Saturday, Jan. 10, 2004 - 5:16 p.m.
Long Time No See

Here's what happened in late November 2002, shortly after I shut down Queer Scribbles:

This happened Wednesday.

Oh my fucking God! I cannot believe this finally happened. One of my few remaining unfulfilled sexual fantasies was to pick some guy up at the gym and bring him back to my place, and now I can cross that off my list.

Oomph!

I noticed him as soon as I got in the shower room after my workout: big cute young guy who seemed to be noticing me. But as I’ve been doing way too much lately, I discounted what I saw; what would a humpy young guy want with an old fart like me?

I went into the sauna and when I came back he was still showering and still checking me out. I drank in his massive chest, a dark blue bruise just above one hip, a floppy uncircumcised cock, and the kind of big, muscled, bubble butt that defies gravity it juts out so far.

There were other guys showering, many of them younger and more attractive than I. But he seemed to have picked me.

Go figure.

When it was just us two remaining (in our separate corners) I started fondling myself, staring at him determinedly. He was more shy, but still interested. I realized I was somewhat bashful too: my dick didn’t get very hard. A few seconds later some guy walked in (and started chatting with him, actually) and I thought that would be that.

But no.

A minute after I left the shower room, he did too. He briefly cruised me and almost smiled as we toweled off standing a few feet apart.

“So, what did you do?” I asked, pointing to his bruise. Taken aback, he shyly said he'd taken a fall during a soccer game. "Is it really noticeable?" he asked. I wanted to reply "Um, it's not the first thing I noticed," but didn't push my luck. I then posed that banal locker room question—“Did you have a good workout?”—and he said yeah, he’d been working on his biceps tonight. That was pretty fucking obvious, let me tell ya.

I walked to my locker, thinking that would be that.

But no.

We cruised each other overtop the lockers, at opposite ends of the change room, and I decided to wait around and time my departure with his. We walked out the front door of the gym together; outside, he asked what I was up to. “Nothing I can’t put off for an hour or so,” came my reply, “Would you like to come over?”

He did.

His name is Dante, a 21 year old Italian guy. Oh my fucking God! Big puppy dog brown eyes, reddish-brunette, masculine demeanor and voice, and built like a brick shithouse. We both lit smokes as we walked the 2 blocks to my place. Dante told me he’s bisexual, “sort of” dating a girl right now, tends to meet guys the same way he met me, etc. “But not that many,” he hastened to add. Works as a bus boy at his uncle’s Italian restaurant.

Back at my place, he peeled off an olive green heavy sweater and sat on the couch with me in a tight white tee. I admitted to him that I was nervous. That didn’t last long. We made more small talk (surprisingly pleasant small talk, actually) and then I grabbed hold of his nearest bulging bicep.

Oh my fucking God...

I had such a good time. Dante was passionate and energetic, urgently so. And he was affectionate, in a brutish way; it’s been a long time since I’ve been so thoroughly caressed and man-handled.

He soon peeled his t-shirt off, and helped me out of mine. As we moved from the couch to the bedroom, his undone jeans shimmied down around massive calves; a few steps ahead of me, he yanked his dark brown boxers down, mooning me. I began to lose control. He stopped in the doorway, without turning around, reaching outstretched hands back to me. I grabbed hold. He pulled them around to his front, encircling him and resting them on the tent pitched there. I freed that pole, stroking it as I fell down on my knees, slowing my descent with tongue extended, tracing the spinal ridge that sloped out and down until I lapped the center nook of him. My arrival there, his exclamatory burst suggested, had not been expected.

He did seem to have some anxieties about STDs, not letting me suck his dick very long at any one time, and not going near mine with his mouth. But everything else was refreshingly—frenetically—reciprocal, and he was a great kisser. Dante seemed most to enjoy laying atop me, rubbing his huge body against mine while we necked. Oh yeah, and he also spanked me; so of course I returned the favor and perhaps got overly enthusiastic because eventually he had to ask me to desist.

After rolling around in bed for quite a while, Dante asked, “Would you like to hit the shower again?” I thought that was cute. So we did. A good time was had by all. He was so intent on mashing his big wet body into mine that my dick got sore from all the friction and I didn’t think I’d be able to cum. I knelt down, again, and buried my tongue in his sweet protuberant ass; as always happens with rimming in the shower, I soon began to drown from the water streaming down between his fabulous buttocks and into my gaping mouth. We tried a couple different positions to avoid the deluge, to no avail.

After he shot his load, I didn't think I'd bother battering my dick further to effect my own orgasm, but as I watched him wash off, as he reached over to the sink and helped himself to a swig of my toothpaste, and offered me some too, the optics and emotions of all that ignited me; it felt like a blood vessel was bursting in my dick as I came: the explosion actually hurt.

Dante hung around for half an hour or more afterwards. I liked that. We talked easily. When I learned he has a strong interest in history, especially ancient and military, I pulled a book off the shelf—a mint condition biographical dictionary of military history (which I'd been trying to sell on E-bay for aeons, without success)—and asked if he would like it. He was very excited about the book, to the point of almost ignoring me while he browsed through it. He was reading the entry about the Byzantine Empire, he told me; I admitted that, despite having a history degree from way back when, I couldn’t remember much about this epoch. “Is the Byzantine empire basically the same thing as the Ottoman?” I asked. Good-naturedly, Dante corrected me.

The fact that he would really enjoy the book and was so happy to get it was almost my favorite part of the encounter.

Post-orgasm, we were not touching as we chatted in the living room. I gave him my number, and as we kissed goodbye at the door, Dante again plunged his tongue all the way down my throat. Whether that means he will call or not, I don’t know, but it would be fabulous if he did. He’s a nice guy.

And if he doesn’t, the experience was absolutely delightful for what it was: just what I needed.

I feel aroused, grateful, and alive.

May it continue.

I heard from Dante again a few months later, early last winter sometime. We had another fascinating post-gym tryst, and an even better conversation. He stopped the sex right in the middle that time, said "Would it be okay if we just ended it here?" then admitted that gay sex felt good until he came, then the guilt ruined everything postorgasmically. It was such a good talk, and Dante told me all about the girls he wanted to date and his problems with premature ejaculation (which was why he barely ever let me get near his juicy cock). A sweet encounter.

Then over the next several months, every so often Dante would call me wanting to come right over but I always had something else (or someone else) on, and vice versa.

Since the assault, this pattern continued. I'd see Dante in the lockerroom at the gym and he'd be a bit distant, but friendly--then he'd call me a few days later but I wouldn't be available. Finally, we made it work out between Christmas and New Years: one night he phoned, and I gave him my new address and invited him over.

As I waited for him to arrive, I got tense. How much did I really know about this guy? Sure, I'd had him in my apartment twice before, but he was at about the same stage of accepting his homosexuality (or bisexuality) that Diego was. How did I know he wasn't planning to come over to kill me? As I always do now when I have a 'date', I emailed Joey Dante's phone number just to be on the safe side.

Dante stepped inside my apartment and hugged me. I was stiff and frightened of the embrace, almost shaking. Fuck, I thought, sex is fraught now. Where suppleness used to be, I'm tight, guarded. Nervously, I invited him in.

"Nice place. So why did you move?" he said, friendly.

I told him about the assault. Dante was blown away, sympathetic. We sat together on my couch, and he asked lots of questions, respectfully, sensitively. And I could tell right away that over the several months since his last visit he had come to terms with a lot inside himself. He talked about his sexual partners--men and women--and seemed to be a lot more accepting of everything.

I started to relax. My body began to trust. But my mind never really shut off for the rest of our evening together: I got that he was not a threat, but I felt devastated by how fearful I'd been at first. As we sat there chatting, I remembered how open I'd been to Dante the first two times--how open I was to Diego both nights--and I grieved for the loss of that curious vitality that used to infuse my sex life. I mean, worrying about whether a guy is dependable, trustworthy, etc. is enough: now all that takes a back seat to "Is he going to kill me?" I suppose it's understandable, but I'm sure looking forward to being on the other side of that.

So I didn't enjoy the sex nearly as much as I would have. And not nearly as much as Dante seemed to: my goodness, this young buck really gets into it!

I'm in an interesting place when it comes to self esteem. I don't derive the ego boost from sex that I used to. I mean, it's great that Dante is attracted to me, and what not, but my desirability is not the beginning and end of anything all that important.

At one point he was prodding his dick against my ass. "I'd like to get into that sometime," he said, sounding so self-assured and virile. "Either way, actually. You in me or me in you."

"Sounds hot," I said.

Dante suggested, again, that we adjourn to the shower to finish up so that's what we did. Because he's so big into prolonged body-rubbing and grinding, my dick was ready to fall off from all the friction; took me a long time to cum in the shower.

Moments after I came, as I was stepping out of the shower I slipped and fell. "Oh my god!" cried Dante. As I crashed down onto the side of the tub, almost pulling the Keith Haring shower curtain down with me, I relived my collapse to the kitchen floor when Diego was stabbing me. But the body memory was just that; a memory.

This has nothing to do with the present, I thought.

"Gosh," Dante exclaimed, helping me stand up. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," I said, smiling and glowing at the lad. "I'm going to be just fine."