As I have finished writing all about the busy month of June, I thought it would be good to return to a post about my early sexual history.
2001-2004
My whole sexual experience expanded in 2001 with the
CDC giving the OK for oral sex. I had
licked balls and shafts when I began playing with men other than my partner in
the 1990’s, but I was careful about wet contact. Now, while not immediately looking for guys
to suck off, oral sex could be incorporated into our play as a whole. I was still condomed for every fuck. Every time.
I was never going to break that agreement I’d made with Rob.
I also began rimming my partners. Rob and I had eaten each other’s asses for
years, but I hadn’t done it with others since the health crisis. Now it became part of almost every bathhouse
hook up. I loved approaching a stranger
lying in the sling and surprising him by going to my knees and getting his hole
opened with my tongue for the latex fuck that was about to happen.
During this time, I was also brave enough to finally
attend my first piss party. I knew piss
itself was sterile—and could not support HIV.
The gathering was (and is) held in a back room of a gay bar in
Chicago. I was there to drink my water
and feed my piss to others. I had no
interest in drinking it myself. I was
wearing my ancient pair of holey combat boots and my dirty jock. In my sock was a string of condoms—in case
anal sex was allowed. I let men suck my
cock. I was in a very top mode that
first time and did not always reciprocate—mostly to learn what was
expected. When I finally had to piss, I
asked the guy sucking me if he wanted it.
He did. I was standing in the
middle of the room as I fed him my piss.
I had enough control to make the stream stop and start again, allowing
him to swallow with ease. Then my bladder
took over and I gave the rest to him in a rush.
I loved watching how he beat his long cock as he gulped me down. When I finally dribbled out the last drop, the
guy stood up and leaned in to kiss me. Why
not? I thought. Our mouths met and he
fed me a huge mouthful of my own piss. I
was so turned on I shot a load. He
laughed and then cleaned my cock. I sat
back down. Stunned. And determined to drink from the tap before I
left. My hardon returned with the first gusher
down my throat. I don’t know how much I
drank that first night, but I loved it.
(And I fucked a guy in the back corner—though technically, back then, we
weren’t supposed to do that…)
I was still going south for work in the fall. While there, I made a visit to the bathhouse
in Atlanta. It had no play area back then—everything
was in the private rooms with the door firmly shut. I had a pleasant time—but was in no hurry to
go back.
When I was home and working in Michigan, I made a
weekend trip to Toronto. I began exploring
the many bathhouses of that great city—many of which are gone now. I loved Canadian men—who felt more uninhibited
to me. And had so much foreskin to play with…
Closer to home, the Diplomat of Grand Rapids, opened a
second location in Toledo. My membership
was good for either one. And Toledo was a
little closer—and the newer facility felt cleaner. I spent lots of weekends there. Room rental was good for 12 hours. Play and sleep and play again before going
out to breakfast and then renewing the room for another day. I loved letting the retired State Trooper (he
always brought up his former job) suck me off in the sauna. I enjoyed seeing different men than the
habitues of the other facility.
But the Toledo Diplomat did not have a sling. The management always told me it was coming—but
it never did. But that didn’t stop a
creative top who wanted one. As is
typical in a bathhouse, none of the walls of the individual room went to the ceiling
(so you could hear each other fuck…) By standing on the bed, I could reach the
top of the wall. I bought two C clamps
and would screw them in place on the wall over the head of the bed. I then tied rope to them. The other end of each strand had leather dog
collars tied to them. The collars went around
the ankles of the bottom. I could adjust
the rope to the comfort of the bottom being trussed up, legs in the air, to fuck. I left the door open as I plowed my first ass
this way—and I became even more popular.
All the guys wanted to try it.
*
On the homefront, Rob was drinking even more. He was a true functioning alcoholic at this
point. He was also finding more work
away from me—so he could keep on doing it.
If he was home, my long weekends away were very much because I didn’t
want to be around him—and watch him self-destruct. He still would not admit there was any kind
of problem with what he was doing to himself.
*
The other incredible change in 2001 was Manhunt. I heard about the ‘dating’ site at one
bathhouse or the other. I had a computer—and
found it. Those early years were
amazing. Everyone wanted to meet. I attended (and even set up) hotel parties—and
guys turned out. Even in my sparsely populated area of Michigan,
you could find men.
Manhunt was responsible for my meeting and cultivating
a long sex partnership with a man who lived in the town where I grew up. He taught at one of the Universities—and was a
pig, albeit a safer sex pig. He was the first
man I knew who owned a sling. He’d
fashioned his basement into a play room.
He had been a top in a relationship,
but found his bottom side after his partner was gone. This is where I truly refined my fisting
technique. We met almost every Monday. He had other partners on the weekend—that he
made sure I never met. We fucked and
fisted—a lot. Occasionally joined by a
top that he knew wouldn’t give me his ass.
My new playmate, Jack, also loved leather. On my own, I had bought one piece, a codpiece,
that had not been fitted to me properly (I know now.) He encouraged me to get a harness. And I did.
He thought I’d look good in chaps, but the readymade garments were never
long enough for my long legs. He found a leather tailor in Chicago—and I went
for a fitting while on a play weekend with Jack in the city.
He was a good friend.
And taught me a lot. He was open
to other kinks—and we tried a bunch of stuff.
As this was concurrent with my discovering watersports, he let me piss
on his hole and lick it off. His toy
collection grew—and I loved the variety of things I could put up his shapely
ass.
During this time, long before texting, I was in only
occasional contact with my brother, living and working in New York City. My parents were now wintering in Aruba. They really wanted to take their two boys to
the island and show them the timeshare they had. We
could never go during their months there due to our work schedules. But eventually we went at a different time of
year—and stayed at a similar property.
We went for a walk over to view their condo. It was nice and I could see why they spent
Michigan winters here. Then my parents took us to their favorite part of the
beach. My mother seemed oblivious—but it
was the gay section of the beach. Almost
all men, with the occasional topless female. (I proved it was the gay section
by taking a walk into the underbrush and fucking an incredibly hot islander on
the hood of his car, once he’d given me a Magnum.)
That night, after the parents were in bed, my brother
and I sat on the veranda with a bottle of scotch and had a long talk about sex—our
first in almost 15 years. I told him I
was going to the piss party in Chicago.
He told me he had helped start the piss group in NYC. I told him about my love of leather. He told he’d been a leather man since his
move to the city. I told him about how
adept I’d become at fist. He agreed that
he loved working an ass that way. We
were so alike it was slightly frightening.
Both tops. Both heavily into
kink. Both in relationships that allowed us to have a homelife—and play with
other men. It was after that night that
I began getting the best birthday presents from him: speculums, toys, and the like.
Even better, we were in close contact again.
