Thursday, Jan. 31, 2002 - 10:34 p.m.
Memory and Absorbency

Saturday night I rented a locker at the tubs, even though I could have afforded a room. (On weekends, a room goes for $22, a locker for $15). This particular consumer choice made me think: why don’t I want the space and privacy where full-fledged sex could happen?

And I realized, somewhat curiously, that full-fledged sex was not what I wanted that night. Lately, I’m not usually looking for that at a bathhouse, at least not specifically. So what am I looking for?

What I was looking for, I eventually found: out-of-the-ordinary, interesting thrills.

The first one happened—surprise, surprise—in the sauna. When I walked in, there were two available spots to sit: beside an acquaintance of mine—a nice enough fellow (we’d acknowledged each other earlier in the jacuzzi), older, not my type but kind of erotically interesting nonetheless—with whom I did not wish to have sex, or beside another late 30s/early 40s guy who was wagging his hard-on at everyone in the room.

I didn’t think I wanted to have sex with that guy either, but I chose the latter spot to sit.

Once I sat down, I stole glances at the guy beside me. He was kind of cute; baby-fatted chest, boyish yet slack face, and a lovely big dick. But no, I didn’t think I wanted to do anything with him—particularly not in front of my acquaintance seated across the way, who just then became recipient of a blowjob from an attractive young dyed-blond dude.

So I just sat there, curious about what might happen next.

What happened next was more than a little surprising. All of a sudden, I heard a guttural, sexy-sounding noise come out of the baby-fatted, big-dicked fellow beside me. Now that turned me on; the noise reminded me of some of the ones I can’t help myself from making during sex. I looked at him again, reappraising him in light of that dick-hardening grunt.

I couldn’t believe it: he appeared to be asleep!

No longer was he wagging that big dick around; it was tucked back under the towel carelessly draped over his lap. His eyes were closed; his head drooped down to his chest.

Did he just die? I wondered. Was that what that noise was about?

But no; I watched his chest rise and fall. That was a good thing. Next I thought he must be drunk or something; why else would one fall asleep surrounded by naked horny men, for heaven’s sakes?

As I watched, Mr. Baby Fat gradually began keeling over in my direction. Extremely gradually. There were perhaps 15 or 20 inches between us; as his leaning shoulder drew nearer, my sprouting erection caught me off guard.

And then I remembered. A flashback. All those sex games I played as a pre-teen, during sleepovers with friends. Pretending to be asleep; pretending to “do things” in my sleep; pushing the scenario as far as I possibly could.

In particular, that first—and most memorable—time.

I was about 8 or 9; one of my classmates—let’s call him James—had a birthday party. Myself and two other buddies—Scott and Howie—were the invitees. Late that night, the four of us in James’s room—after several increasingly stern orders from his Mom that it was time to stop talking and go to sleep, I pretended to do just that. Eyes shut tight, I listened to my friends’ high-pitched, whispering voices and began to devise a plan without knowing—or at least naming--its objective.

Soon, little eight or nine year old me began to murmur. Unintelligibly, at first. My sleep-talk hushed Howie and Scott and James right up; soft giggles replaced their chatter.

“What’s he saying?”

“Shut up; listen!”

And I sleep-said, “Mommy.”

Their giggles intensified.

“Mommy,” I continued, plaintively, “take my shirt off.”

Hysterical now, their laughter screeched up an octave or two. Howie dared Scott to do it. Scott dared James to do it. James eventually did do it, removing my pajama top.

“Mommy,” I went on.

Within minutes, I’d succeeded in sleeptalking my pals into stripping me to the bone—or maybe even the boner, but I don’t recall popping one. (I doubt I even sensed much about those workings of my little boy’s body.) There I was, “sleeping” naked, surrounded by boys who could barely contain their glee.

Not only that, but they thought it would be oh-so-funny to hide my P.J.’s in James’s sister Carol’s bedroom across the hall. Oh, did they giggle when they’d done that.

“What should we do now?” one boy asked the others.

And I distinctly remember—good lord, we’re talking almost 30 years later!—that it was Scott who replied, “I know what! James, where’s your flashlight? Let’s study it! Let’s study his bum!”

Excited but also a bit freaked out, not knowing what kind of “study” this might turn into, through my closed eyelids I saw the red glow of the flashlight. Gingerly, they rolled me on my side and someone parted my buttcheeks. I felt the light’s heat, up close and personal, there.

Whatever it was they learned from this research, my friends did not verbalize it. But I was all too happy to provide such a specimen, my asshole twitching in birth of new pleasure.

Then bossy Scott had another idea. “Let’s stick toilet paper up his bum!” As was his wont—then and for the next decade of our school life together—Scott had all the bright ideas but managed to delegate their implementation. He convinced the birthday boy to do the dirty deed. Now this game was definitely moving into foreign territory. As James worked a wad of toilet paper up my virgin hole, I made all the noises and all the wriggles that I presumed a sleeping young lad might make during such a procedure; by this point, Scott and Howie were nearly hoarse with laughter.

My butt was undeniably spasming at these new and exquisite sensations, but I decided it was time to “wake up”. My awakening was an Oscar-worthy performance. “Wha-wha-what’s going on?” I exclaimed, sleepily. “Where are my clothes?”

My friends were hooting and hollering; they told me I’d been talking in my sleep. “You were calling for ‘Mommy’ and you wanted her to take your jammies off. That’s why you’re naked – ha ha ha!”

At that precise moment—before I could feign sudden awareness of tissue paper jammed up my ass—the light in James’s room flipped on and in walked his Mom. “You boys! It’s late! Get to sleep!”

I stood up quickly, holding my sleeping bag in front of me. We four boys were guiltily silent. James began sneaking around behind his mother and out into the hall.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked him.

“Into Carol’s room,” came James’s meek reply. “Um, I have to get [QS’s] clothes.”

I’ll never forget the strange look she gave us all. Without a word, she let her son pass through. Ten seconds later, he returned from across the hall with my pajamas. I stood there, stupidly holding onto the sleeping bag for dear life and not knowing what to do. I was most relieved when she exited the room a few seconds later.

Mnemonic woody spasming beneath soggy towel, I watched Mr. Baby Fat tilt further towards me. Soon our shoulders were touching. I didn’t know if he was pretending or not. I glanced over at my acquaintance across the way; he and his blond boy were still going at it. A couple other guys had wandered into the sauna and were staring at me and Mr. Baby Fat, no doubt wondering what the heck was going on. His head now rested in the crook of my neck; his breath was slow and loud, pseudo-snoring.

And then he licked my neck. Aha! At first I pretended not to notice, just sat there impassively. His licks became urgent. I’d been in the sauna long enough by this point that his wet tongue felt thrillingly cool on my skin.

My curiosity got the best of me. I wondered if he was drunk, and there was only one way to find out. I looked into his eyes for the first time, leaned over and took a kiss. His mouth opened wide. While I found not the slightest taste of booze there, what I did partake was most pleasing. Yum.

We necked up a storm. And it was the strangest thing: that’s all we did. Our hands barely caressed; certainly, neither of us grabbed for the other’s crotch. That I did not want to play with his big dick fascinated me; I wanted to kiss him, and nothing more.

After ten or so minutes of such congress, I was ready to leave. “It’s too hot in here,” I said, ever the diplomat. He asked if I had a room; I said no. “We should rent one,” Mr. Baby Fat said, enthusiastically.

“Thanks for an interesting time,” I whispered as I stood up. “I’m gonna go.”

And with that, I re-tied the towel around my spasming loins and wandered off.

***

Much later, I noticed a balding dark-haired guy. He looked like a young Hamid Karzai.

Yum, I thought. We both did a double-take, kept walking. That happened a few times. Finally, “Hamid” circled back and came up to me in the corridor. We greeted each other, and I immediately heard an accent I couldn’t place. At the socially appropriate time, I asked about his ethnic background. No, Hamid wasn’t Afghan, but my geography wasn’t far off.

His deep brown eyes made me swoon. He asked me if I had a room. He didn’t either. Hamid had just arrived, after a night out at one of the clubs. I noticed him checking out each and every guy who walked by as we chatted. There was something about his energy, the way he looked at me and the way he looked at all these other guys that made me like him right off the bat. Meanwhile, I couldn’t keep my eyes off his big sparsely-haired chest and muscled arms. Soon I was fondling him as we chatted. He liked that, and returned the favor.

At that point, I suggested we adjourn to the darkroom where we could find some semi-privacy at least. Laughing, Hamid said he wouldn’t be able to relax and get into sex without utter privacy. He’d come to the bathhouse with a friend, he said, who was currently busy in the room they had rented together; perhaps I could wait until it was free?

The prospect was tempting. But I could feel myself fading; I squeezed Hamid’s massive pecs, leaned in and took a kiss, and said goodnight.

But then I couldn’t quite bring myself to leave, so I wandered around a bit longer and made one last stop in the sauna. There were two guys in there, sitting in solitude: Hamid, and one other fellow. I greeted Hamid and sat down across from him, noticing with pleasure that he had removed his towel. A few moments later, the other guy left.

Alone at last.

I began to play footsy with him. He smiled, bashfully. Emboldened, I leaned over and whispered, “Can I have a taste before someone else comes in?”

A bemused look on his face, he nodded.

Yum.

A few tasty slurps later, and I again bade him goodnight. And this time I meant it; as the back of my throat craved more of Hamid, I dressed and headed off home.

It was around 2 am when I got back to my empty apartment. I was wide awake; I knew that was mostly because I had not cum.

And as an experiment, I refrained from jerking off. As you will read in an imminent entry, my next orgasm was not until three nights later.

Desire is not always to be made peace with, expelled; some thrills are meant to be absorbed.