2000-09-28 - 18:46:11
Hard-Pressed

Hard-Pressed

Amateur Strip Night was fun again. J.C. and I went out: our new Wednesday night tradition in the making.

I was tired, a bit low on energy--but happy to be out and about after a solitary, productive day at home. The club was not busy; a quiet, lacklustre energy pervaded the place. J.C. and I sat at a table just off the dance floor; I kept teasing him about entering the contest to display for me what I'd missed at the other bar's amateur strip contest Monday night. J.C. laughed, but didn't bite.

Contestant Number One was a straight young lady. (She was at the bar with a gay male friend, a cutie I already had my eye on.) Although I cannot independently verify this, there couldn't have been a dry dyke in the house--this babe was beautiful! Bodacious ta-ta's, fabulous legs, etc. etc. It was fascinating to watch, appreciating the aesthetics of such an incredible body. She went as far as getting her jeans down around her ankles; at the very end she flashed us her boobies. They were pretty!

You're probably getting concerned about me; let's move on to Number Two and Three, shall we?

Contestant Number Two, a tall, young ball-capped man, was the guy I'd said to J.C I hoped would strip when we first walked through the club. Lucky me. He was cute as a bug, sexy in a shy way as he danced on stage, whipping off his t-shirt to reveal a hairless, tapered swimmer's torso. Yummy yummy yummy. Seconds later, his khakis were undone. This was all in the first 45 seconds of the song; I couldn't help imagining--at this rapid pace--that he'd be buck naked by the end. But no. At this point, he looked a little discombobulated, not sure what to do next. He soon wandered off the stage, sheepishly.

Moving right along, Contestant Number Three was a pleasant surprise. He happens to be my favorite local actor; I've seen him in only one play, last fall, but I've been a diehard fan ever since. Cute 20-something blonde guy; I'd always suspected he was a friend of Dorothy's but it's only in the past couple weeks that he's made an appearance at the gay bars. I was happy to see him, in general, but especially thrilled when he was introduced as the third and final contestant.

He stole the show.

An ironic, bemused grin on his face, he strutted his stuff with rhythm and panache, so polished qua performance that I momentarily forgot how much I wanted to see his skin. I quickly regained my senses, mind you, gasping as his green button shirt dropped to the floor--he too had a lean but slightly hairy chest. But I was not prepared for the flawlessly mounded and smooth butt cleavage, the lowest-of-the-lower-abdominal muscles he flashed at us for a few moments before it was all over. Whew!

No big surprise here; he walked off with first prize, Bodacious Ta-Ta's got 2nd and Mr. Ball-Capped Cock Tease finished last.

I was pretty much ready to go home to bed after the show, but J.C. and I hung out there for another hour. I love being with him because I don't feel the need to mindlessly chit-chat unless I have something to say; we're comfortably quiet with one another. This quality of togetherness is precious to me; nothing drains like spending time with someone discomfited by silence, who fills the air with meaningless words.

I probably would have suggested we leave earlier, but I had my eye on this dirty-blonde giant of a young man, towering over everyone in the bar. Holy fuck, was he tall! And cute too, from what I could see. He noticed me cruising him after a while, and shyly glanced back. It took me longer than usual to decide whether his return gazes were interested or merely registering my gaze. He was sitting with friends but the moment they wandered off, I walked up to him, said hello. He was pleasantly shy, but came out of his shell when I told him how cute he was. (Works every time.) His name is Kris, he is 26--soon to be 27--and 6'7. My god, we're talking Brobdingnagian! Much like the night I first met J.C.--assuming him to be 25 or 26 and he told me he was only 18--when Kris told me how tall he was, I started to get hard. I'm 5'10, and have never been with anyone quite that tall.

Kris and his friends were leaving soon, so I gave him my phone number; he seemed quite pleased that I'd done so, said he would definitely be calling me today. In terms of our brief conversation, I did not suss out a lot of compatibility or spark between us, but what the heck, he's cute and friendly--and tall!-- so I'll see what happens.

Returning to J.C.'s and my table after Kris departed, I suddenly had a lot more energy. J.C. congratulated me for going up and talking to the guy, wanted to know all the details. And, he said, he was ready to leave whenever I was. I dragged him onto the dance floor to expend some of this energy before we shared a cab ride home.

I felt so alive as we danced. Like I say, I didn't get a whiff of much amazing chemistry between Kris and I, but just the fact of meeting him, making contact with someone new, stimulates me to the max. Whenever new possibilities open up like that, I get in sync with an inmost vibe that unleashes a lot of sassy, creative energy.

So that when J.C. did his usual crotch-grind, my response was curiously more brash than usual. I don't know how to describe what the difference was. But there was something about the way I absorbed his delicious body's rhythm, held it, energetically prodded back, that coaxed out a prolonged mesh between us. His crotch battered into mine again and again and again as we swayed to the music. He was singing along to the dance tune, his hot breath spurting up my nostrils, into my mouth. And bang bang bang went his crotch; I got so dizzy I held onto his waist to steady myself as he poked at me. I could feel the fullness of that lovely dick, hanging full and loose in his khaki shorts. J.C. registered the rise he was getting out of me because at that point he giggled, groped my woody through my jeans, and said "Wow, you're hard! I could feel it, you know."

I laughed, delightedly. Said, "Well I'm not going to apologize for that." He snorted, and we kept on dancing with no further crotch-grinding.

I believe my hard-on had nearly receded by the time the taxi dropped me off at home. Had J.C. given me the slightest inkling that he was on the same page, I would have invited him in. But he did not. I thanked him for the extra-special dance, eliciting another giggle, hugged him in the backseat of the cab, and the taxi kept on going to his place a few blocks away.

I write about J.C. a lot in here, both because he is so amazingly sexy and because I am utterly fascinated by our unfolding connection. He is teaching me so much about eros and friendship; stuff I am hard-pressed to put into words. A big part is what it means for me to be a erotic being; I feel so sexual in this platonic relationship with him. So stimulated--and not just "down there"--by the lust and the affection and the companionship.

I was talking to an old friend from Toronto today on the phone who shared a silly little maxim he'd heard: "A hard-on does not count as personal growth." That's cute, made me smile. But is it true?

I am now sometimes able to access soulful, playful, and affectionate bits of me even though--or because--I'm hard as rock. There is something ineffably fabulous about that. Of course, I still love down-n-dirty, raunchy sex; my ubiquitous erections, however, sometimes beckon me to savor the swirl of Eros rather than always, reflexively accomplishing their climactic dissolution.

Hmm, that sounds rather deep. Did I mention that I'm horny as fuck?

Previous | Next