a few party-people who'd spent the night. Around 8.30 in the morning I was awakened by the commotion around me as they left. I told them, even though the room mates were just sleeping still I was about to have the first bit of time alone I'd had in months. It was great that it happened on my day off. It was a nice way to wake up. As soon as they left I got up. I wanted to take advantage of the morning. I slipped into the shower as the coffee brewed. I turned on the computer and logged into the local gay chatroom as I poured a cup and lit a cigarette. I signed in, with my nifty literary-reference-nickname, and greeted the slow-moving morning crowd as just some regular Tuesday of happy horn-hunting commenced. See, I've been sleeping around a long time, but I've been writing even longer. I've been writing eroticisms since I first had a computer. There's something very easy about the luscious explosion and the frantic clammering and clacking at the keyboard, there's something thrilling in the rise to the climax and the assaulting pound of the spacebar and the stimulating suspense of the enter-key. I've always enjoyed the act of writing sex, but after some time there's just nothing stirring, there's no provocation. It's like writer's block combined with a mildly insufferable boredom. When I started writing erotica it was before I'd even had sex. I'd had porn though. Porn happened long before I even started writing. Porn produced in me urges to explore new appreciation for positions, fantasies, roles and imagery. Even before I started reading the classics, before Proust, Somerset Maugham, Fitzgerald or Wilde, there was the advertisements in the back of the porn magazine. Before it was porn it was muscle-mags. Before it was muscle-mags it was teen rags. Before it was teen rags it was the Sears Catalogue. But, let's face it, at the prime age of 26 there's nothing in the Sears catalogue I haven't seen before, the teen rags upset me, though muscle mags would suffice in a desperate situation, and even porn mags have left a smile on my face, really it's internet porn that has truly opened the doors to the room of the most ill-repute. Suddenly I've become a person full of wicked ways. Nothing's too shocking really. I remember once I was with a man I'd met in the washroom of a mall in the town where I went to college. This was the third man to have sex with me. I mean I grew up kissing my cousin, but I only started to actually have sex when I was in the residence of my college and could pull someone into my room in the middle of the night, just before dawn, or where I could go off to the washroom in the mall and explore the soul sparking like a dark fire in the eye on the other side of the peep hole in the stall wall. And it was that time that I was with the third man, a fat man, hairy on the shoulders, frizzy on the crown, wearing a gold chair with a token pendant of St. George. We were driving to his place, a rather nerve-shattering drive as I was new to this whole meet-fuck-leave thing and I was going to a different town, leaving myself dependant on him to get me back. On the way he pointed things out to me so I would have some sense of familiarity but I really didn't know where I was going so I just sat there trying to be composed. I wouldn't start smoking for another year so I wasn't even able to savor the sweet, dellusional security of my soon-to-be favorite prop. He started to ask me questions from his bucket seat in that rickety, rusty van. "So, what do you like to do?" I mean, it's the standard question. "Ugh, I don't know. I like doing everything, I like it all." I was so nervous I could barely stand it. "Everything eh?" "Ya, I'm really open to things." I must have been such a prize then. I was 18 years old. I was skinny, pale, smooth, well-endowed, brave, foolish, scared. If only I could be the one driving the van now, with a pretty virginal 18-year-old fretting next to me. Putting his hand on my leg, to rub it awkwardly, I jumped, he laughed. "There's no need to be nervous, I'm not going to hurt you or anything. I'm just trying to make you feel comfortable." I didn't really like this guy, but my heart was pounding and I loved that part of it. I felt such a bewilderment in not having control, of being led along to see where he did his boys, how he did them; I was in college, you know, I was learning, being a good student. "Do you like to fuck or be fucked?" Simple question, you might think. It must be obvious that I liked to be fucked. I was a twink, I was the boy here for sure, and I pretty much offered myself to him like a braying lamb might rub against the leg of the French butcher. I told him something then that's stuck to this day, "I don't promise anything until we're both naked." "Fair enough." There was no music, just the purr of the heater in the dashboard and the clammer of the stuff in the back of the van as we hit a bump, I looked back and he said not to worry about what was back there. "You like everything eh? Can I piss on you?" I had no idea that it could be possible. I wrinkled my nose, the last innocent freckle faded into the skin then. "No, you can't piss on me." "Ahh, it doesn't hurt." "No." "Can I shit on you?" "No!" I laughed a bit though, because I could tell he was just pulling my leg now. "How about strangle you while I cum up your ass?" I looked at him. Seriously, it was one of the most frightening things I've heard. I didn't even really answer him like a man would, with a full-throttled negation, I sort of just pouted like a little kid, "No thanks." We were there then and we went into his little bungalow along Lake Erie. A shallow lake, the shallowest of the Great Lakes, and the icy wind of a raw February frost blew us to his house door, I wrapped my coat tightly around me as I entered the mouth of the cave. He let me in and showed me the directions of things, "Kitchen's there, living room there, bathroom over there, bedroom here." The bedroom was a cluttered sty, dark wood-print panelling and damp pillows, it was a strange place to find myself. When the wind blew it rattled a window somewhere and for some reason it made me feel as though there'd been other boys much like myself afraid of something, hearing themselves thinking about how far they'd gone this time. He took off my clothes. He took them off with his stub fingers, and when he'd unbuttoned my shirt all the way down he slipped his fingers along the pale skin of belly and rubbed its softness. I watched his hand. I watched his eyes then. I watched him watch his hand touching my young body. I breathed with such short gasps that I thought I might make myself weak, or make myself faint. He rubbed my belly button affectionately and attempted to tickle me as if I were a toddler. He told me that I was getting a treasure trail, that I was showing signs of maturing. He quickly took of his shirt to reveal man-boobs and patches of matted curly hair. He smelled of Old Spice which is what my father wore when I was a kid. It was a strange intoxication. Not that my father is anything to do with it, but it was as if he was perfumed with authority. I was inclined to submit, despite my fears. I let his disgusting, puffed lips nibble on my tender nipples and heard him growling or purring as if he were a boar with a snout and he was scouring the earth for nourishment. I let him do whatever he wanted with me. I let him do it, but I couldn't stand it as he lay me down and started to remove my pants. It was cold in his room, the winter light made my skin ridiculously pale. He was red with passion. I can't say I was the best action, I was rather limp with reluctance. Reluctance, I've learned, can be just as hot as anything. I was so light in his arms that he could lift me and let my arms dangle as he devoured any remaining scrap of my boyhood, as if it were a sweet grime on my chest and belly that he could detect the faint scent of and relished in, the perfume of innocence. Once he'd satisfied himself with the initial slobbering all over me he went about removing his pants and I saw for the first time in my life one of those dicks that frighten gay boys. It was a club. It was a mace. It was about eight inches long and about three inches wide at the head, it was uncut and it was purple with enthusiasm. He asked me if I'd ever seen one of that size before. I told him I hadn't with a silent wagging of my head. He told me to lay down on my belly. I didn't really know what he was thinking, I know I wasn't thinking, but he when my ass perched up on a pillow to please him he went about licking my tight hole with his cigarette stained tongue. He could be heard sucking at my ass, and I could feel his sharp beard burrowing into my tight-pressed cheeks, he huffed everytime my ass cheeks flexed. I was aroused, don't get me wrong, but I'd never been rimmed before so I wasn't sure of the purpose of this ritual. He started to finger me rather roughly you might say. Poking me more than anything, not massaging me at all. He got off on how I jumped every time he pushed. I'd moan because it was uncomfortable and he would ask me if I liked it and I would tell him that I had. The first man to fuck me was the security guard of my residence, he told me as he'd told several boys, I was the first person to have made him feel comfortable enough to admit to his desires. We did it on the last night of reading week when I'd got back from a week with my parents' and I'd done some mushrooms and felt really into it. While he fucked me I was distracted by the floral pattern in the wallpaper behind him as it ebbed and flowed and grew and twisted itself into pretty colors. It wasn't good and I broke it off with him soon after because I couldn't stand the smell of him on my sheets. The second man to fuck me was the first man I'd ever meet in the bathroom of that mall. He was a regular guy with a terrible scar all along the left side of his face down passed his nipple, along his belly, to his crotch, down his knee nearly. The man's scar was attractive to me in a strange way. He said that it was because someone hadn't liked him. There was a baseball bat leaning against the headboard of the bed, it was his parents' home even though he was in his forties. I'm almost certain it was a Hate Crime. He fucked me for a long time that guy, he was the closest thing I had to really enjoying it. But this third guy, this was to be the worst time. As I lay there letting him eat my ass, my asshole pointed, gaping at the window that rattled in the cold wind. He suddenly started taking pictures of it as I farted and the hole yawned. I told him to stop, that I didn't want pictures taken of me, he said that it was of my ass though, no one would know. (This was before digital pictures, but the scanner was around.) He poked at me with his finger and then took a picture. He adjusted my cock so that it lay on the other side of the pillow, you know, so my balls and the length of shaft got in the picture. Then the phone rang. He sat on the end of the bed with the cordless phone. He was talking to a man named Phil. "Ya Phil, it's almost done. Ya. For sure. Nothing now. Just hanging out." He laughed. "Ya, got one right now actually. He's real cute. You should see him, he's got his ass pointing at me right now." I turned my head for a second and saw him looking at my hole, he reached up and rubbed my bum softly. Then he slapped it and there was a loud smacking sound. I squealed and the man laughed. He said, "Ya, that was him alright." He scowled a bit about something this Phil-guy said but then said, "Sure, here he is." Suddenly I was holding the phone and I said hello with a frigid, cracked voice. "Hi there cutie, how are you? Are you ready for Jim to fuck you?" "Jim?" I hadn't even learned his name. "He's got a real big cock, you sure you can take it?" I hesitated. I didn't realize that's where it was heading. At that time I felt "Jim" fidgeting at the other end of the bed. "Can I listen," Phil asked, "while he fucks you?" "Um, sure, I guess." I thought I was so tough, I thought I'd seen everything. I hadn't seen, or felt anything yet. "Bring your bum up boy, so I can get at it better." I shifted for him. I heard him spit and say, "Now, just relax and keep the phone near your mouth so my friend can hear this." "Ugh, okay." He grabbed my hips and he pulled me toward him and I felt him press his wide cock against my puckered, loosened hole. "Relax." Then he shoved and I felt a shiver pass through me, I was already hurting and he hadn't even gone in. "Can you feel it yet?" Phil asked. "No." "No?" "No, I mean, no -- I don't want to do this." "Come on, we're almost there," Jim begged. "No. It hurts too much." It did too. It hurt as he pressed and shifted at my ass. He said maybe more lube would help. I heard him pull up some spit from his throat and launch it onto his cock, he slopped it around and then he pushed more and I squirmed to get away from it but he held fast to my hips and pulled me back on him and then suddenly, suddenly like the smack of a bitch-slap from God I felt him push into me hard and I screamed like a baby, I fought with my long legs too, I tried everything to get him out of my hole. "Quit your bitchin' boy, the more you fight the more it's gonna hurt you." "No, please, it hurts." But he started to pump into me. "Now I'm going to put it all in, now it's gonna pinch a bit so just relax." Without a pause he thrust and I couldn't do anything to stop him. I could only think of the pain and I could only see the mouth peice of the cordless phone as my chin was driven into it. I could hear Phil hooting and hollering, he could most likely hear my gasping, a sorrow in my sad cry that tickled his fancy. I closed my eyes and let it happen to me, I lay lifeless and made little noise. He was like a boulder pushing against a twig, crushing me, like another element demolishing me. All of a sudden he said, "Pass me the phone." I couldn't move, the pain was spreading through me like poison. "Pass me the fuckin' phone bitch." I practically threw it at him, tossing it over my shoulder, it landed on my back and he grabbed it from there. "Ya man, he's so hot, he's tight like a little boy. Remember the kid I had here last week." And he carried on this conversation while he fucked my tight hole. I could feel his hand rubbing my lower back. He fucked harder when he started thinking about "the kid" from last week, it made me feel weak, or numb. "Ya, tight like a twelve year old. Mmm, he's so cute." He traced my spine with his fat finger and I shook my shoulders to get him to stop. I was getting angry, I was getting scared it would never stop. "No, I don't think so," he put the phone down and slapped my ass again. Slapped it again really hard too. And then the third time he spanked me he rubbed the red spot he was making for himself there and it burned like a bitch. He spanked it again and I moaned. I looked at him with the most angry look in my eyes. "No, he ain't cryin' -- you ain't cryin' is you?" He seemed to throw on this disgusting southern/hick accent that made me want to throw up, it was all a show now he was playing this scene out for the pleasure of his friend, it gave him great pleasure to have his friend jealous. "I gotta go." I heard the phone beep and he put the phone down on the bed as he leaned over and I could hear his breathing right beside my left ear. I could smell his smoky breath. He fucked me harder and harder and the change in his position pushed his cock in even further. I made gurgling noises as he put his weight on my back and pressed me down into the bed. He slowed down then. I thought it was over. You know, without any big show. I was wrong. I could suddenly feel inside me the strangest changes. I wasn't sure what it was but it was hot and it was all over my lower body. I felt so full and heavy. I wasn't sure what was going on, I suddenly thought that maybe he'd torn me and I was bleeding. The thought made me panic. I started to squirm again but I was helpless under him. He held my upper arms heavily against the bedsheets. "You like that?" "What are you doing to me?" "I'm pissing inside you. Isn't it hot?" His whisper was serpentine and hissed like villainy. "No, don't do this to me." I squirmed this time and I got it right and his piss-soaked dick came out and he pissed all over me, all over my ass, the yellow washed all over my pale butt cheeks and he held his dick, aimed it, and while he played with the flow, rubbing it into my skin, he took a picture. I started to fight to get up but he wouldn't let me. I fought and fought and he said something to me about wrestling, that I'd lose. I did, he grabbed one arm and pulled it behind me and I fell to the bed where he grabbed the other arm and pulled it behind me too. I was defenseless and my face was driven into the bed. I farted then and a lot of piss came out and all over his bed. He swore. Then he drove himself inside me again and fucked me harder than he had before, driving me with such strength that I was being pushed up into the pillows, then into the headboard and he banged me while my head banged the board. I cried. Only for a few moments this lasted but it was an excruciation that didn't seem to end. When he pulled out he flipped me over and then straddled my chest, jerking his meat until he finally shot his load all over my face. I lay there humiliated, and though I'd stopped crying, my face was a terrible mask of melancholy. He sucked me off then, like it was some sort of payment for the rape. I didn't enjoy it. I shot my load into his mouth and he thanked me and then he drove me home. I could barely sit and the clatter of the shit in the back of the van kept startling me. He dropped me off at the residence, a few hours had passed since I'd left and the doorman, the guy who'd been fucking me since the start, asked if I was alright. Now it's years later. Just a warm Tuesday. So much has happened since then, so much has changed, that the incident of Jim, and his cruel cock, has just been added to the stack of such tales I could tell. I opened the window and let the warmth of the new day into the living room as people propositioned me with various exciting things. My reputation on-line was recently diminished, not when I was an escort, not even after when I opted to quit because I "didn't want to", no, it was after that when I tried to pick up a few bucks and started to escort again for "the fun of it." Now it's one thing to be snubbed by the Community-Proper because you're a common whore, but it's another thing entirely to be snubbed by the sluts and whores because you're not even a reliable prostitute. Well, it's in that way that I enter the room. Looking for sex, guaging propositions, not on the appearance of the man, instead on how it will benefit me on my day off, it makes it more like a hunt for a partridge that's just the right size for a roast pan you haven't bought yet in a clearing in the woods where there are all sorts of birds flying at you from every direction. Proverbally, I was Orion, armed and proud, virtuous and filled with the liberty of a whole day off and behold, the hunt, the hunter hunted. There are boys that try. They react to my sass because they've heard so much about bitchy fags that have so much experience and they sometimes wish they had that sass too. That sort of sass comes only with time, the amount of time it takes to have so much sex you've jaded yourself. There are men that try, and I mean, let's remember that we're on the internet and it's now well into the new millennium and there's plenty of ways to get your face on the net, there are even more ways to get a good picture of you on the net, there's no reason to not have it there. Unless of course you're the sort that wants to suck you under a bathroom stall wall, or maybe they have a glory hole in their front hall and they like to take advantage of young men who are so horny they're almost malicous in their frustration. There are young men who are cool, they're just looking for fun: as long as you live nearby. There are young men who are cool, they're just looking for a fuck: as long as you have a place. There are young men who are cool, but then you finally get to see what they look like and they aren't even a young man at all. There are old men who are cool, older men, not like senior citizen young men, I mean, men in their late forties, fifties, who are still in shape, they're social, they know people: the only thing is if they're too social they want someone they can show off, someone new in town without a reputation, that's pretty, someone with blonde hair, blue eyes and a physique of relative convenience, that's pretty, or knowing the right people because you're helping out the Pride Committee for the fifth year in a row and you're just 20 now, that can be pretty. That's not even the end of it, if you're pretty you have to be dressed well, dressed in the fresh fashions of each season, anticipating the directions of the major coutures, and if you're dressing well you better have a place, a condo, with the whole condo-lifestyle sucking at your soul like an urban leech, and if you've got the place you've got the job and the job, which is the basis of all the rest, is nothing more than a miniscule inflection in a stone in a tie pin you don't wear. There's no room for a poor guy with a drug habit and a long history of sleeping around, even if he is tall and thin and has a strong chin, even if he isn't a fool, even if he has opinions -- or rather, especially because ... These are the people on line. Your numbers may not please them, your stats. But once you start getting people to hit on you there's a sort of power you can sway over them people as they come at you. After years of this representation of myself in a realm like "on-line" I have developed for myself a reputation as being someone who is rather well-written, meaning I communicate myself well in dialogues. My sass, again, it attracts the gentlemen callers. And I mean it's not just my gay chatroom, there's the private list as well, right, the msn, you know. Well, there's three likely offers, three juicy leads; this morning three of the gentlemen pass on their invitations. Cecil, Marcel, and the one I call the Hundred Dollar Man. Cecil is my favorite. He's the only one I let fuck me these days. He's in his forties, he's bald, he's an interior designer, he just recently finished a really big law firm and he's really excited about having me over for dinner. I tell him I can't just drop my plans and go jump his bone like that. I tell him to please me, I tell him to beg. So he does, and it makes me gush as I sip another coffee and light another cigarette. He asks me when the last time I was fucked was and I tell him that it was him, even though technically that story isn't a true one anymore, it makes him so happy to think I can be so loyal. I mean really there was one guy since the last time I saw Cecil, and the only reason I'd let him do me was because I'd heard his compelling story and thought it would be nice of me to let him have a boy after so long living alone on a farm in the middle of no where. Cecil would have understood but it would have to be a story to tell in person when I could pout and show him a long face when I told him to spank me for my infidelity, to punish me. He wouldn't mind that at all. I told him I couldn't though, that I wasn't in the mood for celebratory sex, I wanted holiday sex and somehow that was different. Why? Because it's about going somewhere I've never been, you know, like a cottage or something. Marcel's love for me is the sweetest in my collection of gentlemen, but alas it must end with him, he's just not pleasing me very much, not anymore. He's not as rich as he used to be because his wife noticed a sudden decrease in the funds and he's not about to admit that he's having an affair with me. I don't expect that, I don't. I mean, my family fell apart, not so much because my mother was having an affair but because she let everyone know about it. I wouldn't wish that on any family, and I mean I know he has a son my age so I think it would compound the situation ten-fold if the parent were having a homosexual relationship. Marcel used to be a customer of mine. He was always there for me when I was at my poorest and I didn't even have a lick of peanut butter in the house to eat. He would leave work early and come by my place and make sure I had cigarettes and bread and some money for some food, I'd make him laugh and tickle his neck by the collar and tell him smelled nice while he fucked me in my room. He liked me because I was showing him with each visit something that he'd never really had, true affection. Like I mean it's arguable that I didn't really like HIM I liked the money he was giving me. To be honest though, couldn't believe he was so sweet to me. One time he cancelled a meeting because his son had broken his arm and he had to go to the hospital, I was kind of upset because we'd been so looking forward to meeting. (I mean, for the most part we met halfway sort of thing, at the bath house, and I liked staying on afterward to have a sauna or to lounge and smoke cigarettes and watch porn.) Suddenly the doorbell rang and he'd brought me chocolates. It's really the only time I've ever received chocolates and really I thought it was the sweetest thing ever. But he doesn't do that sort of thing anymore. I had to fend him off a bit. The Hundred Dollar Man is a strange man who remains nameless. I believe he may be sick, his skin is a strange shade of blue sometimes, even in the heat of the summer he cowers away from the sun and he gets a sickly hue about him. But he's absolutely in love with me, like he's absolutely in love with all the boys on there, but I believe I have a certain affect on men like him to please them like men may have been treated in the time of Wilde, you know, like a sire. Whenever I've gotten to his place, which takes forever to bus too, he always mixes me a drink, we chain smoke two cigarettes, talk about the parties I've been to lately, about the writing that I've done. He smiles and seems pleased with me. He takes me into his room where we strip ... He's rich too, filthy rich, every time I cum for him he gives me, you guessed it, $100, and then he asks me to leave. He used to be married, he's not afraid of getting caught, but I believe that he must have some sort of psycho-sematic vision of things in his mind and he wants to be rid of me before he catches himself doing what I love him doing. He wanted me to drop everything too, he was leaving for Barbados that evening and he wanted to get all "hot and sticky" with me. I don't know, the money would have been great but really it was my day off and I didn't want to be rushed or pushed or ushered out when it was over. I told him I'd wait till he got back. (Friday.) I had that conversation, with the three of the Gentlemen, all at once: finishing them at about the same time, and it was at about that time that the room mates started to stir. When one of them had finished his cigarette he'd as well taken the time to crush up a speed and the two of us railed it, and then I sat down again. My room mates are all straight, all three of them are these bachelors that are all capable of finding sex, they're all elligible, or as elligible as I am, and they all wish they were as promiscuous as I am. They think it's so easy though. It's such a misconception. I mean sure, I just had three propositions from attractive men that could have given me a good enough time, but I had to turn them all down without hurting them, and telling a man he can't have sex with the one he wants is like saying he can't have sex with them ever again. It's a game of cunning, and like I told Cecil, "If this were a game, a game played on a board, a game like Monopoly say, then you must believe, because it is certain to happen, I will land on your street again. I'll pay my dues." When my room mate got all jittery from his rail he got up and started cleaning up the bottles in the kitchen from the party the night before. Normally I would have done it but it was my day off and quite frankly it had been a while since I'd had some good action so I was rather earnest in my endeavor. Focused. Then there was a young man that was relatively nearby who was willing to get me cigarettes if I came over to hang out with him. His name was Brad. His picture showed a clean complexion on a face as young-looking as myself, even though he was actually in his 30s. I love men in their 30s, I mean, they usually have a good enough job, a place, some extra towels, they live a life of a young man in the setting of an older man. It's a nice mix. This guy asked me if I did drugs. I told him I just railed a line of speed. He laughed at that. He told me to come over and we could do bumps of meth and just hang out and smoke cigarettes and fuck around. Now that sounded like a great offer. I could imagine it, you know, lying there in a house that smelled of sex and drugs and while listening to some good music lose my long-held load. Nice. It seemed like the right choice. And when my room mate asked if I was having any luck I told him that this Brad guy had the best offer so far. "How do you think it sounds. Sex and Tina and free cigarettes?" "Oh you guys have it so easy." But see, at that moment, that's when I got message from someone that I'd never done before but definitely knew. (Time for another story.) Back in the day, back when I was about 21 or so, the Hey Day of my Promiscuity, I was sleeping with men left, right and center. I would go to the bar, smoking a joint along the way to perfume myself with an air of rebellion, I would get there and have a few drinks while lurking, less like an Orion, and more like a sneaky fox around the coop of the community on a Thursday, Friday, Saturday night. I would eye and ogle and leer and find someone viable, decisive, someone who would be eager enough to put on a show for me. In those days I made my way around town, mapping the city with the buildings I had sex in. It was like the first second wave of my sexuality. Third. First I suppose would have to be the experimenting with my cousin on long summer holidays at my grandparents' place. Second wave would be college, when I was first out of the closet and was first off falling in love and then secondly learning about lust in the lavatory of the local mall. The third wave was when I got home from college and moved to the city and started drinking and going to bars, that was when it was greatest, that was when I was most wicked, I hadn't been jaded in those days, it hadn't happened yet because I hadn't fallen in love, I hadn't started selling myself, I hadn't given up on the gay community. In that third wave, unbeknownst to me, I had an admirier. His name was Laurier. Laurier was from a hole in the ground in Northern Ontario, a place of such vast stretches of land that it was frightening to think of anyone growing up up there, especially a gay boy with no connection to the outside world. As I am 26, and he's about to turn fifty, Laurier is apparently twice my age. I mean, I don't want you to think that I didn't recognize him, I simply didn't know he was someone who'd seen me back then and never had his turn with me but still wanted it, his turn, me. I remembered him instantly, as soon as he messaged me I looked at his picture and saw who it was and said, "Oh my God, I remember you, we used to dance all the time at the Lookout together. I used to think you were handsome. What are you doing this afternoon?" That's right, I went after him. The room mates were all up and laughing and so I simply signed off the computer after a couple of minutes and they asked if I was giving up. "No, no, no, I'm going over to Bay Street, to those buildings over there. It's an older guy, I've known him for some time but never hooked up with him. I'm really excited." I got dressed in capris and a yellow polo shirt and through on my runners, grabbed my shades too, and headed out into the city to get my man. It's like when the African hunters would find the gazelle and then the chase would start and it wouldn't end until either the beast of the man dropped from exhaustion. I hit the sidewalk with such velocity, the line I did before I left kicked in and suddenly I was flying through the city on a really warm Tuesday afternoon, as the government people were getting out for the day and were going out for dinner. The Market district was alive, it smelled of the different styles of food being prepared, it was thrilling with the sound of laughter and shenanigans. It was fun to cruise through the streets in this atmosphere. Though it was easy to think my third wave was the best wave, it really wasn't, there was no Best Wave. After the third wave I fell in love, with just one of the men from the long list that I brought to my room. I fell in love with him and with him I discovered the world because he was a traveller and I was tired of the city and so we spent time travelling and travelling far, we went to China, New Zealand, Prague, and then a stop in Florida to meet his mother. We moved in with each other when we got back to Ottawa, we made ourselves a lovely home. We had friends over on Saturday nights for dinners we'd spend the afternoon preparing. We'd have family over. We'd fuck on Sundays and Mondays and Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Thursdays and Fridays and Saturdays too -- we'd fuck and fuck and fuck. But then I got bored. Bored of sweeping the floor more than anything, and about the time I got bored he got a promotion and with this promotion he started going on business trips. These trips weren't extravagant sojourns, they were merely to Indianapolis to watch workers work on something. That's all. But he'd be gone for weeks. Then in the middle of that summer, the summer of the Great Year, The Great Year that I'm calling the fourth wave, he went to Texas and was gone for my birthday. It was on my birthday that the Fifth Wave started, if anything, it's the scandalous wave, I started having seedy sex. What I mean is I'd gone to a porn shop, to the back room, and done it with a man in such a way that was such a release. I've seen movies, and I'm sure you've seen them too, the movies about wives who give in to the temptation of strangers when they're weak. That's what it was. He was a Brit and he was vigorous, he was absolutely thunderous, he was relentless. It was so passionate that when he picked me up to throw on his hips while he stood in the stall and I used the two glory holes on each side of the stall as foot holds for leverage, he started to pound my ass with such exhilerating ferocity that we actually knocked the door off the hinges, which was a very loud commotion in a place of such muted tension, and I landed on my back, which caused me an incredible amount of pain and I was in a position where, the following weekend when my partner got home, I was forced to tell him what happened. I moved out and into a place with a bedroom suitable for a lifestyle of ill-repute. But I mean, I wasn't rich right, so I started taking advantage of my virility and I started to capitalize on it. I became an escort. One after the other they came through the door. The money kept rolling in and in and in and in and in. Seriously I was such a fool, I mean I had all that money and all I did was buy the drugs that would make me not want to have sex and slowly the viscious circle tightened too tight and the next thing I knew the customers weren't pleased as punch, except for a few of them, and I lost my credibility. One stormy winter night, in a crazy blizzard of slander and name-calling, I reached a point when it became just too ridiculous to try any longer. I quit the business. And now I'm in the Sixth Wave of my Sexuality. If it has a name I haven't learned it just yet. As I cleared the Market and cut through the Rideau Center, turning down into Confederation Park after the Mackenzie King Bridge, I get on one street after another taking intersections as quickly as possible by crossing them whichever way the light's flashing. It's like a gypsy going whichever way the wind blows -- sorta. When I got to Laurier's building I discovered that I hadn't written down the buzzer number, I'd written down the apartment number. I snuck in when someone left. I got up to his 14th floor place and knocked. It's been about five years since I'd seen him last, and probably the last time I'd seen him I'd been drunker than skunk in a trunk. When I heard him coming to the door I timed it just right, as he opened it I took off my sun glasses and created an illusion of unfolding for him, he smiled and I lowered my eyes. I walked in without saying a word. He said that it was good to see me, that he could remember me too from those days years ago. He remembered having such fun with me then. He was eager, I could tell, I was high, I could tell. I just barged right in and found myself overlooking the river to the west of downtown from 14 floors up. The sun shone in amazingly. It was so pretty. I turned around, pulling the arm of the sunglasses out of my mouth just enough to say, "Nice place you got here." I cocked my eyebrow, walked toward him and grabbed his shoulder aggressively, pulling him close: it was a kiss of the ages. That was all I said. He suggested we go to the bedroom. I was taking off my clothes along the way. When I arrived on the opposite side of the bed he saw that I was naked and that my cock was hard and ready for him. I'm slightly hairy, right, I've got hair all over my torso and legs and arms, but I keep the body hair groomed and trimmed and there's something absolutely animal about me. I associate boy hair with masculinity: I am a man and I am attracted to men. Laurier had hair on his chest, but not just that -- I mean, I looked at his chest there for a minute -- I looked at everything about him for about a minute -- but, DAMN, if he didn't have a huge schlong. I mean it was like nine inches and about three inches at the head. I'd only ever once seen a cock like that before. "What's wrong?" I grinned and got up on the bed, and in such a way I got ready like a cat would for a pounce and purred with anticipation. Lowering my ears, in a proverbial way, for dramatic effect, getting the hair on my back (if I hadn't shaved it off) to stand: I was killer. I was cool. I was hot. Then it was off like a fight in the animal kingdom. Frantic breathing, sweat, scratching, slapping, spanking, pushing, pulling: the passion in me, having been relatively canned for the last week or so, was absolutely exploding as it got out. It was like some chemical that reacts to the air, after having been a week where I didn't feel like having sex, suddenly I was a creature entirely made of it. I planted my ass on his face and ground my hole into his mouth while I, facing the other way, sucked that massive peice of meat. I relished the feeling of his tongue as it forced its way inside me. I then moved down and started sucking on his balls, smelling the spice of manhood and loving it, the musk urging me on, driving me crazy, I drove my tongue into his hole, making him cringe (stupid tops who never bottom, like fuck I was letting him get away with it). Once he was heated up with my tongue I shoved my finger in, and then another rather soon thereafter. He pulled back, then he too put his finger in, a manly finger, rather thicker than my own, and then two of them and then he started to finger fuck me which drove me absolutely crazy, to the point that I broke a sweat and starting panting and, while I fucked him with my fingers and made him gasp and moan, I lowered myself back down on his cock and let him fuck my face as hard as he could. It was so hot, it lasted a while too. I was happy with it. Then he asked if he could fuck me. I stood on the bed, which is great of looking down on someone and I gave him this look like he was being ridiculous, like he'd gone too far. Instead of shouting my response, which would have been better than simply saying so, I got down again and straddled and squeezed the breath out of him between my legs as I bent over and into his ear I whispered, "Don't you dare ever ask me that again." After a moment's preparation I was staring at the ceiling with my mouth open and the cry of a skewered brat escaping me as I lowered myself on his meat. It was huge going into me. It was just crazy the way I felt myself filling up with it. I lost my breath and grew faint when I'd nearly swallowed it in my ass mouth. When it was all the way in I stopped and felt for a moment the thrill of this. There's such completion in the full fledged fuck: it's amazing. Before we started fucking I lowered myself down and lay along his chest. He stroked my back and rubbed my shoulders to relax me. Then he started to push and it was so intense I thought I would die. He started to grind into me his juices and he said that it felt so good to be inside me, he'd wanted this for such a long time. I couldn't respond, I was just taking it. I loved it. Once I was loosened up a bit I told him to fuck me. I said it like he hadn't even really been trying before, "Well, aren't you going to fuck me then? Fuck me bitch, fuck me!" It was amazing. He started at it, first he was lying on his back then he got up on his knees and I stayed on top, facing him, it's an embrace of a fuck, you know what I mean. Then we turned, which involved him pulling out of me, and I told him I wanted to face the wall, I was spread-eagle against the wall, one hand really actually, one hand on the wall and the other gripping the sheet between my legs. He said it wasn't quite right, I arched my back and he said, "Yes. That's it baby." He slapped my ass and I shot him a look. Cocking my eyebrow, I said, "That all you got bitch? Hit me if you're gonna hit me fuck." He spanked me again and I loved it. The sting is so warm and sudden. "Again." He did it. It felt so good, then he started to spank my ass with both hands, repetitively, my ass was red and sore. Suddenly he plunged his cock in my rear and I took it like a man and let him fuck the shit out of me. We were swearing and cursing and making weird panting noises. I told him to pull out when he was about to cum. While he was fucking me though there was an interesting moment, and one must remember that I couldn't see his face while we were doing this. He said, "I love your eyes." Then, without losing the rhythm of his gyration he caressed so tenderly my side, along my ribs, up and over and under into my chest hair, along my nipple, teasing me, pinching me then, but then just rubbing me. The heat of his hand on me was so calming and soothing. Not that I was really needing it but you know when you've had a lot of sex with strangers and then you realize that you've had a lot of sex without even really touching. Just sucking each other's cocks, holding their feet up while you fuck them, this is cold. This is sex without touching. But all it takes is this, this simple show of tenderness. All the feline savagery of my attack melted. My back relaxed with his touch. While he fucked me I leaned back and we embraced again, as before, but this time I wasn't facing him, this time it was as though we spooned whle seated, him fucking me. My proximity limited his movement, like a traffic jam slows a highway, and I eased into his chest and wrapped his tender, pulsating arms around me. I could smell some cologne that was reminded me of green tea for some reason, it didn't smell like it or anything, it just made me think of purity, simplicity. I let my nose follow it to his neck. I let my hands go to his head and gave him one of my fingers to suck on. When I could tell he was getting anxious I let him get a few good rounds into me and then I pulled off and told him to cum. He stood on the bed and started to jerk off and I put my face right at his dick, I even started licking at it even though it tasted a bit like ass and condom. I loved the size of his cock. It was so beautiful, in a way only a gay guy can appreciate maybe. A woman would think that to admire a cock like this would be just ridiculous, a straight guy might say, Wow, that's a hell of a cock, but to a young gay man, to be kneeling before the hot shaft as it is milked with nice long strokes that never once showed a sign of needing to hurry, it was monumental, iconic, and I was it's youthful worshipper. Suddenly Laurier looked at the ceiling as I had done and he let loose a low groan, like an old dog barking, "Ugh!" He shot his seed all over my face, and then I took most of it in my mouth and I swallowed it. He leaned down and licked his own cum off my face with a smile. He seemed done. I said, "You're not done." He lay back down and I told him to suck my cock for me, please, I needed to get my rocks off too, so bad. "Please." "Well you don't need to beg, that's for damn sure." He lay his head on the pillows and I climbed up on his shoulder and put my cock in his mouth while I still sucked semen out of my molars. I thrust my cock in his face and he stroked it with one hand but then I couldn't help it I had to take control and I started to really fuck his face, I love fucking face. It's so hot. I just couldn't stand it. That's how I started to choke him, he gagged a bit on it, that's hot you know. Feeding it to him like that, fucking his face like it's an 18-year-old's virginal ass, without regard, just feeding it to him. It didn't take me long and I blew my load right down his throat. When it was over I didn't even sit down. I got off the bed and wiped my hands on a towel that conveniently nearby. I wiped my face with it too. A breeze that had been warmed by the sun as it came off the river, through the parks and up to this very room, stirred the curtain and tickled my forehead, I realzed then how much I'd been sweating. My ass was fucking sore. I laughed and giggled and felt really really good. Just as good sex should make one feel. Laurier leaned on one of his elbows as he looked at me. He smiled. "You're beautiful." I thanked him. He asked, "Will I ever see you again?" I told him that he would, of course he would. I gave him some contact information and told him that I'd really had a lot of fun and that if he'd really wanted to he'd find me. We talked then about how neither of us go to the gay bar anymore. For him it used to be something different, it wasn't about sex before, the gay bar. Back then it was about the music, it was Disco though. I laughed and told him that he was simply in the wrong community. I'm in the new Disco, the After-Hours and it's not about sex for us at all, it's always about the music, and the drugs. At which point I asked him if had a Tylenol, yeesh my head was killing me. He joked that it was my drug habit that gave me the head ache and I laughed and said, no, it was just a relief to get it all out of my system. I don't know. I just thought I'd tell you that.