2001-02-26 - 21:48:57
Bangs & Whimpers: My Last Night In Toronto

Bangs & Whimpers: My Last Night In Toronto

Underslept yet radiant from the late evening with Keith, maintaining a hectic social schedule on my last full day in Toronto, my body protested as Sunday wore on. I was achy, stiff, tensed up.

Oh yeah, haven't been for a massage yet, I thought. Quickly packing up for Monday's flight, I showered and headed down to a massage parlor on Church Street around 10 pm, one I'd never been to before.

I immediately recognized the cute young guy sitting at the desk. He used to camp out on the sidewalks of the gay ghetto, batting those puppy dog eyes up at passersby as he asked for spare change. Cute street youth probably do quite well, begging on Church Street.

On reception duty at the parlor, he was abruptly professional, almost officious. "Actually, I'm the only attendant available at the moment," he said. "But if you wait twenty minutes there would be two more guys to choose from." I replied that he would do just fine. He outlined the various prices; I opted for the $95 VIP service - a one hour and fifteen minute massage with oxygen and hot towel treatment.

He led me to the room, told me to "disrobe" while he heated up the towels. By the time he returned five minutes later I was lying on my belly on the massage table, a wee blue towel draped over my butt.

He introduced himself; let's call him Kurt. Kurt was quite a bit friendlier, now. He removed the small towel, replacing it with a moist, steaming beachtowel which covered me--sucking, hot, soothing--from feet to neck. As he began gently pressing on my achy body through that towel, Kurt began his spiel.

"Now you might think that the attendants working here make a wage," he said. "But that would be wrong. We offer extra services, which I'll tell you about in a minute, and that's how we make money. If you are not interested in any of the extra services, a tip would be gratefully accepted. Now, before I get into the extra services, I have to ask you this: are you an officer of the law?"

I satisfied him that I was not.

Kurt said there was "half service" and "full service" available. For $50 extra, he explained, "I would either provide release or I would provide my nudity and you could touch me anywhere except my privacies. By my privacies, I mean my penis."

At $100, full service, he went on, would get me my release, his nudity, and the extra privilege of touching his privacies. "We do not provide or allow oral sex or penetration to occur," he added. Then he said he'd let me think about all that.

The hot towel quickly got cold; Kurt rolled it off me, lubed up his hands with massage oil, and began a gentle caress. I had hoped for a deeper, more penetrating rub. Nonetheless, his hands felt fantastic on my sore body. He made polite small talk as he worked away on me. Much of what he said related to how broke he was, how unfair it was that the parlor didn't pay him a wage, that he had to rely on the tips and the extras to eke out a living.

Then he had me roll over onto my back, asked me if I wanted a towel to cover my privates; I said no. I was not aroused at this point; Kurt made short work of teasing out various erogenous zones: belly and inner thigh, a light testicular graze here, an accidental brush up against my dick there. Soon I was throbbing to beat the band. "What the fuck: only an extra fifty bucks for a handjob," I thought.

The minute his beautiful, small hands meandered away from these zones, I softened right back down. Thought more clearly. Sank into the luscious calm spreading through my body as he massaged me so tenderly. Kurt kept his eye on what was--and wasn't--happening with my dick; his hands roved back up over my magic spots but failed to resurrect me.

He invited me to try the oxygen treatment: I stuck the plastic thing in my nostrils, breathed it in for about ten minutes. Started to feel stoned, even more relaxed.

I murmured and moaned, trancelike. I did not want to cum from this. I needed the relaxation badly, badly enough to pay such an exorbitant fee for it. Kurt's verbal hustle--and accompanying tactile manoevres--became beside the point. It was about those hands: plying and resuscitating my frazzled body, a tender language of touch.

So that when he asked me, near the end, whether I'd like any extra services, I said "Yeah, I've thought about it and I'll pass, thanks."

The massage over, Kurt said a shower--"It's just down the hall"--was included in the VIP service. With all the cash I had in my wallet, I had no intention of leaving my clothes unattended; I declined. Three minutes later, he asked me if I was sure I didn't want a shower. I said no, again. "Okay, well let me dab the oil off then." He washed me with a cloth from head to toe, front and back.

Once dressed, I thanked Kurt for the great rub. "You have beautiful touch," I said. He thanked me for the compliment, looked a bit bewildered by it. We shook hands. I tipped him $20 and used the washroom. My reflection in the mirror glowed at me. I walked out into the night.

Okay, so it was my last night in the big city and I felt open and grounded and wide awake. It was only 11 pm. Barbwire was only a block away. $3.95 admission, as opposed to $50.00, if you catch my meaning.

Economics, politics, soul: queer life is always about all three.

Barbwire was quite busy. Lots of cute men of various races wandering around or sitting in the small viewing rooms watching porn. I didn't know what I was in the mood for, whether I even wanted to get off. But from the moment I stepped into the place, the energy was fascinating.

Soon, in the darkroom, this incredibly cute young Asian guy groped me; I adjourned into the pitch-black closet-space with him, by which time he already had his pants undone. His cock was floppy and long and thick; momentarily, I was on my knees. In broken English, he then whispered in my ear that he had a private cubicle rented. So we went there.

The cubicles are ostensibly for private viewing of the pornos but, of course, their actual purpose is much less solitary. I don't remember how much it costs to rent one.

This young guy was odd: his face beamed a friendly smile, and he asked me what my name was, told me his. Let's call him Ray. And, he was also incredibly matter-of-fact about what he wanted, which was for me to worship that big dick of his. Lucky for him, I was all too happy to comply. Ray stood there watching the small TV screen as I kneeled and paid homage.

"Big dick," Ray said. A half-question-mark on the end.

"Yes, indeed," said I.

"It's big?" he said, needing more.

"Oh yes," I said, my hand clenched around the topic of conversation.

I chomped away as Ray undid my pants.

"It's bigger than you," he commented. As he squeezed my dick, curiously, he added, "But it's nice, though."

My thank you took the form of a prolonged deep throat of his superiority.

But then when I began jerking his spit-coated dick--my throat muscles needing a brief respite--I looked back up into his smiling eyes, and he said it again. "It's big."

"Yes, yes, it sure is," I said. This scene had crossed that line from sexy to laughable; I was ready to move on. After pleasant goodbyes, I wandered back out into the dark swarm of lust.

There were a couple sexy-looking black fellows wandering around. I did not catch the eye of either gent. One in particular, the one with short dreadlocks happening, was to die for. And there was a beautiful, slightly chubby East Indian fellow, too; while I didn't want to have sex with him, I fantasized about kissing his dark red mouth.

Was I in the mood for a pair of lips to service me, unseen, in the dark? I wasn't sure. I wandered into the dark-dark closet space at the back of the darkroom, waited. A short, unattractive Asian guy walked in, began to fondle me. Not 20 seconds after, the black guy with the dreadlocks arrived. "Shit," I thought. As gently as I could, I pushed the Asian guy's hands away, wanting to beeline over to Dreadlocks Guy. The hands did not immediately grasp the message; in the meantime, Dreadlocks Guy wandered away.

I whispered into the Asian guy's ear that I was just going to wander around. "Why?" he said, as if to say, let me service you, please please please. There was a desperation--a hunger--in his voice that touched that part of me the massage had wrought. I stood there, calm, reached out my arms, pulled him to my chest. He hugged me tightly: his loneliness--his need to connect--was mine, ours, everyone's.

For three or four minutes we held each other, silently, there in the dark. My hand on his cheek, I said I was going to leave. He let me.

I saw him often on my subsequent meanderings; each time I passed by him, I'd pat him on the shoulder, acknowledge him, always eliciting a broad smile.

Meanwhile, big-dicked Ray was prowling through the place. Each time we crossed paths, he would acknowledge me with a "Hi" and a smile. I love that kind of civility.

I was keeping my eye on Dreadlocks Guy too, of course; he'd begun to cruise me back, but seemed skittish. Wouldn't you know it, before I got a chance to go over to him, Ray pounced on him in the darkroom. They retreated into that same dark closet space; I hovered just outside, only superficially pouty. I could barely make out their outlines in there, but it was obvious to me that Ray was on his knees, for a change. Thinking "What the hell?", I sauntered in; perhaps a group scene might eventuate.

Dreadlocks Guy whispered something in Ray's ear; Ray disappeared immediately. So it was just Dreadlocks Guy and I standing there in the dark; he was looking at me, his body seemed expectant. I walked right up to him, groped his dress-panted crotch. He fondled me back.

His Caribbean accent was so pronounced, I couldn’t immediately grasp what he soon whispered. Eventually, I understood: he'd just cum five minutes before, he said, and so he wasn’t up for anything right at the moment but I should check back with him later. That sounded just fine to me.

I went over to one of the porno viewing rooms, sat down. There was only one other guy in there, a pudgey Middle Eastern-looking guy with a beautiful face, shaved head, grey & white army fatigues. I'd been eyeing him all night too. He was standing up, a few feet away; as I stole glances over at him I could see he was playing pocket pool. I began to leer more intensely at him, which he seemed to like. I moved two chairs down so I was seated right beside him. I groped his sizeable basket; his hand was out of his pocket, so I wormed mine inside there. That wasn't to his liking, so he gently removed my hand, allowing me to continue to play with him through the fabric. This went on for several minutes; I got naughty, again, and started to undo his fly. He let me grope him through his white briefs for a moment or two, but then stopped me, did his pants back up. I was delighted by this playfulness; his shyness aroused me, but I could tell he was frightened half to death, too. I imagined he'd never actually had sex with a man before, that he might be at the very early stage of exploring his sexuality. (Of course I could be totally off base here, but I certainly picked up that energy.) I stood up, murmured "Thanks" in his ear with a big smile, stroked his cheek, grabbed his swollen crotch once more, and wandered off.

From there, I went into the other video room; who was standing in there, alone, but Dreadlocks Guy. He pretended not to see me, his eyes glued to the TV screen which happened to feature the sexiest black porno star I've ever ever seen. By the light of the TV, I got the best look at Dreadlocks Guy I'd had all night; those big dark eyes made me swoon. I couldn't help but gawk.

So many weirdly wonderful things had happened, I decided to push this further. I struck up a conversation with him. I first asked him if he recognized me from our brief interaction in the darkroom, and he did. He was very friendly; his sonorous voice intoxicated me. Dreadlocks Guy is heavily involved, I learned, in Toronto's black gay community; we had a stimulating chat about all that. I kept flirting with him, not really thinking we'd end up having sex; I could taste the whimsy and the desire and the transgressive authenticity which queer space can sometimes engender. I was excited and goal-less. Besides, it was getting late and I didn't want to overdo it.

Dreadlocks Guy ended up inviting me back to his place. I could not pass that up, let me tell ya. Turns out he lives only a few blocks from Alex. He got noticeably quiet as we walked to his apartment. Finally he asked, "So, what are you into sexually?"

As diplomatically as I could, I communicated my honest reaction to this cliched query. Leaving diplomacy out of it, my reaction is this: when I'm asked that question, I almost always lose erotic interest in the guy posing it. The question betrays, in my experience, a shallow approach to erotics, almost always translating into uninteresting sex.

Nonetheless, I recited the sex acts I get into and do not get into. "I'm not usually into fucking or getting fucked with someone I just met," I said, "And certainly, tonight, I'm not up for getting fucked, let me tell ya: I had the fuck of my life just last night, eh?" He laughed.

"All I know for sure that I want to do with you," I continued, "is kiss you. I am dying to kiss you!" Dreadlocks Guy had luscious, big lips.

Another block or two, and Dreadlocks Guy was very quiet again. I asked him if he was having second thoughts. No, he said, it wasn't that; it was that he didn't like kissing smokers. Damn. I asked him if my taking a swig of his toothpaste would alleviate his concern; he thought that would do just fine.

We got to his place, I swallowed some toothpaste, and Dreadlocks Guy changed into track pants and a t-shirt. I more or less jumped him as soon as he sat beside me on his couch. "I'm feeling shy," he said. That worked for me. His lips tasted as good as they looked. Soon I had that t-shirt peeled off; his taut, slim and smooth chest took my breath away. I noticed a long scar across his belly, licked all along that line.

After ten or so minutes of necking, Dreadlocks Guy finally said that the toothpaste had not done the trick, that my tobacco-taste was a problem. So we stopped kissing at that point.

Soon I had his long, not-so-thick dick at the back of my throat. Another dark scar on his lower abdomen. Dreadlocks Guy was really into feeding his cock to me. Shirtless, I perched on the edge of his couch as he stood in front of me; a steady stream of gob dribbled off my chin, staining the crotch of my own jeans. That warm moist sensation turned me on all the more.

But something wasn't connecting; I'd been right, I guess. Our scene was staged, like a porn video. Dreadlocks Guy was restrained, passionless. But he was also beautiful, and his dick was a perfect fit for the back of my throat. After probably 45 minutes of deep throating him on his couch, I jerked him off. He splat all over my face. I ripped open my jeans, holding his cock in my other hand while I made quick work of achieving my own explosion. Yowsa.

He brought toilet paper and a wet cloth to wipe up. I'd shot all over his couch and the wall; thankfully, he appeared not to be concerned.

A polite good-bye. A hug. At 2 am, I wandered off back into the night. A block from Alex's apartment, a cute Asian boy was walking the opposite direction, across the street. We cruised each other. Twice. Just outside Alex's apartment, an older fellow was staggering along, clearly drunk. He stopped as I walked by. "Hello mister," he simpered, "How are you tonight?"

What I said was "I'm fine, thanks".

As I walked up to Alex's apartment building, what I thought was "I am fine". I thought about inexactnesses. And loneliness. And mischief. And friendliness. And boundaries. And touch. And releases. And privacies. And love.

I thought about what I'm into.

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