Last fall, when I was starting my graduate studies at NYU film school, I found myself sexually frustrated and unhappy with the guys I was meeting. The sex was OK, but nothing really special. I think that's kind of understandable because, after all, we were mostly all in our early 20s and not very experienced. Plus, if I was to be really honest, the guys I met (and I include myself here) were kind of immature and unworldly. We barely knew who we were, let alone capable of thoughtful, meaningful and satisfying sexual relationships.
I don't consider myself to be gay. I have never kissed a guy, and have no desire to. I don't want to stick my dick up another man's ass, nor would I like one stuck up mine. I have never met a guy whom I wanted to have sex with. Despite all that, I had what can only be described as a steamy sexual encounter with my best friend from college, Lance.
Sixty two year old Wallace Stone wasn't from Saratoga Springs, he was just passing through on business. When after dinner he walked through the park and stopped near the little stage where an angry young man was singing angry songs, mercifully without benefit of amplification.
Most of the couple dozen or so folks who were around the performer listening didn't seem much more interested than Wallace was, but the salesman didn't care about them.
In my life I have always been pretty conservative. I don’t stand out in a crowd and I don’t take risks. Your typical nice average guy – that’s me. At 31, I have done ok for myself. The only major thing missing from my life was a family. But I knew one day I would meet the girl of my dreams and that part of my life would also fall into place. At least so I thought.
We were in the study of Professor Hendrick's house, in the late evening, nearing the end of the tutorial he was conducting. At least I assumed it was nearing the end, because I was very close to coming. We were in a straight chair facing his desk. Professor Hendricks, his hands wrapped around my waist was sitting in the chair; I was sitting on his hard cock—or, rather, fucking myself on his cock in slow risings and fallings and me moaning in tenor to his groaning in baritone.
They say you never forget your first time. Although it's been nearly 20 years, I can still remember it well. It was January of 99 and I had just turned 18.
My parents went out of town to celebrate their anniversary for the weekend, and that meant one thing for me. Busting as many nuts as I could.
It was a brisk Thursday in January and, despite the breezy cold, the sun was shining. The contrast of the glimmering, melting snow against the radiant sunshine was a paradox of reality that I seemed to grapple with in my own daily life. I paused getting ready and my mind began racing, torturing my ability to focus. I snapped out of my lingering gaze and finished buttoning my trench coat.
I was on business in the Fire Island area of New York. Checking into a small motel I was surprised to see the small, old, Jewish-looking man behind the counter, in effect, checking me out. I wasn't sure whether to laugh or get annoyed by his eyeing me and smiling at me in what could only be described as a leering way.
All comments or criticism welcome.
I had just settled onto the couch to watch some television when the phone rang.
"You available?" a familiar voice asked.
"I'll be there in 20 minutes."
"I'll leave the door unlocked, I'm going to jump in the sho--."
Aaron looked at me with a mixture of shock and pure heat. I don’t think he was expecting me to actually take him up on his offer. I don’t know, maybe he figured I was really into the submissive stuff. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely loved it, but I wasn’t going to be his pushover. And I was damn sure going to give him the same treatment he gave me.