2001-08-09 - 11:10 p.m.
Cleanliness

Cleanliness

A Piece On The Furniture

Whenever I move, it seems that some embarrassment of a decidedly erotic nature comes to light. Long-time readers will be familiar with the renowned “mother of all dildo stories”. For this move, so far nothing untoward has surfaced. But there’s still 3 weeks to go, eh?

Yesterday and today Mom and Dad were scurrying around helping me get organized. What would I do without them?

In order to tell these two related anecdotes, I guess it’s time to introduce you all to my sofabeds. Yes sir, I have two, both acquired during my six years in Toronto. The first one was left by a previous tenant when I helped a friend move into a new apartment; it just so happened that my roommate Charlie and I needed a couch. Later, the second fold-out couch was given to me by a friend of my lover Mark’s; I used it as my bed for the last few years in Toronto.

You may be surprised to hear that this latter hide-a-bed was by the far the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept on. I actually missed it when I got myself a “real” bed a couple years ago, and I intend to ditch that posturepedic and revert back to the comfy pull-out.

Both couches were in bad shape but I had them nicely reupholstered in Toronto and they look great.

I was intending to sell the first hide-a-bed before I move, thinking I’d only be able to afford a bachelor apartment and wouldn’t have room for it. But now that I’ve got a swanky large pad, I’m taking it along too.

I am selling a bunch of stuff, though. Including a big comfy Ikea chair. It and the “first” sofabed are downstairs in J.C.’s suite (he doesn’t have any furniture of his own) and I wanted to get both items steam-cleaned along with the funky area rug up here in my living room. So Mom and Dad took over that project today, renting the machine from a nearby drycleaners.

I’m also selling the posturepedic bed. Last night Matt and Trevor were over to help load up Dad’s truck with some furniture and books I’m not taking with me. We sat around eating pizza after, and Mom made the following unfortunate comment: “Well, the bed’s in excellent condition. It’s hardly been used, you know.”

There was a pause. I must have been tired, because I didn’t clue in right away. Grinning first at me then Mom, Trevor piped up: “Excuse me?”

Mom chortled. “Well, before my son got a hold of it, I mean. The bed hadn’t seen much action up till then.”

(Oh and hey, while I’m thinking of it: does anybody know how to get candle wax off a wood mantel? Queerscribe really really really needs all of his $800 damage deposit back, eh?)

So anyway, just before Mom had a go at the area rug, she was inspecting the second sofabed (the one I’m dying to start sleeping in again), wondering if it should be cleaned too.

“It looks pretty good to me,” she said, her eyes roving over the upholstery like a hawk. “Oh, wait: what’s this? Hmm, there are a few white spots all over this side. What would that be? Looks like milk or something.”

Yeah, Mom, that’s it. Milk.

And then after she’d steam-cleaned the sofabed downstairs, Mom had this to say: “Geez, that couch was filthy compared to the last time I saw it before J.C. moved in down there.”

“Oh?” I said. “Well, he does tend to lounge on it half-naked all the time. I suppose that’s why.”

Thinking to myself, Damn, what was I thinking, having that couch cleaned? In J.C.’s imminent absence, the lingering sweaty spice of him would have been heavenly.

Showering, Me

I enjoyed my stay at the YMCA last weekend, but not quite as much as last time. For one, my room faced the busy street and the traffic kept me awake. Secondly, my room was directly across the hall from the heavy metal door guests have to unlock to get into the residence; late at night, few were courteous enough to shut it gently and I got woken up a lot.

Nonetheless, the facility was as cruisy as ever. I want to share two shower anecdotes tonight, and will save the rest of my adventures for another time.

Friday morning I was up and in the shower by 7 am. An ungodly hour, but I was hell-bent on finding an apartment that day.

I don’t know if I explained before how the showers work on the residence floors. It’s an open area off to the side of the men’s washroom. There are curtains which square off around each of the four nozzles there; it’s your choice whether or not to draw them.

Let’s just say the space reeks of sexual opportunity.

That morning I was in there alone. And no, I chose not to draw the curtains. Somebody has to walk right into the shower area to peek at you, and sure enough after a couple minutes some older guy traipsed in. He wasn’t bad looking, but he immediately turned me off, the way he leered at me for about 60 seconds. I ignored him and eventually he disappeared

Next thing I know, he wandered in naked and occupied the stall right beside mine. The curtain between us was drawn; I continued on with my shower and hoped that would be the end of that.

But no.

Within sixty seconds, I noticed that his bare feet were over on my side of the sopping shower curtain, pointed right at me! I could make out the outline of him facing me right up against the curtain as he whacked off, the head of his dick poking at the wet fabric.

Sheesh. I wasn’t the slightest bit turned on. Not only am I not usually a morning person (read on; you will see that there are exceptions to every rule) but I found his behavior inappropriate. He was invading my space when I’d given him absolutely no indication of interest.

In those few moments before I hurriedly finished up my shower and left, I felt, strangely, like I imagined an open-minded straight guy would in that situation. Like, c’mon, asshole!

Now let’s move on to the happier story.

The next morning I was in the same shower stall when in wandered this luscious young Asian man. Oh my fucking god, he was so gorgeous! Short and smiley, nice dick, incredible ass, perfectly smooth and muscled body. Wow.

He went into the same stall the “dirty old man” had been in the morning before; again, the curtain was drawn between us. But the next thing I know he walked around into the center of the shower room, smiled at me. By this time I’d already sprouted a semi-hard-on. I hadn’t manipulated it into being, mind you; it just sort of happened. (Remember, I’m not usually a morning person.)

He checked me out; I did the same. Funny, he too had an erection blooming.

“Excuse me,” he said, smiling and stealing more peeks at my bloom. “I can’t seem to get my shower working. Can you help me?”

Yours truly was all too happy to oblige. My dick throbbing, I wandered into his stall and got the shower going. “Gee, I feel stupid now,” he said, blushing and smiling.

It was a pornographic moment, that. I’d have needed to make only the slightest of passes, probably, and we’d have been off to the races.

And it was delicious to just leave it—that curious, childlike sizzle between us—at that. We finished our showers at the same time, chatted a bit as we toweled off. Turns out he was just visiting the big city for the weekend too, from another city in the same province I currently live in. “Ah, so you’re here for Pride then?” I asked. He was. (It was Gay Pride weekend.)

I saw him several more times over the weekend, at the Y and out in the gay ghetto. We’d always smile and wave, and had a few more brief chats. I fantasized about running into him in the shower again, or in the residence hallway late at night, inviting him back to my room. That didn’t happen.

I had a fair amount of sex last weekend; this encounter, however, stands out as the most erotic experience of the entire trip. I’ve jerked off a, um, handful of times since, thinking about it. (Get it? "Handful"?)

Sometimes the artlessness of a near-miss can be its own succulent reward.

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