disclaimer: i can already tell this one's gonna run long, ramble and be very inside. why? because i'm enjoying my first serious cocktail in over a month, and feeling a little chatty--sue me.
study the above text exchange from last night carefully before proceeding, because there are at least three important points contained within its brief bounds that i'm gonna expound upon tonight.
but before parsing its meaning, a little background: back when i first--some would say finally--came out at 33, and knowing even then that, unlike most of my peers, my slutty kid-in-a-candy-store phase would extend well into middle age and probably beyond, i took note of the stark differences between the fresh-faced types who reveled in their sluttiness and the burnouts who were just going through the limp-dicked motions, and determined to learn from the latter group's mistakes and not repeat 'em.
to that end, i started developing a set of rules the adherence to which i figured would be most likely to ensure a long, happy run. for the most part, i'd have to say i've succeeded in that goal, but what i've discovered over the years is that there are rules and there are Rules, and have learned through experience to differentiate between the two.
rules with an upper-case "R" are the hard-and-fast ones, never, ever to be broken--eschewing hard drugs, for instance, and fetishes like leather, S/M and bondage, and fucking underage kids no matter how tempting and available they might be (and often are), and walking away when feeling even slightly hinky about anything. these, among others, are lines i don't cross, ever.
but then there are the rules that started out as Rules but have devolved to lower-case status as exigencies arose and flexibility was required, a prime example of which would be my once ironclad prohibition against having sex with crystal meth users.
which brings us to the subject of this post.
when the above guy hit me up last night, saw my face pic and still wanted me to come over, i was at first quite happy to indulge myself in his lean, smoking, fresh-from-miami hotness, until i looked at the clock and remembered the first of the three points i alluded to above; namely
anybody looking for sex at 3:03 am is probably up to no good
and sure enough, came the dreaded question.
see, to mkf, the two ugliest words in the gay lexicon are "u partying?".
the question itself can be interpreted a couple ways; for instance, if it's asked before midnight, you've got a 50/50 shot at it being a non-partier trying to weed out the tweakers. but at 3:03 am? not bloody likely.
so i reflexively responded with my standard
and immediately kicked myself because i hadn't thought it through.
because, see, there's two kindsa partiers: (1) the early-cycle ones who'll rule you out if you're not one of them; and (2) the late-cycle ones who, after three days with their own kind, would sell their soul for a hard dick that actually works.
with that in mind, the non-partier can offer two responses to the question: (1) if you don't care one way or the other, a flat "i don't party" will do; and (2) if you do care, you can lie and say something like "yeah, i did a little earlier", just to get your foot in the door.
and the thing was, in this case i did care--i knew i'd do this boy no matter how fucked-up he was, and by going with option 1, i may have aced myself outta the running.
but nah, he came back with
which leads me to point no. 2:
when it comes to partiers,"sometimes" always means
"i'm currently tweaking my ass off"
so i was still in, but, never one to leave well enough alone--and even though i knew the answer--i had to push it by asking
and then looked at his pictures again and immediately did the the only sensible thing.
* * * * *
when he opened the door, the boy turned out to be as advertised: 140 pounds of young, tight, compact, hard-bodied, thoroughly tweaked-out cubano. i pushed him into the apartment, shoved the door closed with my foot, pulled him into my arms, and, just as i was about to take a bite, he stiff-armed me, said, "wait", and looked back toward the kitchen, where out stepped the evening's surprise.
which brings us to mkf hookup postulate #4:
when it comes to hookups, surprises are rarely pleasant
i remember back when i first came out during the glory days of weho street cruising, there was this breathtakingly adorable boy who used to ride his bicycle back and forth through vaseline alley and i couldn't figure out why he never got any takers--until the night i went home with him and found out that, to get him, you also had to do the 80-year-old daddy he had waiting in the wings. this experience, and many others like it, caused me to tense up as soon as i sensed movement in the kitchen last night.
but. you know what? sometimes it's the exception that proves the rule, because outta that kitchen stepped not the troll i feared, but the boy who would finally allow me check off that antonio sabato jr. box on my fantasy roster.
if cubano boy was hot, this boy was a fuckin' vision--lustrous coal-black hair, perfect olive skin, limpid-yet-piercing eyes, voluptuous lips, gymnast body...i could go on and on and on.
which suddenly brought to mind the second rule i'd be bending if i went through with this; namely, the one about hooking up with guys spectacularly better-looking than me.
understand, this rule didn't arise outta any particular insecurity on my part--i know what i bring to the table, and i know its value--it was more a practical thing. see, the spectacular-looking guys almost always come into the deal with the assumption that their looks give them the advantage, and the time and effort it takes for me to disabuse 'em of this notion is usually more goddam trouble than it's worth. but one look at this boy's eyes as he fixated on my crotch and licked those luscious lips told me that wouldn't be a problem this night.
so, with high expectations of being the ham in this lovely sandwich, and even though i shoulda known better, i let these boys lead me to the bedroom.
* * * * *
mkf hookup postulate #22:
there are three kinds of tweakers, only one
of which is of any practical use to the non-partier in bed
remember david? back when he was using, he'd often call me at the tail-end of his binges, knowing i'd be the one who could finally push him over the edge into that volcanic orgasm he'd been both straining for and holding back the whole weekend. and i was always happy to oblige, because his epic climax always made me come with him (and then he'd lapse into a coma for two days, but this post has too many tangents already so we'll leave that aspect of partying for another day).
i was really hoping that at least one of these boys would be a david, but fuck, no--instead, out came the cock rings, and what i got was one of each of the other types.
antonio jr., turns out, was an Obsessive, and cubano boy was an Organizer.
in practical terms, this entailed antonio jr. spending the next two hours directing me to alternatively one and then another of his chosen and anatomically-perfect erogenous zones at specified intervals whilst moaning mechanically; while cubano boy bustled about checking messages, fluffing pillows, monitoring drugs, searching for fresh porn, and sporadically throwing himself into the mix with vigorous, graceless and ultimately pointless thrusting of various body parts in, onto and around me.
this literally coulda gone on for hours, but eventually, because as somebody really smart once said (and i'm modifying it only slightly, and in this case you can multiply it times two)
show me a beautiful man,
and i'll show you a man who's bored with him
i called a halt to the proceedings, but not before planting one of 'em on each side of me at strategic positions, assigning 'em specific tasks, and stroking my hard dick (the only one in the room all night which could claim such a distinction, btw) into a high-flying cumshot that both shocked and awed--one of my specialties, btw, and done to make a point.
as i drove home, i reflected, and not for the first time, on how i had massively outperformed two boys whose ages, added together and graded on a generous curve, did not even approach mine, and everything that implied.
and i wondered if they'll think about that, too--about how they're spending the prime of their lush young lives in dante's ninth circle, flogging away at limp dicks in a pale, sick simulacra of the sex they rightfully should be having right now, but can't.
but mostly, i chided myself for not remembering point no. 3 implicit in the text exchange which started this post:
unless you're flying with 'em, sex with even
the most beautiful tweaker is almost never a good time.
update: while i was writing this, antonio jr. hit me up--wants me one-on-one. will i do it? yeah, probably. did i mention how fuckin' beautiful he is?