Lost on a One-Way Street
I’ll never have another erection again. Conceding that it’s only been four hours since my hard-on deflated, its rigid, ready-to-blow tumescence shattered by a sudden realization and a roll of toilet paper; maybe I’m being a little dramatic. But still, this isn’t just a case of blue balls. This is deeper, like a Patsy Cline song, or a railroad spike forged from downers shoved ramrod up my ass. This has to do with reciprocation. Yeah, I know. Women, since the dawn of time, will tell you all about their lackluster love lives, going on and on about how their husbands abandon them right after their moment of bliss, or roll over and fall asleep. And then there are the premature ejaculators.
But I submit, we are gay men – owning the same equipment as our bedfellows – we should know better. I’m not saying every guy in the world should “give up the pink” for their lover, fuck-buddies, tricks or one-night-stands, but once you’ve gotten off you should at least put a little effort into getting the other guy off! Otherwise we’re no better than a heard of breeder males.
Since I’m on this subject – and I wouldn’t be on it unless I had something fresh on my mind – let me illuminate and ruminate. Today I made the hour trek up to Pittsburgh to see (get fucked by) my ex-boyfriend. We’ll call him Dax. I arrived in town on time and gave him a ring, so he knew I was in range, so he could scoot away out of sight of his current boyfriend. (A very long and boring story) But instead I got pushed back –brushed off – for an hour. Which was fine, I had bookstores I’d wanted to go to. (No, not those kinds of bookstores, that’s what the Internet’s for, perverts!)
But then he called and it was pushed back again, this time another hour and a half. I hadn’t jerked off in three days, and with the price of gas I wasn’t just going to say fuck it and drive back home without getting what I’d come for: an ass full of cock and my balls drained of their ooey-gooey centers. But by this time, he was half an hour late calling me back. I was seriously contemplating cutting my losses and jerking off to some streaming Internet porn.
He showed up – with some old guy in the truck with him. The old guy was some electrical inspector, a recently added friend of his, and we were driving him all the way to the other side of Pittsburgh, and dropping him at his home. This was rush hour and I was stuck for another hour with those two, wishing I’d just turned the ignition over on my truck and driven home. By this time I was also getting hungry, and I had to piss. One of which was robbing me of strength whilst the other was making me hard as hell, again.
Once the old guy was dropped off I thought we’d be headed back to his place to fuck, but somehow we ended up at an Enterprise rental car agency, where a twenty-something girl drove us across town (in yet another wrong direction) to go pick up Dax’s truck. I’d been so thrown off by my mounting lust and the appearance of the old guy that I hadn’t realized we weren’t riding around in his usual Silverado, but in a Dodge.
There was gas to be bought, to halfway fill up the rental truck, and my ex-boyfriend handed me his gas card and said seventeen bucks, and disappeared around the corner to pick up his Silverado. Well, seventeen bucks of fuel didn’t do the trick, and since he’d said half a tank and left the card with me, I kept filling the tank until it was half full, which was more like thirty dollars.
The Enterprise girl headed back to the home office and Dax showed up about three minutes later with his truck, and that’s when all hell broke loose. He was screaming profanities at me, and at the now absent Enterprise girl. This side of him I didn’t miss in the least, and truth be told it was why I preferred just having sex with him, long ago forgoing stay-overs or visits. The bickering between Dax and his boyfriend, and the sneaking around that would ensue over the span of two days would turn anyone’s stomach.
Well, I got real quiet, but it wasn’t hurt or scared that I was feeling – I was getting pissed. Somehow he divined this by my blank stare (people have lately taken to calling it my serial killer gaze – it’s when I’m past mother-fucking you and instead thinking about fun things to do with your corpse) and quickly changed the subject. He was even trying to joke about it. “I’m not mad at you, though, BAD BOY! No dick for you. I’m sending you to bed without!” And just when I thought we were finally heading back to our rendezvous spot, to fuck, we’re suddenly pulling up in front of Enterprise, again.
I walked across the street to a BP station to buy a pack of smokes – I’d quit months ago – and a lighter. Then I stood looking over at him giving the manager of the place hell and getting his gas money back. I thought long and hard about calling for a taxi and getting my own ass back to my truck and then home. But I finally walked back across the street and got back in Dax’s truck. By then Dax was happy, his refunded cash in hand, and he reached over and gave my dick a hard squeeze.
“I’m gonna fuck the shit out of you,” he purred.
Twenty minutes later we were finally back at the house, in the bedroom, naked, I’d sucked his cock, licked his balls, and dove tongue first into his particularly sweet, tight ass. Then he flipped me over on my stomach, and without a bit of spit or lube pushed not too slowly right on into me. This is the part I loved the most, what I live for – that laying bare of me, ripping me apart. He fucked me for a nice long stretch and finally shot his load up my ass. Politically correct or not, It’s how we do it. That’s when I suddenly got that hit in the balls with the reality thing. I usually don’t care that once it’s over it’s over.
But it was only about three days before my birthday, and I’d been saving myself for a full three days – which is almost a medical emergency for a gay man – so I thought that maybe we could do something special, some sort of B-Day orgasmo-fest.
He was looking around, “I don’t see a towel or an old t-shirt,” he said, his gorgeous, delectable ass bobbing there enticingly. I’m thinking – looking at the smooth soft skin clinging to the hard muscles beneath – I know something I could use…
“You know, it’s my birthday soon … and well,” I let my hand caress the left cheek of his bottom. “Maybe I could come in you … this once.”
“No way!” he said, shaking his head and smiling piteously. “You know I only do that when I’m snorting coke.” And it was true. He’d sat only my dick for exactly ten minutes, twice, back when we were together. I hadn’t known what to do, and he wouldn’t let me try very hard to learn. But this time I’d had three days to think about how nice it would be to pump into him, fuck him, to come inside his ass.
“But nice try,” he said.
“Ok.” I tried to smile amiably.
Then I thought he’d at least offer a blowjob, a hand-job – anything. But what I got was five sheets of generic toilet paper and the mandate “Don’t shoot on the mattress. Gary will find it.”
Kneeling there on the bare mattress, my body – my cock and balls and mind ready to explode – the feel of the scratchy TP in my hand sends a cold shiver through me. And just like that my hard-on deflated and something felt like it broke inside. Not my heart, for I could never love him again – and not mere lust. I just felt so … let down. My fuck-buddy for five years, and my boyfriend for two years before that, gave the task of getting me off less attention than the ring-tone on his cell-phone, the electrical inspector friend, rush hour traffic, gas card receipts and a rental car. Among probably a thousand other things that he spent time and energy on that day. But for my orgasm, for the man who’d licked his balls, ate his ass and then took his load up the ass: nada.
“Ain’t you gonna cum?” he asked, as I pulled my jeans back on and reached for my shirt.
I shrugged and change the subject. Don’t remember what I said, but I said it quickly, and in a low monotone, and I only noticed that he was running after me, still listening to what I was saying only when I turned the lock on my truck’s door, turning to find him breathing heavy, lurching up behind me.
“Well, I’ll try and call you on your birthday,” he panted – again with the shrugging.
I think I was talking about a car I wanted to buy, or maybe it was about a book, or a movie. Whatever, he gave me a real weird look as I angled in behind the wheel of my truck and laid rubber away from the house and away from him.
I felt hurt, and lost, severely unfulfilled and dissatisfied. I guess I was being unrealistic. I mean, I’ve been fucked by this man at least four hundred and twenty-seven times (if I was counting), and it’s been mostly the same mind blowing fuck session with the usual jacking myself off at the end. But there, in the back of my mind, was that fucking “Getting It Right: The Gay Men’s Guide to Better Sex.”
My first boyfriend, Mark, once loaned me a big box of crap porno VHS tapes. But amongst the litter of trashy, grainy smut was one fine gem. “Getting It Right” had great camera work and lighting, sleek sensuous sets, no dialogue to speak of and high quality young models. We’re talking Kristian Bjorn or Falcon International Collection stock: the stuff wet dreams are made from. Besides being one of the best sex flicks I’ve seen, it boasted a comprehensive blow by blow, lick by lick instructional manual for fellatio, rimming, threesomes, even anal sex.
The part that still makes the end of all my sexual encounters, thus far inadequate, was the part where the two buffed – and seemingly in love – young men take over the bed, slap a condom on one cock, and a smear of KY into the anus of the other, and they fuck. A good scene, unexpected, and at the end they tactfully don’t show the usual money shot, instead opting for the guy to shoot his wad up his partner’s ass, into the condom, of course. But then they really blew my mind. The guy on top bit the other guy’s ear, then growled, “You look like you need to cum. Slap a condom on that cock and let’s go.” And just like that they switch positions, the bottom becomes the top, and forever this romantic, completely fictional scenario is chiseled eternally on the walls of the inside of my skull, like impossibly erotic caveman etchings.
That’s what’s stuck in my throat, strangling my heart, burning my gut and making my cock and balls limp with a deep and crippling despair. (Well, it ended up lasting until my morning wood, but two episodes of Queer as Folk and a pre-condom classic had no effect on it at all.)
Either I’m just not getting it, or the guys who are fucking me – us, as a bottoming brotherhood – need to work on their follow-through.
© 2008 Michael Cain
Michael Cain is 35. He lives where he grew up in North East Ohio, at the foothills near the panhandle of West Virginia. He counts money until his fingers bleed at a gaming resort, and lives with his dog Jack. Michael has stories currently published on the webzines The Green Muse, Wild Violet Magazine, Anotherealm, Astoundingtales, After Burns SF, Out of the Box Magazine, Bent, Demon Minds, Lunatic Chameleon, Justus Roux, Logical Lust, Ruthie’s Club and Forbidden Fruit Magazine. He has stories in print in Sofa Ink Quarterly, First Hand LTD, Mandate, Torso, Men and in Writer’s Post Journal. Michael’s upcoming stories will appear in print in Adventures for the Average Woman.
