Date: Sun, 15 May 2011 16:08:15 +0800
From: Marten Weber <webmarten@gmail.com>
Subject: Hockey in Bratislava

Hockey in Bratislava

m/m, encounters, first time, married men, bear/cub, ws,

--A hotel full of Russian hockey players.
--And Finns, the Finns are staying here too.
--And the Canadians? I think I saw a Canadian shirt. A red maple leaf, no?
--Must have been a fan. But the town is full of them. There's hockey players
everywhere!
--Well. Look but don't touch.
--Don't touch, yeah. They are a bit...

Two hours later later I was in the elevator thinking 'What the fuck am I
doing?'

Human sexuality is an amazing thing. Some people grow up knowing that, and
living it, and others, like me, have to blunder along for fifty years before
they wake up.

Wake up, yes--I woke up in Bratislava, on May 3, 2011, during the hockey cup.
Nothing to do with hockey players though, or only indirectly. Until that
day, my life consisted of meeting and marrying a woman and raising two
wonderful daughters, paying a mortgage, and watching television. The rest of
me is hockey. I live and breathe the sport--first actively, now as coach. My
biography would read: married, played hockey, died. And maybe, actually--but
this sounds depressing--never lived in the first place. As I said, I woke up.


My wife and I live in the countryside. We grow our own vegetables, we do
some social work at the daycare center, we run a book club. Well..., she
does. Oh, and we go to church. Why, I don't know. Probably because we don't
want people to talk. We sit in the pew every Sunday, because we don't want
people to talk. Can't have people talking. It's a pretty ludicrous reason,
but I daresay, it's an all too common one. I am an important figure in
national sports, on TV at times, talking about the game, the season, the
injury of a player. Can't have people talking. It seems like everything
we've ever done, my wife and I, is because we don't want people talking. But
you get used to it--life without much thought. Until you wake up.

I went to Slovakia with my team for the 2011 IIHF Championship. It's
perfectly true, just Google it, it happened in May 2011, just like I tell
it. Flew to Vienna, got a bus to drive us to Bratislava. Nice place, old
castle, by the river, friendly people. During the championship, of course, a
town full of hockey players. Loud-mouthed, violent athletes, high on their
sport, their own virility, the adoring fans, the sexual energy. Eastern
European mostly, and Nordics, Americans, Canadians, Russians: big,
impressive men, with hair on their chest. Real men. I've spent my whole life
among them.

So to make this as clear as possible: In my entire career as a player and
coach, I have never once lusted after a guy. Never once. I swear to God, it
never occurred to me. I never stood in the door to the showers
thinking...wow! I never looked at them on the field with a boner. They were
just my boys, my players, and before that, my teammates. I love the sport, I
love the ice, I love the energy. I didn't love the players--my conscience is
clean.

It still is now, as far as the players go, but it's slightly off-center. It
wobbles, my conscience. It pulsates a bit, when I think about what happened.
And my dick does too.

We were at the Kempinski Hotel by the river, its main hall nicely decorated
with a bouquet of flowers and hockey sticks. We watched Russia-Slovakia and
I tried to keep the boys from drinking too much. Stan especially is one I
have to watch closely. He's always the first drunk and off with some local
tart. And you have to prevent fights. Especially when the Russians are
around--there's always trouble with the Russian team. Finns are #2 with their
howling and chest-pounding. Yellow-bearded maniacs. But they behaved
themselves, my boys too, and I sent them to bed after the game. Had to be
rested and fit for tomorrow. Big game ahead. No nonsense. So I make sure
there's no nonsense.

I was sitting on the plush coach across from the elevators--making sure none
of my players found their way down and into the next dive--when I overheard
that conversation above.

--Anyway, it cannot be the Canadians, they are in Košice, not Bratislava.
--Well, fan then. Or they stop here on their way there. I thought he looked
Canadian.
--So what do Canadians look like? Anyway, they buy and sell players just like
in football.

That's all they talked about hockey, then it was all arts and `the
magazine,' and deadlines, and then one of the two stood up and left. I
didn't even look--I wouldn't have seen them, on account of the dividers. So I
finished my beer and decided it was time for bed.

Just then, as I tried to get up, he stood suddenly beside me, saying,

--Are you with the hockey team then?

I looked up, startled by his approach. He was in his twenties, with a soft
and almost feminine face. A beard stubble that wouldn't have amounted to
much if he had let it grow out. Nice hair cut. An elegant black shirt and a
neat velvet jacket. I found myself staring at his chest.
He pulled the lapels apart. The inside was red--silky red. It looked like he
was pulling skin apart and showing me the inside of his flesh.

--Valentino. You like it?
--What?
--The jacket?
--Oh.

For a fifty year old man, I was suddenly amazingly tongue-tied. I made no
effort to get up, but sank back into the sofa; then I remembered his initial
question.

--Yes, hockey.
--But not the Canadians?
--No. The Canadians...
--...are at Košice! I know. My friend tell me. I like hockey players.

And then he sat down. Next to me. Uninvited. He pulled out a name card and
handed it to me. It gave his name, the name of a magazine, and his title:
`šéfredaktor,' which, he explained, was `chief editor' in Slovak.

--I can't talk to the press, I said.
--What? Oh, I am not sport press. We also have sports magazine, but I don't
work for sports.
--What is your magazine about?
--Architecture. Arts. Architecture and arts.
--So you are not here for the hockey?
--Well... he said, smiling wide, and his eyes shining--or was it the light?
I'm here for the players.

He took a sip from his gin and tonic and pointed at my beer.

--Would you like another one?

I should have said no then, I should have just got up and left, but instead,
I said yes. I couldn't leave. His jibe about players--I knew what it was
about. I'm not thick or anything. Yet, even so, I had a sudden desire to
remain sitting next to this stylish young man and listening to him. His
knees were right in front of me--the sofa was so deep. I stared at his long,
thin legs. At his shoes. He watched me.
I looked at his hands--his elegant fingers. For the first time in my life, I
felt myself drawn to the figure, the image of a man. I had the strangest
thoughts--that he was beautiful.

I didn't give an answer. He waved the waitress and another beer came. Time
seemed to pass quickly, and to stand still at the same time. He smelled like
roses--it was almost a woman's perfume, or so I thought.

--You are not a player? he said.
--I am a bit too old to play. But I am a coach.

I found it hard to speak. My tongue felt a bit numb.

--A coach?
--A trainer. I am the trainer of...
--Oh trainer! Oh, you are not too old, really. I like older men.

I should have put two and two together then. Bells should have rung, and
fireworks gone off in my head, but nothing happened. As I said, am not
stupid. I know what goes on in hotel lobbies. I know gays hit on my players
sometimes. But hit on me?

I listened to him saying `I like older men,' and found I was studying his
nose. It was thin, elegant, if maybe a little large. There was a tiny black
dot on the side--either a mole or a piece of lint. I had the urge to touch
it.

His lips were pale and almost a little pink. A voice inside me said, `don't
worry, if your boys catch you, you can always say you were giving an
interview to the press.'

--I need to watch the elevators for a while.
--Why?
--Because I don't want my players to sneak out and get drunk...or laid.
--Your players? Oh, I see--you are like a father, ha ha, like in an internat.
--Internet?
--Internát. Oh--maybe not English--in English is... when student don't stay
home, but in school. They sleep in school.
--A dormitory--a boarding school. Yeah. It's a bit like that. They are always
up to no good. I have to watch them.

I let me hand slide up and down the wet beer glass. I'd just taken a sip,
but I felt thirsty again. My mouth was dry. I looked at my fingers--they were
shaking.

--I can imagine. Young boys.
--They aren't that young. But you have to watch them, nonetheless, especially
abroad.
--I know. Yesterday I was in Bratislava, main square, you know, the
bars...have you been there?
--Yeah, on our first day.
--Yes, you see...lots of bars and ladies. You must watch your boys, or...
--They'll be useless on the ice!
--Yes. But maybe they are good in bed, eh?
--What?
--Hockey players. I see many in town now. All very...butch. Very big muscles,
very...manly.
--Well, you have to be a bit stronger to play this sport. It's very demanding
on the body. Lots of injuries.
--Yes, violent.
--I don't know about violent.
--Yes, it is violent. Like war. Your boys are warriors. So tomorrow you
battle. And you are big, strong general, you have to make sure your army is
fit. I understand.

He gave me a broad smile, so wide and happy it almost distorted his face.
His teeth were perfectly even and white, except for one. I stared at it, and
then, when the smile collapsed, I kept staring at his lips. I just couldn't
look away.

For all my life, the comparison of sports to war, the insinuation that
athletes were nothing but dumb fighting machines, has bothered me. It's
something intellectuals like to say, probably because they are full of envy.
But when he said it, this cute Slovak šéfredaktor, I didn't reply. I felt...
I don't know what I felt.

I didn't answer, I just smiled, nodded, maybe I said a soft `yes,' but I
just... I felt a bit like floating. Like I wasn't really there. Like this
wasn't really happening. Especially when he put a hand on my thigh and said,

--I really like bears.
--Bears?

I tried to think of a team called `Bears'. He withdrew his hand.

--Yes, bears. Big, burly men, with hair.

The logical thing would have been to stand up and leave, to tell him I was a
married man, and that I certainly wasn't interested in him--the hand on my
thigh was clear enough, wasn't it. But like a dumb ox--or, as it were, a
bear--I sat there saying,

--Do you?

The implication dawned only slowly, that he regarded me as a big burly
`bear' and that-- I don't think of myself as a fat hairy man. I am big, tall,
I wear a good size shoes, but I am not...well, compared to him.

I looked again. He smiled. I had the sudden urge to touch his face. The
soft, reddish cheeks. As if he was reading my mind, he said,

--My cheek get red when I drink. Tonight I drink a lot. I am drunky monkey
tonight!

He looked impossibly cute. His eyes sparkled. I stared at him like I would
look at an attractive woman. I reminded myself that he was a man, and that I
wasn't interested. Couldn't be.

--Did you watch the game?
--Yes. Russia win 4-3.
--You support Slovakia of course!
--Of course. Best looking team! Ha ha!
--Ha ha, I said, trying to be friendly, I hadn't noticed!

I sounded daft. I assume straight men have to do this--make it clear that we
aren't interested in how men look. Establish boundaries, that's what men
do--set the rules. And yet, he completely ignored me. His hand was back on my
thigh again and he said,

--But maybe hockey player is too young for me. Too much hard muscle. I like
softer, older bear.

I had an impulse to say something mean. To call him a fairy--his hand gesture
was pretty effeminate. I wanted to run, to push his hand away. Then I
reproached myself, for being afraid of a little queer boy. Why feel
threatened. Stupid. I resolved to take his hand, and remove it from my
thigh, but when I tried to lift mine, it wouldn't move. I sat there like a
sculpture, frozen, grinning. I could feel my heart thumping.

He just smiled, drank a tiny sip from his glass, and turned to me again.
Once more, I wanted to touch the red cheeks.

I nodded, and drank from my beer. I hid my face in the glass. I didn't want
to put it down again--the gesture felt safe.

--You are thirsty!

Only I wasn't. My mouth was stone dry, even when I finally stopped gulping
down beer.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

Again, he smiled.

--Big bear drink, he said, then gave a little laugh. It was high-pitched,
clear, like a bird call. His eyes sparkled. I noticed that his ears were
turning red too. Singularly attractive, as his hand came back to rest
between us on the sofa. I stared at his long fingers and said,

--Tell me about your magazine!

The moment I said it, I felt a bit stupid. What possible interest could I
have in an architecture magazine? Why didn't I get rid of him? Fucking
faggot, I thought--leave me alone. I looked at the elevators, to remind me
why I was there. Yeah, sure.

He spoke, in his mellow voice, for a long time, about his work, his friends,
what he spent his money on--he collected clothes and watches, but didn't
really earn much; then he elaborated on the difficulties of his job, the
corruption in Slovakia, the low pay again; he said a writer got twenty
euros--that's not a lot--for an article. He tried to get an Austrian writer
for a segment, but they laughed him off, wouldn't lift a finger for less
than two hundred. So I guess Eastern Europe still has a long way to go. He
talked about the gap between rich and poor, how so very few people could
afford apartments like the ones next to the hotel, by the riverside--had I
noticed the new complex? He named a sum which sounded reasonable to me, but
he said he would have to work a lifetime to afford such a place. Most people
got by on much less than a thousand euros a month--much less. I did the sums
in my head, and I was surprised.

It was interesting. I learned lots of things in that half hour--about how
conservative Slovakia was, how religious. I told him about my church-going.
I think it was the first time I admitted to anyone that I didn't give a damn
about religion any more. He said life must be so free in the West, and
laughed when I told him I sat in church to keep up appearances. He
laughed--he laughed loud, and bright, and with a ring in his voice that sent
a long, pleasant shiver down my spine. My toes tingled. My fingertips felt
warm and itchy.

I made a conscious effort not to be attracted to him. I decided that right
now, in a second, I would say good night and go to my room.

Then I reached out--and I touched him.

He stopped laughing. He looked me deep in the eyes as my hand withdrew, and
I felt like a shy school boy. A voice said, `for fuck's sake, you are a
fifty year old married man! If anybody sees you! What are you doing stroking
that boy's cheek?'

He said,
--Maybe you have never been with a man before?

But I heard only angels singing. The voice came again, `Get up, shake his
hand, say good night, go up to your room.'

I finished my beer in one large gulp, stood up, shook his hand, and listened
to him say,
--Maybe I come up to your room?

I was still in a trance. But my mind was made up. I said,
--Thank you. It was nice meeting you, I have to go now,
and started walking towards the elevators. They were all here, doors open. I
fished for the key card in my pocket. I swiped the card, pressed 10, and the
doors closed.

I was surprised to find he was standing next to me.
Not really. I wasn't surprised. I knew what was happening, and I knew I was
powerless to stop it. I just couldn't talk about it.

The voice said, 'What the fuck?'

My hands trembled. I didn't look at him, but straight ahead, at the door,
and in the door, at our reflection on the metal surface. I was a head
taller. I was wearing a hockey team shirt. Dark black hair with white
strands sprouted out of it on my neck. My face was red and round. My eyes
were shiny. I felt the beer go to my head--my bald head full of gray stubble
on the sides. I looked like his fucking grandfather!

Next to me, in the reflection, stood this elegant young man, in a
well-tailored jacket. His face was even, clear-cut, square-jawed, but at the
same time, soft and inviting, and tender. There was a sweet glow about
him--almost angelic. He could have been a fashion model, but he wasn't that
young. Not in this light. Maybe thirty? I had this feeling in my knees, the
same buttery feeling I used to have in the early days before going out on
the ice, or after a tough game we lost--that same feeling of insecurity and
excitement.

I felt like a fool. I didn't want him here, I didn't want to be next to him
in this elevator. The voice said, 'tell him to go away. Shake his hand, say
good bye, say you are not interested.' He was smiling at me in the door. 9Th
floor, 10th.

Suddenly, he was holding my hand. I was sweating profusely.

When we got out, he said,
--You have big hands.

He let go of it as I reached for the key card. I looked up and down the
aisle, wondering what I would do if any of my players caught us. But the
floor was silent. Most of them weren't on my floor anyway, I remembered,
this being the Executive Floor. I tried to remember the room numbers, who
was in which room. Then I counted the doors as we passed them, and the
patterns on the carpet.

He pointed to the left, at a wide, beautifully decorated door.
--This is presidential suite. I was there at a party last week. Very nice.

I nodded.

The voice said, `What are you doing? Are you nuts? Get rid of him.'

The feet walked down the aisle, to 1011, swiped the card, opened the door,
and held it open for him to come in.
The voice said, `Well, if that's what you want--I'll shut up. Have it your
way. Pervert.'

We both listened to the door fall shut. He put his arms around my waist. I
lifted my arms in surprise.

--Wow, your body is very hard.

I pressed the 'Don't Disturb' button.
The voice said, `Good idea. Now I will close my eyes. I don't want to see
this!'

He said,
--Are you sure you want to do this?

I had my eyes closed. I tried to nod. I tried to open my mouth and say, 'No,
I don't. I am not sure of anything. I'm not even sure I want you to be here.


I felt something wet on my lips. A fleshy moistness pressed against them,
pried them open. His tongue slid into my mouth.

I shivered. I felt cold, and hot, and cold again. My toes tingled. I needed
to pee. I needed to hit him. I needed to shiver and tremble, and shake with
anger and fear, and I needed to hold him. I reached around his thin, elegant
frame. His shoulders were maybe half as wide as mine. I pressed him towards
me. He felt like a woman--small, compact, bony, yet soft, sweet--not
threatening at all.

The kiss broke, and suddenly his head was on my chest, rubbing against it,
and he said,
--Oh, I really like big men.

My cock was hard like a hockey stick as he pressed against it. I was
shivering all over.

--Are you cold? he said.
--Just nervous.

My mouth was dry and my lips on fire, and maybe I just mumbled incoherently.

The voice said, `So that's what it's like to kiss a man,' and I said,
--Shut up!
He said,
--What?
and I realized I had spoken out loud, pulled him closer, and put my lips on
his again--those thin, purplish lips.

I saw stars--a shimmering darkness, as I closed my eyes. My spine tingled,
then my legs, my feet, my toes. I felt warm all over.

And then we kissed for real.

In thirty years, I haven't kissed my wife--or any other woman, and certainly
not a man--like this. We kissed behind the door for a quarter of an hour. I
didn't want to go inside, where the bed was--this was exciting enough, and on
the bed--oh God--what would I do with him on the bed? I felt like a schoolboy,
like one of my young players. The hell!--my players wouldn't be in this
situation, and if they were, they'd handle it better. Young guys these days
don't have my sort of hang-ups. They'd either beat him up or fuck
him--fucking, is that what we would be doing? That would mean...
`Anal sex,' said the voice in my head.
Yes, I thought, but who would...
`Well,' said the voice, `I don't think you have to worry about that.'

At last, my lips sore from his stubble, my whole face tingling with his
caresses, he took my hand and pulled me into the darkened room. Only the
lamp on the nightstand was burning, and I reached over to turn it off. We
sat on the bed, taking off our shoes. He hung his jacket over the chair,
then started to unbutton his shirt. I've never been in a room--on a bed, with
a man undressing. I stared at him. His skin was white. He was smooth, with
only very few hairs right between his pecs. I started trembling again, and
again, he said,

--You sure you're not cold? You are shivering!
Finally, I pulled myself together and said, sounding a bit weak and worried,
--I am sorry. I am just nervous. I am sorry.
I looked away. I felt shame.
--You really never..., he said, taking my hand. It looked ludicrously big in
his--on his. Like an animal's paw. His skin was smooth and soft, and his
fingers so elegant--impossibly thin and long in my calloused, massive palm.

I felt ashamed for my size, my hairiness. I have hair on my back, even my
wife find's that disgusting. I am sure that's a turn-off. Gays are always
so...muscular, so perfect, so in shape.  You see them in TV shows; you see
the pictures. You see it on the Internet. Gays are all smooth muscle-hunks.
That's why there's never any talk of being gay in hockey--too big and hairy.
Isn't it? I've never once come across a gay hockey player. In soccer maybe,
rugby--they like to grope each other. But not hockey. We hockey players...
players, what am I saying. I am a coach. I am an old man. I am a hairy,
shapeless, old man. An outsized monster--with a svelte young boy wrapping his
arms around me and saying,

--Wow, you are big and hard. So big. So hard. I love it! I love big men.

I reached around his naked form. His skin was warm and soft. Not unlike a
woman's. He didn't have bulging muscles... just a natural, soft, thin shape.
If he'd had breasts, he'd be...what nonsense. I didn't miss the breasts. I
looked down at him, pressed against me, hugging me, thinking, I really don't
miss the breasts. I am not missing the breasts. There could be breasts,
but...
'Well, that's it,' said the voice. 'That means you are queer.'
'Didn't you want to shut up?'

His hands were on my waist, fumbling--until I realized he was trying to lift
my shirt. I wanted to do it myself, and stood up for it. The moment I did,
he had his hands on my fly. A jolt of panic went through my body. There's a
man--a very attractive young man--opening my fly. I didn't dare take off the
shirt. My hands fell to my side, and I tried pulling him up by the
shoulders. When he didn't budge, I said,
--Please.
--What?
--Please, slowly. I am...

Like a fucking schoolgirl. `Don't! I am nervous. Not yet, I am not ready.'
Really, like a fucking schoolgirl on her first date. For heaven's sake!

--It's OK. I am very drunk.
I nodded as he climbed onto the bed.
--We can just cuddle. Come here. But take your shirt off!
Very slowly, I lifted my hockey shirt. You know, one of those thick
long-sleeves. Embarrassed, I tried folding it--I've never folded a shirt in
my life!--when he grabbed my hand and pulled. I slid up on the bed.

His eyes came alive as he put both hands on my hairy chest and started
rubbing.
--Oh, wow!

In all my marriage, my wife never once admired my hairy body. On the
contrary, she always made me feel ashamed for my size. Even when I was
young, she wouldn't touch me in that way. Not like this boy. Not like going
ape about it. Ape--that's the right word. And yet, the smooth, handsome model
climbed onto me, pressed his slender, soft body against me, and kissed me
again with a fire that took my breath away. He literally did--I couldn't
breathe. I had to push him off and rest, tell him how sorry I was, that all
this was awkward for me, but not unpleasant--no, really not unpleasant at
all, that I wanted to see him too, touch him too; so I did. I stretched out
my hand and traced the velvety lines--his skin was covered in fine blond
hair, just like a woman's--down from his chin, over his shoulders, his
arms--the dark veins shimmering through--and up again, then across his chest
and his stomach. There he was ticklish, shook for a moment, laughed out
loud, and before I knew it clung onto me again and kissed me. I touched his
back, let my fingers wander over his elegant spine. Just like a woman's.

'You are just saying this because you are freaking out,' said the voice.

I felt his hard prick pressing against mine, then his hand fumbling with my
belt.
'Time to face the music,' said the voice.

This time I didn't resist. I watched him slide down, open my pants, pull
them down, together with my underwear, and reveal my cock. My thick, short,
cock. I once heard my wife--drunk after a party--say to one of her friends, 'I
wish it were thinner and longer. The beer-cans aren't very pleasant.'

I looked down, thinking for a moment that the embarrassment was making me
lose my hard-on. I saw the elegant fingers reaching all around my fat shaft.
He looked up at me and said,
--Wow. I like fat cocks.
--Do you? I said, coughing.
--Yes. The long ones hurt too much when you fuck.
--Do you, I repeated.
--Yes. You are going to fuck me--I mean, we are going to fuck?

I looked at him. My hand reached out to touch his cheek, his glowing, soft
cheek, but instead my fingers found his mouth. He took three in, and started
sucking. My cock jumped.

`You are going to fuck alright,' said the voice. `You pervert.'

I closed my eyes as he let go of my hand, and licked my belly. He came up
again, we kissed, and then he trailed down, licking every inch of me,
pausing at times to remove a hair from his tongue. The gesture embarrassed
me--like a moulting animal--but it didn't bother him. Every time he smiled and
hugged me closer. Every time he murmured, `wow,' or just sighed.

Then he found my cock. His lips closed around it, soft and warm. He took it
all in one gulp, all the way to the base, and his face went red. I thought
something was wrong--I thought he was suffocating, maybe a hair stuck in the
back of his throat. Still he held it. The red turned to purple--a slight
blueish hue, when he finally let go, gasping for air.

--Waaaaah!
I wanted to ask, `are you OK?'--I was really worried--when he said,
--Wow! I love big bear cock!

Big bear cock. Nobody ever referred to my stumpy willie as `big bear cock.'
And there he was again, downing it. I watched in amazement, until I could
watch no longer. I closed my eyes and drifted away...enjoying the warm, wet
feeling, and his hands on my chest, rubbing gently.

It was that part--getting sucked so expertly, so deep, so warm--that really
took me in. I forgot my worries, my anxiety. I forgot that I was with a man,
and I came close to exploding, when I felt him let go, and heard him unzip
his own jeans.

'Showtime,' said the voice. 'Ready for some boy cock, old fart?'

But to my surprise, I didn't panic. When I saw it--long, thin, a little
upward curve, with a pink tip, very little hair around the base--my hand
reach out and wrapped itself around it. I'd dreaded the idea of touching
another guy's willie, but now I wanted it. I could feel the blood rush
through it, the hard flesh pulsate in my hand. He smiled at me.

--So this is your first cock?
I didn't hear him exactly, but I didn't want to ask. I nodded.
--I need to piss, come.
Come where?--but again, not talking seemed the better option. Better not risk
making a fool of yourself.

He took my hand and pulled me up, then lead me into the bathroom.
--You need piss too? he said.
I nodded. And he knelt down.

Surprisingly, I wasn't surprised. I knew exactly what was happening. He
knelt naked before me, and my stream of piss hit his face and then his open
mouth like a fire hose. He spurted and coughed, then collected the load and
spit it out over my hairy chest again. The act that should have freaked me
out the most--surely, pissing on the first gay date?--didn't bother me at all.
It aroused me. I told you, sexuality is a weird thing. In fact, it occurred
to me only later, thinking about it, that it was strange how natural the
little watersports had come, had fitted into our love-making. Standing
there, watching my huge, hairy body in the mirror, pissing on the young
Slovak, was the biggest turn-on in my life. He started himself, leaning
back, and directing the stream over his own body. He face glowed wildly when
I had some more piss for him. He stroked his cock so hard I thought he would
come soon--too soon?

'Why too soon? Wouldn't it be great if it were over like that--fucking is
what really scares you, isn't it.'

I decided to stop listening to the voice. My eyes were fixed on his cock.
What I thought, in truth, was much more like, `what if he comes now--am I
going to fuck him then? Can you fuck a guy after he's ejaculated?' Perfectly
silly thoughts, of course, but there you go.

And there he did go. He shot his load all over his smooth chest, a dollop
reaching as far as his lips--the tongue flicked out and licked it off. I was
so mesmerized by the scene, I completely forgot to jerk my own cock.

He got up and kissed me. No time to think twice--I tasted his jizz. Slightly
salty, slightly sweet, like a good Chinese dish. Sweet-and-salty. He turned
away from me, towards the shower, showing me his ass for the first time,
while he fumbled with the controls. I reached out. One hand on the left, one
on the right globe. He had a perfectly smooth, white bubble butt, now
sticking out as he pushed up his hips. I squeezed it--it felt wonderful.
Firm, but soft, if that's possible. With all the anxiety that had led up to
this moment, I knew one thing for certain: I wanted to fuck him. I needed to
fuck him.

There--no more voice. That shut you up, didn't it, bitch.

We took a long, hot shower together, squeezing and cuddling, soaping each
other up: he would take the gel and lather up my hairy chest, then rub
himself against it like an animal wallowing in the dirt. Animals--big hairy
bear, dog wallowing--animals came back to me again and again. The hair, the
size, the act. It was like the freaking Discovery Channel. Sex with my wife
was civilized and under the blanket. It was decent and clean. It was satin
sheets and 'go softer, please. You are going to hurt me.'

Sex with Slovak šéfredaktor now turned into a wild debauch. We rubbed
against each other, we touched each other everywhere, sticking fingers up
each other's orifices, licking them clean, pissing again--I knelt down and
let him wash off the suds--and all the time, we kissed, wild and horny,
tongues more outside than inside, spitting and licking and fumbling and
pressing and shoving--shoving again, as he pushed out his bum, and shoving
again, and plop--I was in. But he turned off the shower, moved away, out,
came back, knelt down, and pushed a condom over me.

--Better! he said, by way of explanation.

It was a strange sensation. The thing was tight, a bit too tight--I went
soft. I couldn't very well tell him that I had never worn a condom in my
entire life. What for? I thought of telling him though, that he didn't have
to worry--I wasn't... Yes, but I could worry. I should worry. I should wear
the condom. After all... after this, I would go back to my wife. I would...
The thought of my wife seemed so inconceivable, my home, my whole life so
remote... I felt tears shoot into my eyes as he bent over again and guided
my half-hard cock towards his hole. I couldn't go on. I took the condom off
and left the shower.

--What's wrong?

Yes, what's wrong. I am cheating on my wife, that's what's wrong. It hadn't
occurred to me so far, because he was a man. That didn't count, did it? It
doesn't count, when two guys fool around? It wouldn't have to tell her? Hell
knows, she's probably had a few adventures. I'd neglected her long enough.
And she wasn't even happy with my short dick. It doesn't count, does it?
It's not real sex.

It certainly felt like real sex, as he quietly slid up to me on the bed,
still wet. He spread out the towels and pushed me back, then put his hand on
my chest and said again,
--What's wrong?

What would be wrong? I tilted my head towards him. I had the impulse to say,
`I can't go through with this, I love my wife, I have a life that's very
different, and ...
Whatever I thought seemed ridiculous. He turned away from me, pulling my
hand over his body and snuggling into me, his spine pressing against my
belly.

--No matter if you don't like fuck. We can just cuddle.

He pulled the blanket up over our shoulders. For a while, we lay quietly,
spooning just the way I used to with my wife--at the beginning. Haven't
touched her like this in over a decade. Again and again, his hips dug into
me, then his torso arched and his back rubbed against my chest hair. Again
and again he sighed,
--Ah, so good,
until my cock hardened again. His hand reached back and played with it for a
while, guiding it to his entrance. I felt the rubber against my cock, two
fingers spreading it. I reached down to help when he said,
--This is big one. Magnum. For big bear cock.

He giggled, as his slender neck twisted around and his lips found mine
again. While we kissed, I slid in. I felt him shake and jerk, shift his
weight, as he tried to accommodate me. But it fit well, perfectly snug. Warm
and...exciting, like his whole small body in my arms. I breathed in. I
cleared my thoughts. I concentrated on the lovely feeling in my loins, the
beautiful spine--the bones shining through the almost translucent skin, the
small mole on the neck, the fine hairs standing erect as I exhaled, and
then, as he looked at me, and said in a velvety voice,

--Come on big bear, fuck me!

I did. With slow, careful strokes. I would never think so with a woman,
maybe, but with him--I was afraid I would break him. He seemed so small and
tender. I went in and pulled out in slow strokes, almost afraid to touch him
when my groin met his ass, for a while, until his ass came up, again and
again, pushing against me, hungrily, and he said,

--Come on! Show me what you are made of, big bear hockey coach!

I don't think my wife and I have said ten words to each other during sex,
the whole of our marriage. She certainly never said,

--Fuck me, yeah. Big bear, fuck my ass!

He was a talker. And then, he was a screamer. At the start I thought it
would turn me off. But it did the opposite. When he turned around and had
his legs wrapped around me, and I pounded him with all my might; when he
pulled me towards him and told me to lie down on him, press him into the
mattress with all my weight, until I had to let him breathe again, when he
sucked on my fingers as if they were a cock, and when again and again he
moaned and told me, `harder!' or `faster!' or just `oh yeah, fuck me!' I
sort of lost control again. We fucked, we rolled, we danced, we bounced, and
then we wandered, from the bed, onto the floor, over the chair, against the
window, up against the closet, the door, back on the floor, back on the bed,
until I wanted so desperately to come, at last, and told him so.

--Come on me, he said, as I pulled out.
He rubbed his white stomach, and said,
--Here, shoot here, big bear,
and I shot. Only I didn't hit the stomach. I didn't even hit his chest. I
shot high above, against the headboard, and on his face, and again, until
finally, a few drops landed on his stomach, just as he exploded too. I never
thought at my age I could still hit the wall like that. He turned and looked
at the white cum dripping from the wood, and said,
--Oh, wow!

And then he giggled like a little kid, and pulled me down, and hugged and
kissed me, rubbed my chest again, wrapped his arms tight around me, held my
face, then stroked my back, tried--in vain--to reach my bum, and finally, when
we cooled down, and I stopped breathing so hard, and rolled off him, lay
beside him on my back, rolled over and he put his arm around my chest,
rubbed it, shifted up to kiss me again, and said,
--My big strong bear!

We lay quiet for a long time. I wanted to ask a million questions, but not a
single one would form on my lips. I didn't know what to say, what to do.

We showered together, holding each other, two such unequal bodies swaying
softly under the warm water. He got dressed, gave me a long, sweet kiss, and
sneaked out into the deserted hallway.

I locked the door and fell upon the bed. The smell of sex--wild, hot, steamy
sex, as I've never had before in my life, was everywhere. I thought about
opening the window, but I wanted the feeling, the smell to linger--I wanted
to wallow in it. I reached for my pants and pulled out the card he had given
me. I read his name again and again. I read the address I could hardly
pronounce.

I lay awake on the bed, listening to my heart beat. I felt my big body heave
on the white sheets. I touched myself. For the first time in years, I
touched myself, my old, large, hairy body, remembering every second of our
love-making. For the first time ever, I was happy in that body, which so far
has either been an embarrassment, or simply a fact I chose to ignore. For
the first time in years, I felt alive and fulfilled.

I fell asleep only minutes before the wake-up call came.

----

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