Okay, my sexual hiatus is coming to a close as work will, again, darken my doorstep on Monday, when I can look forward to the return of the 11 hour day (and, our parents wanted us to go to college so that we could have easier lives: what bullshit that ended up being. Frankly, if I could make the mortgage I'd rather work in a factory: at least my work would be done at the end of the shift, but then I digress.)
Last Friday was a disturbing interlude. I was invited to join a guy who sounded sane and normal in a blue collar suburb to the north (I hate to be elitist, but that should have been a clue. I've been there before --now that I think of it, also on a Friday --and that experience was creepy bordering on weird.) Anyway, in this case this dude sends me a hot looking pic, sounds hot, and sounds aokay. The email dialog didn't reveal any red flags; it was reassuring and exciting, actually. I get to his sad, but interesting, little house and then things were...odd.
The microscopic house has an unfortunate location immediately off two immensely busy streets and there is absolutely no on street parking. Normally I prefer to park on the dude's street rather than in his driveway. Then I can take my time: get condoms and lube out of my trunk, walk up the street, and check out the environs. In this case I had to park immediately behind his car, which looked like it hadn't been moved in a while; though you could nearly throw a stone at the nearby BART station/I wouldn't drive either, not with a Safeway across the street (though, I consider Safeway only fit for canned goods and emergencies, but that is a another discussion...) The house has the absolutely worst paint job I've ever seen: school bus yellow that looks like it was first diluted and then thrown on the house. My radar was flashing: WARNING; WARNING; WARNING!!! I knocked on the door; the dude had indicated he was at Safeway 20 minutes earlier when I emailed him and said he'd be home by 12:15. It was about 12:12 and I was aggravated to be standing there, fully exposed to God and everybody waiting for him.
I knocked again, more vigorously. Standing there, considering the contrast between the vibe I'd gotten from the emails and the environs, I was concluding that I was an asshole and should just drive home. But, having overcome my inertia to drive up to this sad suburb I was stubborn and stood there thinking, I'll give it 10 more. Bored I noticed he had mail: shamelessly I looked at the addressee and noted it wasn't a Latino name (actually quite WASP and he professed to be Latino. So okay, the guy is closeted, but why would a white guy profess to be Latino other than because of the large number of Latino folks in the neighborhood?) Ready to book, suddenly the door opened and a good looking, buff/muscular dude wrapped in a towel opened the door profusely apologizing saying he was attempting to clean up for me after the Safeway run (pal, we worked out the details last night. You couldn't clean out and shower before going to Safeway?) He invited me in and said to relax while he finished up. It is a small house and he spent a seeming eternity finishing up so I had ample time to prowl.
The living room furnishings were all Middle Eastern, and the kitchen table (more like a dining room table) was ersatz Chinese elegant. It was tidy enough, but the place screamed that it hadn't been painted inside in probably 20 years. The Middle Eastern stuff wasn't my taste but was of some quality; mixed with a crappy Ethan Allen roll top desk, and a cheap looking stand up piano. Atop the piano was an Easter card to the Mark whose mail was in the mailbox, from "Mom and Dad". Hmmm. Mail atop the ugly desk was also addressed to the same Mark. Okay, there was a consistent pattern.
When he finally emerged from the shower he ran to the spare bedroom (I glanced in/there was a couch that matched the mother of pearl inlaid chairs in the living room) as well as a huge amount of clutter (interestingly there were no computers, stereos, or televisions elsewhere, so presumably everything was in that room.) The door was quickly whisked shut. He sprinted to a room off the kitchen, which I assume had the dryer/washer and pulled out some sweat socks which he donned. Otherwise he was in a towel. Later when I asked him to lose the socks he indicated having scrapped his foot in the backyard: while I promised not to cum on that foot (joke) he kept one sock on/despite excellent shape otherwise his other toe nails were thick, yellowed, and conveyed poor health if not indifferent hygiene (despite all his shoes, lined up in the bedroom, of clear quality and vigorously polished...)
He invited me into the bedroom (micrscopic, and very tidy/Asian furniture/filthy walls screaming for paint) and we began to make out. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, defined abs, but definite crow's feet. While well preserved (and toned) this guy wasn't in his early 40s.
I remarked "oh you're Middle Eastern!" and he responded, that no he'd just spent time there/he was Latino. Now I know all Latinos aren't brown/I'd just fucked an ivory one. However, this guy gave no indication of being Latino from his appearance (very very very Caucasian) nor his furnishings. The one possible suggestion of Latino ethnicity was his uncut cock (which remained flaccid the entire time I was there.)
He was really into making out, really into sucking my dick, but there was nothing I could do to make his cock hard. But from the moans and groans he sounded content. I pushed him on to his stomach and decided to eat his ass: he was in heaven.
We alternated between him sucking my cock and my eating his ass (sucking his cock was pointless) and we took time to make out. I finally said "I need to ask you are you really named Mark?" He pulled back and said "oh, Mark .... he used to own this place, and they keep sending his mail here." Well I was thinking with my dick and wanted to fuck, but why would you keep an Easter card on your piano from a guy who didn't live there any longer? How would it get placed on your piano in the first place?
I made him lie flat and pushed into him; he was a great bottom. However, when we decided to move around and I eased out and my cock was brown (YUCK! And, what the hell were you doing in the bathroom all that time? You are gay and you don't know how to totally clean out? Fortunately it was clean when I ate him, but my cock did get pretty far up into him.) I took charge, jumped up and darted into his bathroom, washed my cock and pubes and brought a clean, wet, washcloth and cleaned his ass. His sheets were ivory white and fortunately he hadn't rolled left or right. After I cleaned him he sucked me some more and then I entered him again.
There were a couple of times I jumped up to wash off. Finally I went for the gold, pumping him and asking him if he wanted my load: he did and then some. His eyes bulged as my cum spewed into his ass. Yet, his cock remained flaccid.
I asked him if he wanted a second load as I was in a randy mood. He vigorously agreed but said he had to pee. Before he did I stood up and put my cock under his balls and we enjoyed some serious frottage while we made out; he insisted he could cum that way. I encouraged him to pee so that we could enjoy round two.
Well he disappeared in the bathroom for at least fifteen minutes (shiting out my load and what I'd loosened, I was guessing.) I'd earlier commented on the house (cute, loads of potential) and he indicated he'd gotten it on a foreclosure. So I had ample time to snoop some more, which I did because I was troubled by the lying bullshit. All the mail I found was to the same Mark (okay folks, it was there out for anyone to find) and then I found a blank folded check with Mark's name and a fomer address outside Oakland: this guy was clearly the Mark in question or had a partner named Mark with whom he shared this microscopic house. This guy claimed to have formerly lived in SF but worked in Oakland. Too much connected; too much was intentionally blurred. I was creeped out. I dressed and waited; and waited, and waited. Finally I knocked on the bathroom door and indicated I needed to leave (his absence in the bathroom was more than weird.) He checked the sad, cheap, grandfather clock in the living room and was surprised by how late it was.
I was disturbed by the experience: he was passionate, a great piece of ass, and responsive. But, unnecessarily squirrelly, which colored everything. When I returned home I employed my research skills, and while I refused to spend $40 to learn all his business I was able to deduce he was 55 not 40, that he'd owned an apartment in Emeryville (Oakland) before his former house, and that yes, he had bought a bank foreclosed property (it's called looking at real estate records, folks. They are on line.) I think I even figured out where he works, in fact.
Well, talk about buzz kill. So, I spent alot of time worrying about why he was such a liar (if poz, however, then he should worry about retribution and that really isn't a reason to be so incredibly duplicitous about your actual identity) or whether partnered (although there didn't appear evidence of anyone else, much less room for someone else's shit.) It was all unsettling.
However, rather than confronting him I wrote back to the fictional "Drew" (how many Latinos are named Drew?) and asked if he'd like an encore. He quickly responded yes. I figured I'd like to keep the door open should I later discover something else about him.
Well Friday and Saturdays are supposed to be his available days. I didn't hear jack from him, so I guess the next std test will be the ultimate barometer of the outcome. Let's just say, however, it was weird to the tenth power.
No comments:
Post a Comment