History: Finding (and Refining) My Kinks

 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. 

History: Keeping the Bathhouses Busy

Keeping the Bathhouses Busy

Finishing up the 1990's.

It has been a bit since I’ve turned to writing up my sexual history, but I did want all those pieces about Zane to be published back-to-back.  So here we go...

 

Sex in the 1990’s for me was pretty much either oral sex with my partner, Rob, or condomed fucking at the bathhouse.  With the jury out of whether oral sex was safe or not, I perfected my fuck skills, always covered in latex.  I hadn’t found bookstores yet.  I hated bars.  Bathhouses were perfect—men ass up and ready, with only the occasional protest of someone wanting to be fucked bare.

The Midwest was blessed with a number of bathhouses.  I loved Man’s Country in Chicago—and went when I could.  I kept the Diplomat in Grand Rapids busy most weekends when Rob was working out of state—which was a lot. 

Probably the next bathhouse I visited was the Unicorn Club in Chicago.  It is now Steamworks.  I remember a steep staircase down to the wet area…and a neon unicorn on the wall.  I liked it and had fun.  But I loved the sleaze factor of Man’s Country’s older building and set up.  The Unicorn was trying hard to be a gym with extras.  MC was there for just one purpose.

I had to travel for work.  There was a massive audition in St. Louis I went to each year for hiring.  I pulled out my Damron Address Book.  Well, well…Club St. Louis was within walking distance from my hotel.  I walked over, late night.  It was clean and bright and at the time almost all the play was in the rented rooms.  I walked the circuit and found plenty of men to fuck.  But I also found a room tucked away just off the hall that was a semi dark room.  It had platforms for men to lie on that so the tops could stand and plow ass.  I used that room a lot.  One night I had two men who were making out with each other—and both asses were available.  I fucked one and started to change the condom.  “You don’t have to, just go back and forth,” the slightly older one told me.   I gasped—but did what he asked.  They moaned and held each other as I fucked the second man and then began a back and forth…

The Club in St. Louis now has a major play area—designed sometime in the 2000’s.  It is great fun.  I went yearly for 30 years. I need to get back.

Indianapolis was only a few hours away.  There were two bathhouses there.  I started with The Works.  In the 1990’s, they had a great wet area, and rooms.  I am sure there was a porn viewing area, too.  I made the circuit of the rooms with open doors—and always found men to fuck.  And with the extended rental hours—I could actually sleep there when I was spent—and do another fuck in the morning.

The recent new owners have invested in creating wonderful play areas there.

The Club in Indy was, well, fine.  Just like Unicorn/Steamworks vs Man’s Country, the generic bathhouse of the Club wasn’t as much fun as the Works for me. 

Flex in Cleveland was huge.  It was the bus station in the 1930’s.  I loved playing there.  I found it right at the end of this decade.  The only downside for me was that it was so large inside, that you could have a ton of men there—and it would feel like a small crowd.  With all the space, there were always play areas beyond the private rooms.

By the middle 1990’s, Rob and I were approaching 20 years together.  We were still good friends. Working apart, for over half the year, helped that.  We still had so many interests in common, but he was becoming fairly ambivalent about sex.  Not just with me, but with anyone.  I had matured enough, that I was no longer the blond 20-year-old with a big dick he had obsessed over.  I know he tried to suck off some of the young, hot company members—but he wasn’t successful very often, as they all knew we were partnered and I was their boss.  Once, I did walk into a rehearsal with him regaling the company with the facts of just how big my cock actually was as my 501’s didn’t hide much—and everyone wanted to know…  (Imagine that happening in today’s world!)

We still had sex.  Though I almost always had to initiate it.  He had found Nintendo and spent far too much time with it—often late into the early hours of the morning.

But there was a bigger problem.  Rob had always been a drinker.  He was fun and the life of the gathering in college and then those early years with other drinking actors. Now, it was becoming a constant habit.  He tried to hide it from me but I could hear the beer being cracked open while he was in the shower just before noon.

We stayed together.  The time apart worked for us.

And things were about to change on the sexual front. 

In 200l, science told us that the likelihood of catching HIV through oral sex was miniscule.

I read it.  And again.  I couldn’t wait for the next weekend…

History: Finding the Michigan Bathhouse

History:  Finding the Michigan Bathhouse

Early 1990’s.

I knew I needed to find a Michigan bathhouse.  I had heard that the one in Detroit, the one my brother had taken me to in 1977, had closed almost immediately after HIV hit the gay community.  I don’t know when it closed, but it is not listed in my 1991 Damron’s Guide.

What was listed was the Diplomat.  It was (and is) in Grand Rapids.  That meant it was actually closer to me, living on the west side of the state, than anything would have been in Detroit.  I was currently living alone for a couple of months, as Rob had a job in another state.  I decided to go up on a Saturday night.

It was actually quite easy to find and the there was good neighborhood street parking.  I know now that it had opened in 1980.  My fuck bud Jake has mentioned it was a local dairy.  I was told by the 1990’s manager that vacuum cleaners were repaired and sold there.  Maybe both are true.  By the time I walked in for the first time, it was fairly dreary after a dozen years of operation.  There was a smoking area with porn on the television in a lounge downstairs.  There was a hallway of single rooms past that.  Around a bend was the locker room and larger rooms to rent.  Showers and the sauna were also downstairs, off the single room hallway.  And a staircase that went up to what looked like a black hole.  A box hung on the wall at the base of the stairs with free condoms.

I got a single room.  I remember it being very cheap—and it was good for 12 hours!  I found my room and stripped.  I had already figured out that a jock could become my utility belt.  I could have a small bottle of lube, Magnums and, back then, a bottle of poppers all stuffed in the waistband.  Jake remembers meeting me in boots—but I didn’t wear them in a bathhouse this early.  (That happened later in the decade after almost stepping on a used syringe left in the carpeted hallways of Man’s Country.  The boots, once added, and jock instantly became my play uniform—with the towel over my shoulder, showing off my well stuffed jock.)  But that first night, I am sure I had that towel tightly wrapped around my thin middle.  After all, that’s what all the other men were doing…

I went into the lounge.  One man was stroking to the porn.  A few others were smoking and chatting.  I sat for a while.  The men were friendly and said hello, but it was obvious that these guys had known each other for a long time.  Eventually, I made the rounds to see if there were any open doors.  There was one, with a guy on all fours, but I was not ready to go in and fuck.  I wanted to see what was upstairs.

First, I went into the sauna—which was right at the bottom of the staircase.  I sat alone, enjoying the heat.  But I could hear people on the staircase as they went up or down.  Finally, I stood up, went out and started up the stairs.  It was dark.  There was a room right at the top.  It held a barber’s chair and a sofa that had seen better days.  At the back of this landing, there were rooms to the right and left.  I went to the right.  It was the orgy room with nothing but a stained mattress tossed on the floor.  There were easily six to eight men dogpiled on it.  The action was mostly oral at that moment, but for one bear of a man fucking a skinny college kid.  I was both petrified and totally aroused.  My cock tried to get hard under the fabric of the jock.  I saw used condoms on the floor—but the guy currently fucking was doing it raw.  That made me panic just a little.

I moved slowly away and went into the other alcove off the main room.  Another mattress—and a man was sleeping on it.  But this side was larger—and there was a sling in the opposite corner.  I stepped closer.  The sling was occupied.  A young man with a beautifully rounded ass.  I came even closer.

“Fuck me,” the guy mumbled.  “Need a condom?”

“I have my Magnums.”

“Fuck, yes, a big boy.   Get that thing on…”

This was just what I needed.  I lubed up, rolled it on and sank into his wet hole.  The guy was really very good looking, right around my age (mid-30’s) and knew how to take dick.  He treated me to a great fuck—both of us using everything in our skill sets.

“I would love you to shoot on my stomach,” he panted as he saw I was getting close.  Soon enough, I pulled out, ripped off the condom and covered him.  He swiped a finger through my cum and tasted it when he thought I wasn’t looking. 

We talked a little.  I found out he was often here—and was the boyfriend of the manager.  Both of them became good friends and regular fuck buds.

I went down to my room.  I slept and awoke around 3 am.  I went upstairs and found a new man in the sling.  He didn’t care about condoms, but I used mine.  I fucked him hard and ripped off the latex to cover his cock and balls with my load.

I slept and woke up just as my twelve-hour session was ending.  I went out for breakfast feeling ravenous…

*

After my first trip there, I was going at least once a month, often every weekend.  Guys respected my limits and put up with the latex to get my cock.  Beyond Jake and the young man already mentioned, I made a number of good fuck bud/friends there.  We’d fuck until the wee hours, sleep and go out to eat together.  There were always new men—and there was a seminary close by and those clean-cut young men were pigs on that mattress.

I met Jake, my fisting bud, fairly early after my becoming a regular.  Fisting was another great way for me to have intense sex and stay safe.  I added latex gloves to the list of things in my jock’s waistband.  Jake was there often.  He loved the fuck I would give him, but he lived for my hand.  I watched other men use him and began to understand that I had some natural technique that other men just didn’t possess when they used their hands on an ass.  I can’t begin to compute how much sex Jake and I must have had in those years—as he was there almost as much as I was.

I mostly used the sling, but I also was now very comfortable going in and fucking a guy on all fours who’d left his door ajar.  I really had my pick of the guys.

I was pretty much all about ass up at the Diplomat.  In the early 90’s the jury was out about how safe oral sex was, or even if it was.  I saved my mouth for my partner.   I was really proud of the fact I could tell Rob that I had played safely all the time he was gone.  I just didn’t tell him how often I actually went…

*

Jake has written up our first meet.  I posted it a long time ago.  Here is how he remembered things:  Guest Writer: How Jake Met FelchingPisser

History: The Great Outdoors

 1991- 1994

 

I was determined to find the gay beach at Saugatuck.  The village on Lake Michigan had always been an artist colony with welcoming non-conformists.  It had, and still has, a large gay population in the summer as men flee the cities for the shore. 

I know my brother had mentioned the beach early on, but I know he didn’t give me specifics—and it was harder to ask him, in this pre-texting age, as he was now living in NYC.  My Damron Guide told me it existed, but not how to access it.  In a move that was brave for me at the time, I just went, assuming I could find it.

My first stop was at Oval Beach, the public park.  I sunned and watched.  Men were all over this area—but so were families.  I walked the dunes behind the parking lot.  Nothing sexual there—and it was too close to the family beach.  I went back to my towel.  I saw men trooping north along the shoreline.  Was that the answer?  I was too unsure to follow them—and I had run out of time that day and needed to head home.  I rolled my clothes up in my towel and went to the car in my red and white Speedo.

As I was unlocking the door, I heard a voice:  “Now, you are a man who should always wear a Speedo.”

I turned.  A gorgeous man, in his thirties was standing there.  He had long hair that was incredibly curly.  He wore a Speedo as well—and it showed everything.  He looked like he stepped out of a surfing magazine.  We chatted.  He assumed I’d been at the gay beach.  I told him I’d looked for it but wasn’t sure where it was.  He confirmed that you went north.  “Make sure you walk as close to the water as possible so that the people who own that house you can kinda see in the dunes can’t say you’re trespassing.  The beach is next.  You’ll see an old guy in a chair and he’ll want five dollars.  Pay him and go back into the dunes.”

I thanked him.  He asked if I wanted to come back to his motel.  I declined, as I really did have to head home. 

It was agony to wait the two weeks until, with my busy summer schedule, I had another Saturday off.  But I went back and followed the hot guy’s instructions.  I gave the ‘old guy’ (he was likely 45!) my crisp five-dollar bill.  He smiled and told me to have fun.  I watched the men ahead of me go a couple of hundred yards father down the beach until they went into the dunes.  I followed their example.  Once there, I could see a path in the long grass growing in the sand.  I made it up to the top.   A hot man was lying on his blanket—totally naked and browned by the sun, his large cock plumped but not hard, lolling to the side of his hairy balls.  He didn’t even open his eyes as I passed.

I went down the dune and up the next.  Less vegetation now.  I found a spot, away from the path and unrolled my towel.  I had my lunch, a book, some suntan lotion and a water bottle.  I was set.  I stripped down and sprawled on the towel.  I loved how the sun felt on my cock, but soon I smeared it with lotion, so as not to burn.

All these years later, I don’t know if anything else happened that day. I know I watched men go down over the third set of dunes into a wooded area.  I guessed that that was where the horny guys went in search of each other.  I likely took a tour—but I’m sure I didn’t play.  I had my condoms, but oral sex seemed to be (logically) the order of the day and I wasn’t sure what I was ready to do.  This was the early days of HIV—and we just didn’t know much yet.

Over the summers I went there, I do remember often joining two guys who were going at it.  I would lick balls and nipples and stroke dicks.  Occasionally the Magnums came out—but I never wanted to ask a guy to suck with a condom on, but if they suggested it, sure.  Occasionally, I fucked.  It sounds so mild now—but it was where my head was then.  And what I had promised Rob.

There is one more thing that happened in the dunes.  I was lying on the top of the third set of dunes, a little way from the main path.  I had been a number of times that summer and actually had a tan.  I had watched for a moment two men having sex on their blanket before I settled into my space.  I was still hard.  Suddenly there they were, standing on either side of me, still naked, with sated cocks swaying.

“Well look at you.  You sure liked what you saw…”

I nodded and started to say something about being sorry if I intruded.  I didn’t get out more then a couple of words before the other guy said, “It looks like you need to be cooled down…”

And they both began to piss on me.  I have mentioned a guy that Rob and I pissed on, but I had never been the recipient.  They aimed at my cock.  They were beer drinkers—and had huge loads.  My cock had gone down a little when I sensed trouble, now it sprang to a hardness that surprised me.  One stream left my cock and started up my chest, just shy of my face.  I touched my cock—and I shot a huge load.

They laughed good naturedly as their streams dwindled.  I loved lying there in the baking sun, letting the piss and cum dry naturally.  I knew I had to find out more about piss play…

*

My main job kept me in Michigan from February to September.  I had the fall to job out.  I often went to Nashville, either to act or direct.  I loved the change of venue.  If I was in the show, once it was open, I had tons of free time during the day.  Quite near the dinner theatre was a huge park.  I often went there.  I would read at a picnic table or a remote bench near a trail.  Once, though it was fall in Michigan, it was still a hot summer in Tennessee, I sunbathed in my Speedo on the side of a hill.   

A car drove past.  It came back.  And again.  It parked down by the set of restrooms, but in my line of sight.  Soon a large, corpulent man came puffing up the hill.  He’d tied his shirt so his hairy belly hung out and he had somehow squeezed himself into a pair of white short shorts.  He began walking in huge circles around me, nodding at me when he was in my vision.  The circle soon spiraled, so he was closer and closer to me. Finally, he lumbered up to my side, panting.  “Sure is hot out.”

I agreed.  He walked away, repeating his mantra.  The next time he passed me, he had pulled the short shorts up—and exposed his miniscule uncut cock.  When I didn’t immediately jump up and pull him into the woods, he stomped back down to his car.

I sighed, but also smiled.  The light bulb had gone off that cruising happened here.

I soon recognized the guys that stayed in their cars, relentlessly driving the back half of the park.  The more successful ones got out a pavilion and sat ready to talk.  Down by the river, I found men sucking.  They stopped dead, deer in the headlights.  I quickly showed my cock; I was not a cop undercover.  They resumed and I approached, helping out by twisting the nipples of the guy getting head as he held onto my big dick. 

I cruised there often, over the 1990’s.  I didn’t like the trails in the hills as you often ran into straight couples.  Down by the river was our territory. 

One time, I came late in the last light of evening as there was no show that night.  It was clear when I arrived, but clouds were gathering fast.  Just as I decided to leave my picnic table under the pavilion, the rain started.  A down pour.   I was not about to head to my car, even parked a few feet away.

I saw headlights coming towards me down the long twisting road to get to this spot.  They parked directly in front of me—headlights in my face.  They snapped off and a cute guy got out and made the dash to under the shelter.

We chatted.  We both knew why we were here.  He made the first move.  His hand landed on the bulge in my 501’s.

“Nice.”  he smiled.  “Tell me that you’re a top and love to fuck.”

“I am top who loves to fuck.  But with Magnums.”

“Perfect.”  And he pulled a string of them out, too.

“Where?” I asked.

“Right here is great.  We can see anyone approach long before they get here.  And it is hours before the rangers start patrolling.”

I wasn’t sure.  But my dick was.  I opened my pants and he lost his clothes.  He had a wonderfully smooth ass.  I ached to lick that hole, but I didn’t.  He lay on the table, legs in the air, ass at the end so I could stand.  I fingered his hole, getting him slippery with lube.  I suited up, lubed up and slid in. 

“Slow…oh my God…Yes!”

His cock erected and he began to jerk it.  I began to fuck.  Slowly.  I wanted this to last.  I varied the tempo.  He talked dirty and told me how he loved my dick.

“Well, well…”

I was a voice behind us.  I pulled out of him fast.  Another handsome man in a waterlogged cowboy hat was there, dripping wet. 

“What the hell?” said the bottom.

“I walked in so you wouldn’t stop if you saw my truck.”  He was stripping as he talked.  His wet clothes were tossed on another table.  He was hard and ready.  “Keep fucking him,” he told me.

The hot scene suddenly caught fire.  Cowboy Hat offered his cock to get sucked.  The bottom hungrily took him as I slid into him once more.  Cowboy Hat saw the condoms and nodded his approval.  I pushed my lube towards him as he suited up.

I pulled out the moment he was ready to go.  Cock two, almost as big, slipped into the willing bottom.  I ripped off the condom so I could jerk with more feeling.  As Cowboy Hat slowed down, I re-lubed and rolled a fresh piece of latex down my shaft.  C H pulled out and I fucked into the hot ass.  The bottom groaned.  C H turned my head and kissed me passionately, making me fuck harder.

We kept trading off.  It was glorious and so unexpected.

“Where do you want my cum?” Cowboy Hat panted.

“Chest.”

The burly guy pulled out, stripped the rubber off his cock and shot a massive load.  I went back up the bottom’s ass.  Working it hard.  “Jerk with me,” I instructed.  He did—and he was close.  I pulled out, unsheathed as I stepped to his side and splatted a huge load on his chest—the first spurt hitting his chin.  This made him cum, too.  We sat there, the rain still coming down in torrents.  We all grinned foolishly at each other…not believing the stroke of luck we’d just had.

To clean up, the bottom stepped out in the rain.  He dried himself with his tee-shirt and got dressed.  Nobody wanted to leave.

And then we saw it.  The headlights winding our way.  With the distance we had the chance to pick up the shitload of condoms we’d used and get them in a trash can.  The lube was in my pocket.  We looked like three friends enjoying the quiet, but wet night.

The ranger arrived.  He’d seen Cowboy Hat’s vacant truck.  “You know the park closes in about an hour?” he reminded us.  He looked at us again.  Was it a smirk?  Or a smile…

“Take care.”  And he was gone.

We sat another moment before taking off.  All of us knew we’d just lucked into something really special…

*

The gay beach was sold and closed by the 2000’s.  Around that same time, they built an elementary school near the cruising end of the Nashville park.  And no one went there to cruise.

History: Man's Country 1991

 It’s time for another stroll down my personal sexual history.

 

1991

“I better get some fun in now as no one will want me once I hit 40!”  To think that I believed that at 35.  But it is exactly what so many gay men thought in 1991.  Little did I know how good my 40’s, 50’s and 60’s would be.

I remembered the name of Man’s Country as the bathhouse my brother loved to visit.  I didn’t really want to tell him I wanted to go.  So where was it located?   No quick internet search available. And Chicago was huge.

Somewhere along the way I had seen an ad in in one of the glossy gay mags for Bob Damron’s Address Book.  I made a special trip to Border’s Books in Ann Arbor, knowing they had a miniscule gay/lesbian section, to see if it was there.  It was.  It became my reference book for everything gay in whatever city I visited.  They listed, bars, bathhouses, men’s health services, adult entertainment, bookstores and cruisy areas.  All reported by gay men for gay men.  The book got tucked under the front seat of my car and stayed there, only moving each time I got a new vehicle.

I found Man’s Country fairly easily.  (I’d always been good with maps.)  I sat in my car, parked on a tiny, dark side street and took a deep breath.  I went in.  The guy at the window could not have been nicer.  He issued my membership card with a smile.  I knew I wanted a small room, so I could lock myself away if I felt like it.  I think it was an eight-hour time limit.  I was arriving at 10pm.  Perfect.   He told me how to find my room amongst the warren of corridors and doors.

I found it, stripped and with my towel tightly tucked in and my key on my wrist, I went to explore.  I carried a small shaving kit packed with lube, condoms and poppers.  I went back to the locker room.  I really stopped and looked at the murals by Etienne.  I had never seen anything like them.  Gorgeous.  I found the stairs and went down to the wet area.  More rooms were down there, too.  I sat in the dry sauna.  Two guys came in.  They instantly began to take turns sucking the other’s cock.  I was mesmerized.  I tented my towel.  Soon, I was openly stroking to them.  One of them looked over at me and smiled.  I suddenly felt more at ease.  One got the other off.  They left, giving me an approving nod.

Heartened, I found the huge dance floor and stage.  It seemed to be more about guys chatting and napping than dancing.  I learned there were weekly strip shows there.

I walked the endless maze of rooms.  Some with doors open.  Many closed with sex obviously happening behind them.  I quickly figured out guy’s ass up vs lying on their back and stroking their dick.  I was invited in to a number of rooms, but I wasn’t quite there yet.

There was a dark room.  I hung out near the opening, in the room but still in some light.  I ditched the towel and openly stroked as I saw countless men disappear into the pitch black.  Delicious sounds of moans and groans came from within, but I didn’t go in any farther.  Not tonight. 

Music blared from the dance hall.  I went up and watched three men strip.  They were hot, but stripping for men who were all but naked themselves made me shake my head.

I went back to my room and sat on the hard wooden box with the wafer-thin mattress they called a bed.  What was I going to do?   The jury was still out on the safety of oral sex.  I really wanted to fuck anyway.  I went down to the basement.  All the rooms were taken now.  And here, almost all the men were on all fours, asses pointed right at the door.  I made the circuit twice.  I couldn’t believe that most of these guys never looked over their shoulder to see who stepped into the room to fuck them.  At the end of the hall, was a man with very hairy ass, likely in his thirties.  His ass was perfection.  A gorgeous mound of flesh and fur.  I went in and closed the door.

“Fuck me,” he muttered.

I suited up and did just that.  It was great.  I stopped, just short of cumming.  He was moaning, egging me on.  He finally looked over his shoulder.  “That’s a lot of meat on such a skinny guy.”  I beamed as I left his room.

Even better, there was no shit on the condom.  I was thrilled.  I fucked another guy.  Same thing.  The age of cleaning out had happened and I didn’t even know.  (When I mentioned this later to my brother, he credited the porn guys of the 80’s when, in their countless interviews with In Touch, Blueboy, etc, they talked about how they cleaned for the skin flicks. And gay men everywhere took it to heart.)

I wanted more.  I made a tour of the guys upstairs, too.  Always with a new Magnum in place.  At least one guy asked me to ditch the latex.  I fled.

I napped in my room.  Not really sleeping as my head was full of the butts I’d stuffed.  Around 3:00am, I made another tour.  Many doors where now shut, but there were lots that were open—and many sported new recruits who’d checked in after the bars had closed.

I didn’t fuck any of them. 

I checked the dark room—and went in a little deeper.  A hand tried to pull the towel off me.  I had an inner freak out and left.

On the other side of a lounge near the dance hall was the lone sling room in Man’s Country.  The door was open.  I’d seen slings in videos but never used one.  A hot guy was in it.  He looked right at me and waved me in.  I got hard instantly at the shape of his ass and the obvious use of his hole which had very pronounced ass lips.  I suited up.

“Fuck me as hard as you can.”

I did.  For a long time. 

“Don’t cum in the condom.  Cum on me!” 

I was finally close.  I ripped the condom off and aimed for his ball sack.  The force of my shooting covered his abs instead.  He sighed contentedly.  He now instructed me to put a latex glove on my left hand.  I found the box on the small table next to him.  I did.  Curious. 

“Dip it in the tub of lube.”

I did.  I brought my hand close to him.

“Now use your fingers.”

I did.  One.  Two. 

“More.” 

Four went inside him.  Instinctively, my thumb went to my palm.  He reached down and pulled my hand forward.  It slid right into his ass, his sphincter snapping shut on my wrist.  I had never had a feeling like this before.  Not to mention the mind fuck that my hand was buried in his hot butt.  He instructed me to pull out and push in again.  I was tentative to do it, so he pulled me in a second time.

Then I got it.  I began to really fist him.  He shuddered, telling me to keep going.  That I was doing just what he needed.  He scooped up my load and licked his fingers—and suddenly his whole body convulsed as I witnessed my first assgasm…

*

I checked out with a new clerk.  Right on time.

“Your membership card.  Take it or leave it here?”

I opted to leave it there once he told me many men did that.  “One less thing in your wallet,” he smirked.

I went to my car elated.  I was suddenly tired and slept in the front seat until I felt I could get a late breakfast and head home…

*

Speaking of cards kept on file….

The next time I went back to Man’s Country, I told the attendant my membership was on file.

He pulled out the big recipe box they were stored in and asked my surname.

I told him.

“Here you are,” he said, lifting out a card.  He read the full name on it.

I blushed a deep red and said, no that was my brother.

His jaw dropped and then he began to laugh as he found my card and proceeded to check me in….

History: Trying to Cruise

 Once again, we return to my personal history from before the blog.

Timeline:  1985 -1991

I put off writing this when it was due last Saturday, as I was having a little trouble getting started with these years.  We are past a lot of the fun firsts…  

This time frame was more about work than sex.  We were getting ourselves established, but also needed to find additional venues to use our talents.  And we were very successful with that.  We still worked together, a lot.  Rob was beginning to work at other places a little more often than I was, for as resident director, I stayed on mostly at the dinner theatre until it was sold in the summer of 1985. 

We found nine months of work together up at the theatre where Rob had done his first summer gigs.  I was again resident director and occasional actor.  Living in a bigger city, made me more conscious on being on the prowl for men.  It was a small city—but not a village like where we’d been. 

Driving home from the grocery store, I drove down to the waterfront.  Lake Huron looked vast and beautiful.  There was an old pier here in the downtown area.  And cars were circling.  Round and round. I’d found the gay cruising ground without trying.

Of course, I went back.  At night.  Even more cars.  But I was too petrified of the cops to do anything.  I watched men disappear behind the old pier but wouldn’t go there myself.  I watched and waited for them to come back to their cars.  Sometimes 20 minutes.  More often less than seven.

But it wasn’t just the cops that had me scared.  We still knew so little about AIDS in late 1985 and early 1986.  Knowing so many gay men in the theatre, we’d hear through the grapevine that one was sick and no longer working or another had died.  In the coming years, I likely knew a couple dozen men who we lost far too young.  I waited to hear of one that I’d actually had sex with—and that never happened…

*

The other big change in my life around this time was that my brother and his partner had moved to a bedroom community in New Jersey as my brother was now working in New York.  He was a buyer for a major retail firm and doing a lot of traveling.  I missed the connection and the mentor aspect.  This was the 1980’s—I couldn’t just drop him a text.  Long distance took a huge chunk out of my meagre paycheck.  So I mostly waited until he and his partner came home for Christmas…and we caught up then.  Sort of…

*

Rob and I were still mostly doing each other after some late-night porn viewing.  I loved sucking him off.  He came fast and a lot.  He’d work on me, but even back then I took forever to shoot.  I had found edging—before I knew the name.

I mentioned last time how Rob loved those blond, big-dicked porn guys.  I was all about something new.  We found the films of Cadinot—and all those exotic men I’d never seen before, of every race and so many uncut.  (I still had not seen a foreskin in the flesh!) 

Rob and I had a game that if we were, say, driving to the grocery store and saw a good-looking guy on the street we’d talk about him—and what we’d like to do to him.  Rob was becoming rather indifferent to any man who didn’t look like me in 1978.  He liked them tall, blond (you’d never know I was blond now, but I was until I was 45!) and hung.  I was pretty omnivorous.  Age, body type, dick size didn’t matter.  With each year I aged, Rob still loved me…but was becoming more indifferent to me sexually…

1988.  I got a job, through a friend, down in Birmingham, Alabama.  There was both a dinner theatre and another that paid really good money.  We moved our base of operations south for nine months of the year, returning to Michigan, each year, for a summer theatre gig.  Birmingham was a true city.  And I found the bookstores.  Our evening jack and cum had sort of disappeared by now.  He was more interested in his video game on the television and a scotch or three to unwind.  I still watched porn in the bedroom—and was usually asleep as he came to bed.

Birmingham had a couple of porn video stores.  I told Rob I wanted to explore them—and he was fine with it.  I still wasn’t likely to do anything much in this bigger city.  The one I liked had the oddest set up.  You picked out a video tape, paid your admission and went to the back room.  There were four booths in the room but nothing like the traditional rooms and screens.  The ‘booths’ were large plastic capsules that were shaped like a hollow navy bean.  Each was a different color.  If I’d paid for the yellow pod, I knew to go there.  You sat inside of it on the far side, near one corner of the room and watched the cassette you had chosen.  I quickly learned the four pods could swivel.  If you turned the contraption to the right, and the guy in the blue pod swiveled left, you could see each other.  Many men saw, nodded and excused themselves to the lone restroom for a quick BJ.  I didn’t do that.  But I did pull out my cock and show it to anyone who wanted to see it as I stroked.

*

In 1991, lightning struck.  I was offered an almost fulltime job running a theatre in Michigan.  I accepted.  It meant Rob would job out most of the year all around the country, and I would be working by myself.

I was going to be 35 that year.  I looked at myself in the mirror.  I knew I needed to start playing with other men.  I was too old now, sexually, for Rob, and was barely going to see him.  I knew enough about condoms at this point to buy Magnums.  I remember thinking this exact phrase:  “I better get some fun in now as no one will want me once I hit 40!”

That night, I ran it by Rob on a long-distance call.  I could hear the shrug in his voice as he said it sounded like a plan, provided the condoms happened.  I hung up and planned a trip to Chicago that coming weekend.  My brother had mentioned a place called Man’s Country…

History: Family, Threeways and Porn

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