Everything started off nice and sweet. I fixed us some drinks before we sat down on the couch to do the whole chitchat thing. And chitchat quickly turned to lip-smack and, before I knew it, we were back in my bedroom and were naked as the day we were born. Sort of.”
“Sort of?” I asked.
“Well, Randall had some added features that I’m pretty sure he wasn’t born with. The tattoos were okay. I mean, that’s kind of sexy and everything, but he had both his nipples pierced with these two huge barbells.”
“Gross!” we all said together. (Remember, this was the mid-nineties; piercing was still fairly nouveau at the time. Not like today, where every Tom, Dick, and Mary has their dick, balls, butt, lip, nose, eyebrow, and bellybutton pierced. Back then, we were still squeamish about such things.)
“Gross is right. I mean, I had no idea what to do with them. Do you play with them or hang your shirt up on them or what? But, okay, I figured, let’s roll with it. He was just expressing himself or something, right? Plus, he looked and felt really hot, once I dimmed the lights and took my glasses off. Anyway, things were going well, lots of kissy-kissy and some sucky-sucky and licky-licky, but then he gave me this little punch on my chest. Okay, I can deal with that, I thought. No biggie. And then he did it again, but harder. I mean, look at me, y’all, I’m what, one hundred and forty pounds and just barely five seven. I’m meant for the gentle cycle, and he was rough and tumbling me.”
We all giggled and took healthy swigs of our drinks before he continued. “So, anyway, I decided to move my chest away from his fists and I swung my butt around for some sixty-nining instead. Big mistake. No sooner was my nice little rump in his face when he started slapping it, and hard, too.”
“So that’s what I heard last night,” Slim interjected, squeezing my knee. (Hmm. Things were starting to get interesting. Below the table, I mean.)
“Tu-huh. Sorry about that,” Tim replied. “Then I did the sensible thing and I removed my butt from his face and said, ‘Look, Honey, you’re no Chad Douglas, so would you please stop slapping my ass?’ (Chad who? I got that one later on when Sparkle showed me a video. Yikes!) Well, that stopped him, anyway, and he apologized and went back to some nice gentle rubbing and kissing.”
“But…?” Sparkle asked.
“Butt is right. Pretty soon I felt a finger creeping towards my love-hole (snickers all around). Now, I don’t mind telling you all that every now and again I like getting my butt plugged, and one little finger wasn’t going to stop the festivities, but one finger quickly led to two fingers, and when he started in on finger number three, well, let me tell you, cut, print, that was a wrap.”
“You asked him to stop?” asked I, taking mental notes should the same situation present itself to me in the hopefully near future. (Yes, that story is coming up, too. Don’t get your panties in a wad.)
“I asked him to leave,” Tim answered, emphatically. “Lord knows what else he had up his sleeve, and I for one was not going to find out. Needless to say, he wasn’t at all thrilled at the prospect, but quietly got up, got dressed, and got the hell on out. Phew !”
Now, a little side note on this whole story to show you just how strange and wonderful gay life is. See, Tim has stayed in the periphery of our lives for the past eight years, popping up at a party or a brunch or a chance run-in in the streets or a bar, and let me tell you, the vanilla Tim you just met has blossomed into a man of many colors. (Hanky colors that is.)
In fact, soon after that brunch, we ran into Tim at The Eagle for their beer bust, and he was wearing jeans and a leather vest. Nothing strange there; it was The Eagle, after all. But September rolled around and we ran into him again at the Folsom Street Fair (The biggest leather street fair you’ve ever seen. You should make it a point to
“Sort of?” I asked.
“Well, Randall had some added features that I’m pretty sure he wasn’t born with. The tattoos were okay. I mean, that’s kind of sexy and everything, but he had both his nipples pierced with these two huge barbells.”
“Gross!” we all said together. (Remember, this was the mid-nineties; piercing was still fairly nouveau at the time. Not like today, where every Tom, Dick, and Mary has their dick, balls, butt, lip, nose, eyebrow, and bellybutton pierced. Back then, we were still squeamish about such things.)
“Gross is right. I mean, I had no idea what to do with them. Do you play with them or hang your shirt up on them or what? But, okay, I figured, let’s roll with it. He was just expressing himself or something, right? Plus, he looked and felt really hot, once I dimmed the lights and took my glasses off. Anyway, things were going well, lots of kissy-kissy and some sucky-sucky and licky-licky, but then he gave me this little punch on my chest. Okay, I can deal with that, I thought. No biggie. And then he did it again, but harder. I mean, look at me, y’all, I’m what, one hundred and forty pounds and just barely five seven. I’m meant for the gentle cycle, and he was rough and tumbling me.”
We all giggled and took healthy swigs of our drinks before he continued. “So, anyway, I decided to move my chest away from his fists and I swung my butt around for some sixty-nining instead. Big mistake. No sooner was my nice little rump in his face when he started slapping it, and hard, too.”
“So that’s what I heard last night,” Slim interjected, squeezing my knee. (Hmm. Things were starting to get interesting. Below the table, I mean.)
“Tu-huh. Sorry about that,” Tim replied. “Then I did the sensible thing and I removed my butt from his face and said, ‘Look, Honey, you’re no Chad Douglas, so would you please stop slapping my ass?’ (Chad who? I got that one later on when Sparkle showed me a video. Yikes!) Well, that stopped him, anyway, and he apologized and went back to some nice gentle rubbing and kissing.”
“But…?” Sparkle asked.
“Butt is right. Pretty soon I felt a finger creeping towards my love-hole (snickers all around). Now, I don’t mind telling you all that every now and again I like getting my butt plugged, and one little finger wasn’t going to stop the festivities, but one finger quickly led to two fingers, and when he started in on finger number three, well, let me tell you, cut, print, that was a wrap.”
“You asked him to stop?” asked I, taking mental notes should the same situation present itself to me in the hopefully near future. (Yes, that story is coming up, too. Don’t get your panties in a wad.)
“I asked him to leave,” Tim answered, emphatically. “Lord knows what else he had up his sleeve, and I for one was not going to find out. Needless to say, he wasn’t at all thrilled at the prospect, but quietly got up, got dressed, and got the hell on out. Phew !”
Now, a little side note on this whole story to show you just how strange and wonderful gay life is. See, Tim has stayed in the periphery of our lives for the past eight years, popping up at a party or a brunch or a chance run-in in the streets or a bar, and let me tell you, the vanilla Tim you just met has blossomed into a man of many colors. (Hanky colors that is.)
In fact, soon after that brunch, we ran into Tim at The Eagle for their beer bust, and he was wearing jeans and a leather vest. Nothing strange there; it was The Eagle, after all. But September rolled around and we ran into him again at the Folsom Street Fair (The biggest leather street fair you’ve ever seen. You should make it a point to
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