talktooloose (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
talktooloose) wrote2003-03-28 01:44 pm
talktooloose) wrote2003-03-28 01:44 pm
Unanimous Socks
Yesterday, I had fairly
It was awfully weird.
For absolutely no good reason, I got on the free phone sex line yesterday while printing up copies of my book. I connected with a guy named Richie and told him I was on my way downtown to Fedex off the book packages. He gave me his cell number and said to call him when I was finished my business; he was going to sit in a cafe on Church Street and read his book until then.
This kind of random assignation is something I haven't done in (5 minute pause while I actually try to remember the answer to this one) four years (or two years depending on how I define the level of spontaneity -- was a meal or at least a coffee involved?). By the time I was biking over to meet him, I had decided not to go through with it. After talking to him on the way to the bathhouse, I decided not to go through with it.
So I went through with it.
Now, let me make it clear that he was awfully pretty and somewhat sympatico and (did I mention this?) awfully pretty. But he had no sense of humour. Okay? None! I'm not used to my quips going over someone's head. I'm used to groans and threats, but not to incomprehension. It wasn't lack of intelligence, I don't think. Just a generalized BLAH.
Anyway, we went to Club Toronto where he seemed to know the staff very well. Let me pause and say what a great bathhouse this is! It's in an old four-story Victorian mansion that is as close to a New Orleans cat-house as I've ever seen.
So, humourless boy has gorgeous eyes, a fabulous body, luscious dark skin (Indian Trinidadian) and is totally smitten with me, balding, paunchy and all. In the first throes of body contact, I'm totally responding and completely beyond quipping so everything's fine. But it doesn't take long for things to start going wrong.
First of all, I'm really exhausted and stressed out (see previous post) and annoyed with myself for not lying low somewhere with a book or sleeping the afternoon away. Secondly, he keeps telling me -- over and over -- how much he digs me and how he could really go for a guy like me, with intimations of our future assignations and even life together. This is three minutes into sex, okay?
But it gets worse. Not only am I being cast in the role of his ideal and forever man, but I'm going to be dressed in leather and made into his daddy. And I'm going to feed him all my hot cum and piss on an ongoing basis. To be clear, I have absolutely no trouble with his leather fantasies -- I share some of them. What I'm having trouble with is the sense that he is not responding to me, but to some fantasy he is projecting onto me. As the demands grow for uncontracted increased production of daddy cum, my unionized cock begins a series of rotating work stoppages.
Sex continues hot and cold for more than hour and I finally call it off because dinner is waiting for me at home.
I don't want to be unfair. I had some fun and the image I saw in the mirror of my pale arms wrapped around his stunning brown back is burned into my memory as is the haunting sadness of his eyes. I feel cruel and annoyed that I have been cast in the role of the roving, uncaring lothario; but I never said I was looking for more than casual sex and neither did he.
I have his phone number. I'm supposed to call. I don't want to. I don't think I'd enjoy spending time with him as a friend and I don't want a fuck-buddy who is insincere about what he really wants.
But it all kind of sucks, y'know? Good sex means dropping barriers and caring for a person, even if it's only for a few hours, but I found myself having to keep my guard up which ruined the whole thin. He was going to stay in the room for a while after I left and, as I was going I said, "Are you okay? You look so sad". He said it was because I was leaving. Fuck, man! You don't even know me! You certainly didn't seem interested in anything I said about myself! Who's using who?
It was awfully weird.
For absolutely no good reason, I got on the free phone sex line yesterday while printing up copies of my book. I connected with a guy named Richie and told him I was on my way downtown to Fedex off the book packages. He gave me his cell number and said to call him when I was finished my business; he was going to sit in a cafe on Church Street and read his book until then.
This kind of random assignation is something I haven't done in (5 minute pause while I actually try to remember the answer to this one) four years (or two years depending on how I define the level of spontaneity -- was a meal or at least a coffee involved?). By the time I was biking over to meet him, I had decided not to go through with it. After talking to him on the way to the bathhouse, I decided not to go through with it.
So I went through with it.
Now, let me make it clear that he was awfully pretty and somewhat sympatico and (did I mention this?) awfully pretty. But he had no sense of humour. Okay? None! I'm not used to my quips going over someone's head. I'm used to groans and threats, but not to incomprehension. It wasn't lack of intelligence, I don't think. Just a generalized BLAH.
Anyway, we went to Club Toronto where he seemed to know the staff very well. Let me pause and say what a great bathhouse this is! It's in an old four-story Victorian mansion that is as close to a New Orleans cat-house as I've ever seen.
So, humourless boy has gorgeous eyes, a fabulous body, luscious dark skin (Indian Trinidadian) and is totally smitten with me, balding, paunchy and all. In the first throes of body contact, I'm totally responding and completely beyond quipping so everything's fine. But it doesn't take long for things to start going wrong.
First of all, I'm really exhausted and stressed out (see previous post) and annoyed with myself for not lying low somewhere with a book or sleeping the afternoon away. Secondly, he keeps telling me -- over and over -- how much he digs me and how he could really go for a guy like me, with intimations of our future assignations and even life together. This is three minutes into sex, okay?
But it gets worse. Not only am I being cast in the role of his ideal and forever man, but I'm going to be dressed in leather and made into his daddy. And I'm going to feed him all my hot cum and piss on an ongoing basis. To be clear, I have absolutely no trouble with his leather fantasies -- I share some of them. What I'm having trouble with is the sense that he is not responding to me, but to some fantasy he is projecting onto me. As the demands grow for uncontracted increased production of daddy cum, my unionized cock begins a series of rotating work stoppages.
Sex continues hot and cold for more than hour and I finally call it off because dinner is waiting for me at home.
I don't want to be unfair. I had some fun and the image I saw in the mirror of my pale arms wrapped around his stunning brown back is burned into my memory as is the haunting sadness of his eyes. I feel cruel and annoyed that I have been cast in the role of the roving, uncaring lothario; but I never said I was looking for more than casual sex and neither did he.
I have his phone number. I'm supposed to call. I don't want to. I don't think I'd enjoy spending time with him as a friend and I don't want a fuck-buddy who is insincere about what he really wants.
But it all kind of sucks, y'know? Good sex means dropping barriers and caring for a person, even if it's only for a few hours, but I found myself having to keep my guard up which ruined the whole thin. He was going to stay in the room for a while after I left and, as I was going I said, "Are you okay? You look so sad". He said it was because I was leaving. Fuck, man! You don't even know me! You certainly didn't seem interested in anything I said about myself! Who's using who?
An animus X