I don’t apologize for what you’re about to read. I’m neither proud nor ashamed of what I’ve done in the name of pleasure; I am what I am and, well, it is what it is. The long anticipated BDSM erotic romance Fifty Shades of Grey
opened Valentine’s Day weekend, and while it was largely panned by the critics as “insipid,” it is making a mega-fortune off wives who drag their husbands to it in hopes its dirty tale inspires them. I didn’t read the book nor plan to see the movie. But from what I gleaned from the internet, my response is one big yawn.
I mean what’s the big fuckin’ deal?
I can’t speak for str8s, but unless you’re totally vanilla without sprinkles in the bedroom, most of us gay guys have “been there, done that” somewhere along our checkered careers. I know I certainly have as a seasoned leather man: I’ve been cuffed, had my balls tied up and weighed down with fish hooks, had hot wax dripped on my privates, have deep fisted and punched fisted at least a dozen men, tightened a belt around the neck of a guy who craved breath control till he passed out, had a young guy who looked as squeaky clean as a farmer’s son eat out my dirty asshole, wore a gas mask while a guy shot poppers up the hose and a third blew me, and get a hard-on in Home Depot and Office Depot when it comes to looking for new toys. That’s just for starters, and most of the time I wasn’t even high.
Not bad for a former Sunday school teacher, huh? (No, you’re right, pretty awful.)
Take, for example, my introduction to electrical simulation or e-stim. The closest I came to being adopted by the Mafia, besides living and working on Staten Island, a borough of the Big Apple, and the most Italian American county in the U.S., was Peter, a short (like me), stocky, swarthy, hairy, Italian gorilla with a shaved head and thick black beard and a build that Tom of Finland would have used as a model. It was mutual lust the second we eyed one another in the Lure, NYC’s legendary leather bar. Pete said he was in “construction,” but at 47 was already retired, and living on Staten Island all those years taught me not to ask too many questions.
After screwing around at his Jersey mansion a few times, we rendezvoused at his other estate a bit closer to New York City, in Caldwell, Jersey. I took the afternoon off from work to play, and this is where Peter introduced me to this new kink. With us squatting on the bed, face to face, he placed a long metal rod beneath our ball sacs wired to a large lantern battery and another wire around the base of each of our hard cocks, then flipped some switch and began slowly racketing up the voltage with a dial. It was the first time I shot without touching myself, and the sight of globs of cum spurting from our twitching cocks up onto our furry bellies and chests almost in unison would have been a ratings winner on xtube.com if it had existed then.
Peter actually wanted to keep me, but I was too self-reliant a person to be held down. Looking back now, thirty years later, I think I was plain stupid. Peter, who was almost twenty years my senior, might be dead by now, and I would have been set for the rest of my life, like some jerk I met on the beach years later in Fort Lauderdale who, after taking care of his “partner,” thirty years his senior, for fifteen years, and not working a day all those years, is now living off a trust fund. But, hell, at least Peter didn’t hire a hit man when I deserted him.
Then there’s that very acquired taste: fist fucking. The first time I fisted a guy was in the Clubhouse II baths in Lauderdale, on one of my snowbird visits in the nineties. The guy, a lean and mean, lightly furry, handsome fucker, all of thirty, was obviously strung out on something when he gave me the eye as I passed his open room door. Even if I wasn’t quite as versed in the ins and outs of gay sex as I am today, I knew the can of Crisco on his bed stand wasn’t there for frying chicken.
That night I also learned I was a born fister. I had the strong but tightly built hand of a musician and, in fact, had been a concert pianist by the age of eight, but gave it all up when my piano teacher moved to another town. It took very little effort for me to slide first two fingers, then three, then my tapered fist, and finally my whole hand half way to my elbow up his stretched hole. He was a clean machine – you know what I’m saying – and all I felt was wet, warm tissue enveloping my arm. Frankly, I wasn’t sexually turned on by the experience, but neither was I turned off – just curious. My buddy, on the other hand, was in Fistee Heaven. I’m sure whatever he was on certainly helped the cause.
I thought guys who loved getting fisted may have gotten bored with conventional dick fucking or even super-sized dildos. I also knew from that first night that it had to be far more than massaging the guy’s prostate since the prostate is only a few inches up the rectum while your hand feels like you could grab the guy by the throat from inside. But as a seasoned fister buddy explained to me, the anal sphincter is another erogenous zone which becomes so sensitive after a fisting experience, just touching it continues to drive the guy wild and even more hungry for a hard cock to enter next.
OK, I’ll buy that, but I still think there’s also something of a mind game going on here, the fact the guys knows that once you’ve got half your arm up his butt, you have complete dominion over his life. And his soul.
Over the years I had my fair share of asses, but increasingly I found the experience, well, a little boring. While I knew that the guy I was doing it to was obviously enjoying it – I could tell by the level of his grunts – my mind would often wander to my weekly food shopping list.
That is, until I met my fisting brothers from LA, Tim and Tom.
We connected on Manhunt; they were on vacation here in Lauderdale, staying at one of the overpriced guest houses by the beach, but they were willing to make it easy for me by coming to my place. Hairy, masculine, gym-built fuckers with thick uncut cocks, they looked like the types who would want to tie me up to a post and take turns fucking the shit out of my tight virgin ass. Tim, 44 had a shaved head, his younger brother, Tom, 40, sported a buzz. But no, instead it was I who took turns fisting their glorious furry butts, Tim’s first while Tom went down on my dick, then vice versa, as they say. Reciprocation made all the difference for me, something that could only happen in a threesome arrangement. We took it slow but the more arm I gave them, the more each of them wanted, till I felt I could rip their hearts out if I willed it.
And when they had both gotten off, flaccid dicks spurting away, Tom twisted my nips while Tim went down on me and took my load like a pro. Then they packed up their stuff, in as organized a fashion as they had unpacked, slipped back into their jogging shorts and tight tanks, and thanked me for a good time. For once had by all.
A few years later, this studly bearded furry handsome Cuban named Marcos hit me up on Daddyhunt and invited me over to his Miami luxury condo. Marcos wanted one thing and one thing only: for me to pound his bull balls with a mallet or, when he was really warmed up, a baseball bat, while he lay there, those thick muscular, hairy legs spread. No touching, no kissing, just three hours of solid whacking while we smoked meth.
Ever wear one of those Israeli gas masks you can pick up cheap for twenty bucks on one of those online sex shops? The feel of confinement is over the top. A meth head buddy introduced me to his while he gave me a bj and I watched through the mask goggles. Later, a geek FB and I had loads of sensual sex with mine as he blew some poppers up the hose while he ever so slowly stroked my tool. He told me later his best hard-on was watching me go into some kind of trance. But, shit, this was child’s play compared to what that guy years ago in Columbus, Ohio, asked me to do to him.
I was on a drive vacation to Chicago and decided I’d stop along the way at lesser cities I’d never been. Columbus, Ohio, was among them. I’ve forgotten the name of the place, but one glance said bear/leather/levi bar. It was August, hot and sticky (the bar had only ceiling fans) and when I saw a few other guys shirtless, I slipped off my T and strung it through my belt loops.
“So you gonna enter the contest?” asked the burly, bearded bartender as he handed me my Bud Lite.
“Contest?” I asked.
“The best hairy chest contest. We do it every Friday night. Winner gets fifty bucks.” Then he reached over the bar to stroke my chest. “Yep, you sure do qualify, mister, yum yum.”
Not exactly being shy, I signed up with the MC but knew that bars held these things to milk the crowd for more drinks, so that “Contest at Midnight” actually didn’t happen until closer to one.
I was on my second Bud when Gary strolled in. Tall, lanky and hippish with long flowing black hair and a long scruffy beard, he wore big horn rimmed glasses, a baggy, button down shirt that he had open to his navel to show off some lightly fuzzy flesh, and baggy black jeans. I was used to mentally stripping the superfluous off a guy, though, and could tell underneath his disguise that he had the bod and the looks. I was holding up the wall by the bar as he came over to stand directly across from me.
“Ten more minutes till we crown this week’s hairest chest!” announced the MC, along with a drink special. Gary used the cue to open up.
“So I hope you entered buddy. I’m sure you’ll be the hands-down winner.”
“You never know,” I replied, moving over to him. “There’s always somebody better.”
“Hey man, I live here and I can tell you nobody I know has got you beat. Not by a long shot.”
I laughed. He groped. I told him about my trip. He told me about his life as a sometime employed graphic artist.
“Listen,” he went on more in a whisper,” If you win, will you come home with me? I live only a few blocks from here.”
“And if I lose?” I asked.
“Then I’ll come home with you.”
“Hotel, you mean.”
“Hotel, motel, convent – shit. As long as it’s got a bed.”
There were only three other guys up there competing with me and frankly, it was a slam dunk. Hell, I had more hair on my left shoulder than one of them had on his whole body. I collected my money and fifteen minutes later, we were in Gary’s cramped cluttered apartment, naked on his waterbed, foreplaying away.
That’s when he sprang it on me.
“You into breath control?”
I tried to look and sound ecumenical.
“Never tried it but if you like me to do it to you …”
With that, Gary stood up, reached for his jeans he had flung on a chair and slipped off his wide leather belt. Then he lay back on the bed, tucked a pillow beneath his head, and handed me the belt as I sat down on his belly, straddling him.
“I want you to put it around my neck and pull it tight.”
As I did what he told me to do, I could see his chest first become more agitated, then his breath more labored. I stopped.
“No, no,” he said softly, grabbing my hand. “Keep going. Don’t worry, I’m okay.”
I hesitated a second, then continued my tug on the belt until his face turned blue and he appeared to fall into unconsciousness.
That’s when I panicked, slapped his face a few times, and getting no response, sprung up, grabbed my T and headed for the door.
“Where you’re gonna?” he shouted in a gruffed tone. “I’m not done yet.”
“I am,” I shouted back, slamming the door behind me.
But nothing quite beat going over the top than the time I was in a bath house in Montreal and a big brute of guy, J, asked me to punch fist him and was disappointed when no blood showed on my hand.
Now do you get why I can’t understand all the hoopla about Fifty Shades?