Wednesday, October 2, 2013


North of Home—August, 2013

 I have a fuck bud who never tires of pointing out all the places he’s had sex.  If we are riding together in his home town, he will inevitably start pointing to various motels, apartment buildings, alleys, warehouses, and parks with no more than the sentence:  “And I’ve had sex there.”
Well, there are two motels built fairly recently on I-94 that every time I pass them, I have always thought “Why have I NOT had sex there?”  This August provided me with checking the first of them off my imaginary to do list.

He’s a bear of a man.  He’s tall and just older than I.  His pics reveal a barrel of a chest, with copious amounts of fur.  He has thick tree trunks of legs and, in the last picture, a beautifully defined ass.
“Fuck me?”  he writes.  “Love that cock pic.”

We chat.  He’s at the one of those expensive new motels on business.  He’s from somewhere out West.  Having been burned before, I ask if he has clean out supplies with him.  His answer is no, he’s brought nothing with him.  And he really doesn’t want to go get anything.  So fucking is off the table.
But we are both horny.  We both have a big oral side.  We agree on an all oral session an hour from now.

I nod to the night clerk.  I walk in like I know just where I am going.  Larry’s told me where the elevators are located.  Without looking lost or confused, I stride right to them, punch the button and go through the double doors before the clerk can question me.  I get out on the third floor.  I find the room easily.  I knock.  It swings open.

“Nice,” he tells me appreciatively as I step in. 
He looks just like his pictures, which is good for me.  He’s dressed in nothing but a pair of boxers.  He leads me to the foot of the bed.  He is instantly down on his knees, undoing the buttons of my 501’s.  He pulls them down, just past my knees.  His mouth is all over my grey boxer briefs.  His spit changes their color from light grey to a wet, dark grey.  My cock is beginning to stand up.  Finally, he pulls them down.  My cock all but slaps him in the face.  He rears back, spits into his hand and, just taking the tip of my cock into his mouth, he begins jerking the shaft.  His tongue is invading my piss slit.  Then it’s all over my flared head, swabbing it with the precum he’s licked up.

I hold his head still, knocking his hand off my cock.  I begin a slow face fuck.  He groans.  I have hit on something really good, it seems. I see his cock, sticking out of the boxer’s fly, drool.  I push a little deeper with each slow stroke.  I never quite get it all the way down his throat.
We stop to let me get naked.  He undoes my boots.  I shuck off the jeans and the underwear.  He takes my socks off lovingly, but stops short of working over my toes.

I pull him up.  I pull the shorts off and take his cock in my mouth.  He’s thick, but not long.  I take him to the root repeated.  He pulls me off, begging a short fuse.
“Fuck my face.”  He flops down onto the bed, on his back with his head hanging over the edge of the bed.  I straddle his head and push in.  This is good.  I’m in total control.  And he can take me much deeper.  His gag reflex seems to turn off in this position.  I fuck his face.  Deep.

We break.  He takes a piss but I don’t ask if he’d like to feed me—I’d ruin the dynamic.
We sixty-nine.  Something I haven’t done in year.

Then I’m back to fucking his face.
He is really moaning now.  His hand is all over his own cock and balls.  I thrust again and he shoots into the hair on his chest.  I pull out as I lean forward and lick some of it up.  That’s enough to make me will myself to blast my own cum across his chest, to mix with all that he’s shot.

We are lying side by side, talking about this and that. 

Then a silence.
“I’m new to all this,” he says aloud to the room, not really looking at me.

“I didn’t have gay sex until I was 48.  I’m just 57 now.”

“Did you want to have sex with men when you were in high school?”
“I thought about it.  But I didn’t know how to start.  Now I can’t get fucked enough.”

“So did you mess around back then at all?”
“Nope.  I got my date pregnant after the senior prom when I was 17.  We married for the kid.”

“That took care of that….”
“Right.  But he knows now, my boy.  He’s very supportive.”

“That’s good.”
A pause.

“The next time I come up here I’d love to have you fuck me.  I didn’t bring my hose ‘cuz I usually share a room with another guy.”  I nod.  “When we come back, I’ll make sure we book separate rooms again.”
I smile.

This was going to likely be a forgettable encounter—made memorable only by finally fucking in this new high end motel.  Instead, I find it hard to forget the man who was in limbo all those years—and is now bent on making up for lost time…


  1. I think maybe that is what I am doing as well... making up for lost time. Although you'd think twenty years would be ample time to catch up, I keep coming up with new, devious ways to continue my exploration. I also wonder if it's that old 'last of the dying light' kind of thing... wanting to use it all up before it's gone. Is it ever gone? Thanks for sharing this. Well-written and as always, I am just envious of the dude who gets to play with you! - Uptonking from Wonderland Burlesque

    1. On making up for lost time--I remember thinking 20 years ago "Oh, my God...I'm going to be 36 soon. No one will want to play with me anymore." I began 'catching up for lost time' that weekend. I did have an incredibly secure partner who totally supported my finding hole to fuck...