2000-09-30 - 16:42:41
Lame Scratch

Lame Scratch

One of my favourite lines from an old SCTV skit is when Andrea Martin--playing a neurotic TV sex therapist--blurts out: "And remember, even bad sex is better than no sex at all!"

I had my coffee date with Kris last night; we met at a café down in his part of town at 7:30 pm. He had to work early the next day, and I am nursing a bit of a cold, so an early evening get-together worked well for both of us.

I was much more attracted to him than I thought I would be; I hadn't detected the piercing quality of his beautiful grey-green eyes in the darkened bar. Noticing their hue last night, I allowed myself to get more excited. And I liked the sheen of his short, dirty-blonde hair too.

Our conversation over coffee was interesting in that I felt fully engaged at the time; yet now I can remember virtually nothing of what we talked about. Kris comes across as kind of dippy, but pleasant. Interested enough in me to ask lots of friendly questions. He soon had me talking about my aspirations to write.

I liked looking into his eyes and I couldn't keep mine off the bulge in his tight blue jeans, those massive thighs nearly lifting up the table from beneath. He was wearing a black t-shirt which hugged his torso, revealing a sturdier, more compact frame than I'd imagined the night we met.

He asked me if I "smoked up", and I said that I do on occasion, but rarely. He said he would like to "get out of here" and go smoke a joint. I said I probably would pass on the joint, but if he wanted to, that was fine with me.

We walked the five blocks to his apartment, and he surprised me by identifying his favorite author as Barbara Gowdy. I haven't read any of her stuff, but she's a "literary" author as compared to what I assumed Kris might be into. As I walked down the sidewalk, gazing up at the six feet, seven inches of this young man, his reading tastes aroused me further.

Kris told me that he's going out to the bar later to meet up with a guy he's been sorta-kinda dating for a few weeks; he wants to sort out some problems between them. Kris is only planning to be in town for another couple weeks and wants to leave on good terms with the guy. He indicated that his pseudo-boyfriend does not respect him or make time for him, and is very passive and unresponsive in bed.

I didn't know what to say to that, but as we got closer to his bachelor apartment, I prepared myself to compensate for boyfriend's latter shortcoming.

Kris has been travelling all across Canada, spending a few months here, a few months there. He said he doesn't like to stay in one place very long; once a lot of people know him, he feels uncomfortable and it's time to move on. "I'm looking forward to moving in a couple weeks; it will be so relaxing, you know, being a stranger to everyone again."

As expected, the wanderer's apartment was sparsely furnished. The only piece of furniture was his couch--presumably, a sofa-bed--in the livingroom. We sat down there, with only the kitchen light on, and Kris rolled a wee joint. I did partake of it, had a few toques. Kris was shocked when I announced that it's probably been two years since I've smoked pot. And yes it went right to my head. Started to feel incredibly woozey; time began to ooze rather than flow.

Through this increasingly-blurry consciousness, the remainder of our time together was surreal. Kris is big into Tarot cards, proudly showing me his deck. I didn't want him to do a reading because I knew I was too stoned to take it in. He began to comment on how quiet I was; I wasn't feeling shy, I told him, just stoned. He did offer to do a one-card reading: "How about I draw one card to answer the question about what's holding you back with your writing?" Somewhat reluctantly, I agreed.

I forget the name of the card he pulled, but he looked it up in his book and the general gist was that idealism and perfectionism hold me back from doing more writing, that I need to embrace more of the 'disgusting' parts of life and not hide behind spirituality and la-di-da ideas. Something like that. I found this to be somewhat relevant, but was in no state to discuss my reaction in any great detail with Kris.

Besides, I wanted to get laid, eh?

Kris kept looking at his watch, saying he'd have to head out to the club to meet his boyfriend soon. Long pauses as we stared at each other in the semi-darkness. His shyness made me hard. Our thighs pressed together on the warped couch that sucked us both to the middle.

When a guy gives off mixed-messages, exuding hesitation, I usually don't make the first move. I have done so in the past; that potent seductive energy--grabbing the bull by the horns--can be fucking hot. But when I ramrod over a guy's ambivalence to have my way with him, he is usually too uncomfortable to have anything to do with me after that.

Thus the open question for me in those few minutes became, "Do I care? He's only in town another few weeks; this may be my only chance to lick him all over; do I care if he never talks to me again?"

I didn’t get much of a chance to mull that query over in my dulled mind before Kris reached for my hand. A different question--is there any sexual spark between us whatsoever?--got answered, because I felt nothing at his touch. This has always been the supreme litmus test; I have been visually attracted to guys before but then felt nothing when we first held hands and it always means--I realize, after the fact--that our chemistries are misaligned.

But, I wanted to get laid, eh?

So I was all over him at that point. Or at least, as all over him as I could be. He kept interrupting our tangle, looking at his watch, saying he had to get going, then pawwing me some more. Kris's hesitancy was pronounced; I could have honored the total picture he was presenting but chose to respond only to his intermittent kisses and his squeezes of my crotch and butt. Soon I had his black tee pulled up, revealing a baby-fatted, smooth chest with nipples even larger than my own; I slurped his lovely torso and kneaded his crotch and he began to moan. Moments later, his dick was clogging my windpipe; what a perfect fit!

It would be an exaggeration to say that we were off to the races at that point, but Kris did not attempt to pull back again. Neither, however, did he really let go and commingle wholeheartedly . He was happy, it seemed, to let me suck him off and I could tell-- as he whimpered and writhed beneath my suction--that I was doing a bang-up job.

He was close to cumming and had me sit up; he undid my fly and extricated my dick and began jerking it with his dry hand while I jerked his saliva-lubed member. I cannot tolerate dry masturbation so I eventually told him that and he too spit in his hand. I was doing a better job with his than he was with mine because he kept stilling my hand, wanting me to pause or else he'd shoot, wanting to see me cum first. So that eventually I replaced his hand with my own and as I felt myself getting close I asked him if his apartment walls were thin and he said yes so I said okay well then I guess I can be quiet and he said yes please please be quiet because the landlord lives right next door so that I muted my cries as I splat all over followed soon by his own prodigious, totally silent orgasm.

And that was that. My orgasm had felt great, but immediately afterwards, I realized that I felt nothing. No 'just-got-laid-glow', no sense of connection with Kris, just a woozey, stoned blur of nothingness.

As we wiped up and did our clothes back up, Kris was as friendly as before, and so was I. But we interacted as if this little high-school wank had not happened. He was totally focused, now, on getting out to the club to meet up with the boyfriend. I had to pee before we left his place, but when I went into his bathroom I could not piss for the life of me. I was compressed by wooziness; the bathroom light goaded; my dick was stopped up, in limbo. Feeling completely self-conscious about how long I was taking in the bathroom with Kris waiting, I aborted the attempt. (It felt like I'd been in there for 20 minutes, but it probably was more like 2 minutes.)

We parted on the street outside his apartment; I wished him well with his big-talk with the sort-of boyfriend, told him to give me a call sometime. I walked for several blocks, blurrily mulling over the evening's disconnectedness, anxious to get home and crawl into bed.

I shaln't be idealistic, or spiritual, or la-di-da about this. Kris seems to be an interesting fellow, about whom I am only moderately curious. It will take a great deal of effort on my part to follow up, to actually call him again before he leaves town. I was primarily attracted to him because of his height. The sex--if I can even call it that--was disconnected and fumbling.

I don't think bad sex is better than no sex at all, but it can be fascinating in its own way.

And what I shall remember most about this tall, cute, odd young man is how genuinely friendly he was. If I do call him, that would be why.

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