2001-01-23 - 01:55:41
A Trip, A Romp, and A Lark

A Trip, A Romp, and A Lark

Look Out, Toronto!

It's official; for the first time since moving out of Toronto a year-and-a-half ago, I shall finally be returning for a two-week visit. Coming up in about three weeks. This should be interesting…

As a somewhat experimental--perhaps even radical--step into my future, I am offering a journal-writing workshop to my Toronto readers (or to anyone who can find their way there the weekend of February 16-18th). Details here.

Follow Through

Kentaro was nervous at my place last night, almost jumpy. When I took his coat, he admitted he was self-conscious about removing his ball-cap because of his prematurely-receded hairline. "But I've already seen pictures of you without the hat," I said. "Don't worry about it." Reluctantly, he took it off; I thought his broad forehead rather sexy, and told him so. (Sparing him a confusing idiom, I did not quote that line my ex Mark used to quip on the subject: "The more hair you lose, the more head you get, eh?")

I had a dozen candles illuminating the living room; he thought this "mysterious". I had a CD of mellow African music playing in the background; he thought my taste in music a bit odd. This feedback was offered with a bemused discomfort; he would giggle at jokes he knew not how to translate.

Bashfully, he asked to see pictures. I didn't know what he meant; at first I thought he was after porn. But no. Kentaro wanted to see photographs of me, my friends and family. I took him into my bedroom, guiding him through images of my pantheon of ex's: Matt, Nick and Mark. The fabulous photo of me with my best friend back in Toronto, Alex. Then I brought him here into my study, showed him several pictures of family: Grandma, my parents, my sister and her kids. And many photos of friends: Pierre, Joey, etc.

Kentaro was much more relaxed after this photo tour. As if these loved faces somehow authenticated my claim made over coffee on Friday, that I wasn't just looking for a quick wank.

Master of the seductive segue, when Kentaro mentioned he had a digital camera, I teased him about the erotic photos he must have taken of himself. Blushing, he denied the existence of any such naughty images. I offered to provide my photographic services; he laughingly accepted.

Within minutes, I lunged at him. Kentaro protested that it was "too much light". I blew out three-quarters of the candles. He was appeased. I resumed my grapple. His passivity slowly evaporated as my hands roamed all over that luscious body. I didn't like the way he kissed, at first; his mouth a wee hole, a receptacle. That soon changed. He began to kiss back, to moan, to grab hold.

My tongue annointed his expansive forehead.

Shirtless, I led him by the hand to my bedroom, bringing one candle. His muscled smooth torso was a dream. As I tongue-traced his smooth firm surfaces, I got him out of those rustly track-pants. And gasped. And gawked. Wee tight black briefs hugged at Kentaro's bodacious center; I positioned him in front of my dresser mirror so as to watch my hands knead those pristine mounds.

I hurled him down on the bed violently, tore down to my own undies, lept onto the lush trampoline of his supple writhing warmth.

I drool-mapped his pale taut flesh; a slurpy wrestle, a calisthenic melee of heat and light and fizz. And yes, I kissed his boo-boo's. Extensively. Gluteus maximus laced so tightly, it was all I could do to tongue-part them as I slobbered my way to his much-excitable core; oh, how I rise to such a challenge!

In the middle, Kentaro exclaimed: "I like you!" I liked him too, I said.

WHACK! went my hand, an unstoppable urge to resound those cheeks. His ecstatic outcry invited more. And more. And more.

At the end, Kentaro said: "I am intoxicated!"

And said "I feel like I've been in a video." He buried his head in the pillow as he laughed. "You are a supreme technician; how did you learn all that?" He said he wanted to be taught.

And told me he was kind-of into "Um, what's it called….'Soo-doo, no….Say-doe--"

"Oh, you mean 'S&M'?" I said. "Sadomasochism?"

"Yes, that's it."

I was not surprised. Or turned off.

"I dreamt last night I was fucking you," he said, again burying his face in the pillow. "Which is funny, because I am usually--what's that word?--the one who gets fucked."

"Ah, you mean the 'bottom'."

"Oh, yes, I prefer to be the bottom."

That sounded fine to me too.

Then, a story: once, at a bathhouse-like establishment in Tokyo--he lacked the words to precisely characterize this den of inequity--Kentaro cruised around in the nude. He noticed that some of the men were naked and others were clad in underwear. What he didn't understand until later was that nudity signified a "top" and underwear denoted you to be a "bottom". When an underwear-clad guy explained the dress code to him, Kentaro was too shy not to fuck him.

I'll definitely be getting together with this delectable young man again; a steamy quiet tale begins its spin.

Nothing Could Be More Natural

Up until the eighteenth century, my straight female English professor said in today's class, sex was not restricted to the private sphere. Foucault, she said, showed us this through his history of architecture: how married couples did not have bedrooms separate from the rest of the family until the last couple hundred years. It was common and natural for folks to have sex in ditches, in parks, etc. up until the Enlightenment. The notion of sexuality as a private matter is a relatively new oppression.

Interesting; can I blame my prof for my after-class shenanigans?

Now that I'm back at university part-time, I've got free access to the campus gym. Naked college flesh in the locker room is a definite incentive to work out more regularly.

Dripping from my post-workout shower, I wrapped my towel around my waist and sauntered into the sauna. This sauna is large, with seating space for a dozen men, a rectangular room of wood and heat and desire.

The hairy young man in there looked guilty. He was standing up--buck-naked-- by the bench along the narrower wall, his dick suspiciously-moister than the rest of him, and substantively chubbed too.

I sat down along the longer wall up on the bench, undid my towel and watched him. He plunked down, caressed his perspiring flesh while eyeing me back furtively. I started to point out at him, if you know what I mean.

I was all set to move things along when another gent walked in. Hairy-boy made a quick exit. So did I. But as I showered under lukewarm water, I kept my eye on his whereabouts. By the time I'd rinsed off he was on his way back into the sauna. I followed.

We picked up where we'd left off. He had his hand cupped over his dick; I mirrored him, began a gradually-more perceptible squeeze and tug.

Soon it was all systems go: we were jerking off like fiends. He beckoned me over to where he was seated, his lips a hungry circle. I knew what he had in mind.

"I don't want to get caught," I said. The first words spoken.

He accepted that. "Are you going to cum?" he asked.

I indicated that this was indeed my intention. His pumping hand seemed to like the sound of that.

I came first: a rapid noisy splurge. In bed with someone, it takes me days to cum; in an anonymous scenario, the exciting possibility of being caught hastens my orgasm exponentially.

I dabbed myself with my towel, eyes trained on Mr. Hairy's progress. I tugged on my balls to wag my dick at him, which appeared to do the trick: he too soon shot his load.

"Nice way to end a work-out, eh?" said I.

He looked at me, evidently surprised at this post-orgasmic friendliness. "Yeah," he said, smiling shyly.

"Well you have yourself a great day, k?" I said, wrapping my towel back around me and heading back to the shower.

Could the radical thing about public sex be the audacity to utter friendly words afterwards?

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