Wednesday, Feb. 18, 2004 - 3:23 p.m.
Coming Back, For More

So yeah, Dante called me at 6 pm last night just as I was leaving work, wondering if I was free. We made arrangements to meet at my place between 8 and 8:30, after my workout.

I was a bit grouchy about my shoulder problems flaring up by the time I got back to my place, and almost hoped he'd have called to cancel. But there Dante was waiting outside my building. I'd phoned Joey moments before to alert him to this impromptu date; the last time Dante and I got together I was unnerved having him in my apartment because I hadn't seen him in so long, and because he is only at the early stages of coming to terms with his sexuality; the fact that he's such a big guy made me doubly nervous that if he were to attack me I'd be a goner.

And you know, I have no words for expressing how miserable I feel about having to size up each and every sexual partner as a possible attacker.

Dante came up to my apartment with me, apologizing for arriving early. He nods his head and darts his big hazel eyes, up and off to the right, a lot when we're talking. It's cute. He was wearing baggy jeans and a black sweatshirt. Buzzed haircut made him look a little heavier.

He started browsing through my collection of homoerotic art and photography books, which he'd done once before on an earlier visit. That time, he'd been reflective and appreciative; last night, Dante was much more like a typical horny 22 year old. Flipping through George Platt Lynes, he said "Oh, these are really old pictures, eh?" Speedng through Mapplethorpe, he closed the book after a few seconds. "Don't you have any books that show guys actually doing stuff with each other?"

Grinning, I searched my memory, and had to tell him no, that the fucking and sucking content of my picture book collection was, alas, minimal.

I sat there on the couch with this hunky, bisexual--did he still consider himself bisexual?--lad, marveling at how much more comfortable he's become around me. We chatted about our work, about books--Dante is currently reading Hey Dude, Where's My Country--and especially about sex. He soon asked if I had any porn movies. I did, and it took me a while to find the unmarked videotapes buried at the back of my entertainment unit. Dante agreed with me, that the seduction prologues are the most erotic parts; I couldn't find a William Higgins video to show him how sizzlingly well that could be done. All the porn I found was garden variety fuck-and-suck action. I left one on as we continued chatting.

And I wondered, is that all this is? Does he want to have sex with me or what? I remembered how offended I used to get when a sexual partner would request porn as a visual adjunct. It's still not my thing, but it doesn't offend me anymore. We watched a black guy fuck another black guy, and I realized that I wasn't even focusing on the tv screen; rather, I was staring and thinking and relaxing and wondering what was going to happen next. I didn't feel all that sexual, actually; I'd have been satisfied visiting platonically with Dante for the evening.

Meanwhile, Dante didn't seem all that interested in the porn video either. What transpired onscreen he used as segues to talk more openly about sex. Sex in general, and sex with me.

I liked where the conversation was going.

"You and I haven't done that yet," he said, pointing at the fucking scene.

"Yeah," I said. "You mentioned that last time."

"I'd like to get into that with you."

"Cool," I said, "and are you more a top or bottom?" Dante wasn't familiar with the terminology but once I explained the lexical ins and outs, he not surprisingly acknowledged a topping preference. I talked about being more comfortable topping until I knew someone better, at which point if the energy was right I was an enthusiastic bottom. I also made clear that I'm not all that much into anal sex, period. (A bit obvious, I suppose, considering I've been having sex with the guy for about a year and a half and it had never come up.)

The nubile nubian fucking continued, near-ignored by us. I sank into what was happening. How delicious to have accidentally cultivated this: a comfortable quickening zone of sex and dialogue. Where anything might happen.

"Have you ever had a threesome?" Dante next wanted to know. He laughed when I said "Oh yeah, lots." It took him a while to acknowledge that he was interested in having one with me, but of course that's what motivated his query. Funny, it was only Sunday that Nate expressed a similar interest.

We'll see about that. We'll just see.

Dante asked me how I was doing with everything related to the assault. What a sweet guy. I told him that his last visit had helped me move through some of the anxiety I had about having men in my apartment. But I can't have guys I don't know back to my place for sex anymore; I don't suppose anyone should do that.

The conversation was sailing right along when all of a sudden--surprise surprise, Dante unzipped his fly. I reached over and squeezed his gigantic bicep. His open mouth landed on mine.

Oh boy.

"Do you want to fuck me?" he asked later, us entangled and nearly-naked on the couch.

"Do you want me to?" I asked.

"That's not what I asked," he said, horny and stern sounding. "Do you want to fuck me?"

"Sure," I said, So we tried. I was pleased that Dante paid not the slightest bit of attention to the ongoing porno, but he did not want to adjourn to the bedroom. So I donned a condom, lubed us up and tried to find a position on the couch for sore-shouldered, pushing-40 me to enter football-jock-sized, spread-eagled him.

We never quite made that happen, things didn't seem to line up, and to be honest I lost interest after a while. My shoulder was really starting to bother me, it was after 10 pm, I was tired, and I needed to get to sleep.

We adjourned to the bedroom, I lit a candle, and we shed our few remaining clothes. Dante looked stunning; I complimented him, and his voice got all vulnerable and intense as he expressed his attraction to me.

How could someone so hunky, masculine and young be so turned on by me, my mind asked. I noticed that this was merely an intellectual query. How things have changed, and for the better. I seem to have lost a lot of those emotional hang-ups about being attractive. Nothing like nearly being murdered to dispel a a few neuroses here and there.

I tactfully announced that we needed to finish up soon so I could sleep. Dante crawled on top of me, crushing me with his big bones and oozing boner. Kissing and rubbing himself atop me, hands roving everywhere. "I can tell it's going to feel amazing having you inside me sometime," I panted, my butt twitching.

As he always does, Dante kept stopping himself when the friction brought him close. Looking into his eyes as he hoisted himself above me, I finally said "I'd like you to come all over me."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh yes!"

Ten seconds and a few gentle grindings later, and he exploded. Just from rubbing his crotch against mine. I don't think I've ever had a guy come that way before. "I've only ever seen that in porno movies," I said, deliriously. Woosey with the scent of his spurt, I jerked off as he knelt over me. Eye-licking at his arms, his pale hairy oh-so-fucking broad chest. Later--it was taking some time for me to cum--I asked him to lie down and kiss me while I finished.

Before I got there, Dante made some gagging noises and started grimacing. I asked what was wrong, and he said that the smell of his cum was making him sick. Teasing him about our diametrically-opposed olfactory reactions, I had him grab me a towel and wiped my belly and chest off. I made him laugh when I said, "There's gonna be a whole bunch more to wipe up in about ten seconds!"

And I was right.

He left soon after, and I crawled into my cum-spattered bed, cigarette in hand. Glowing about a boy I probably won't see again for a while, and don't need to. A boy who is starting to matter.