American (g)od
My hotel room, Pensacola, August 2017
On a visit home to Texas this year, a close friend and I were driving to one of my favorite glam grocery stores (Central Market) where I always found my favorite kind of coffee (recently roasted to a light setting) and above-par ingredients for one of my favorite past times — cooking. As we made our way along the deserted six-lane highway at 9 pm, I began to list out loud everything I wanted to do while I was home.
“…cook Barefoot Contessa recipes, watch movies, organize the second bedroom, bicycle rides down the bayou, work out, game night at Steven & Grant’s, order clothes… AUGH!…I hate shopping, write two new posts for the blog, and…oh yeah! I’ve GOT to get LAID while I’m home. It’s been at least six…”
“Hours?” interrupted my friend.
“I was gonna say weeks!”
He laughed more than a giggle but not quite a belly laugh. “What’s so funny?” I asked.
“You don’t get laid at work? You’re naked, he’s naked… I assumed you took those opportunities to…”
“No! I don’t have sex at work…well, not usually.”
“Uh-huh. Like I said…” he interjected again.
“I don’t mind if my clients touch me everywhere. I celebrate that. But, I’m always…or, usually… the Master of My Domain. My sexual energy fuels my physical energy on the table which is why I never…”
(Interrupting) “T.M.I. T.M.I. !!!!” he protested with palms up, surrendering as if I were trying to rob him of his equable disposition.
“By the way, my idea of getting laid isn’t a quick handjob or the like. I liken gettin’ laid as in a big meal which includes aperitifs, amuses, appetizers, the main course, then dessert followed by a long ass nap.”
With some hesitation, my friend asked the obvious question.
“What about when you’re off work? Don’t you get laid then?”
I laughed out loud.
“Most of my workday is from 7 am to 9 pm and sometimes 9 am to 11 pm with a break or two thrown in. By the end of the day, all I want to do is eat and sleep. It’s been like that for years.”
When I’m on the road, my body works like a fiend. And, the type of work I do is very physically demanding. It’s not uncommon for the phrase Cirque de Soleil-like to be used by my clients to describe the gymnastics they imagine are happening on top of them as part of the Wally Special — one of the sessions I offer. Several times a week a client will ask, “how many Wally Specials do you do in a day?” They expect an answer of around two or three. When I respond with four to seven, they are dumbfounded. This explains why my extracurricular activities are usually nonexistent.
However, every once in awhile, I have managed to carve out time for sex when I’m on the road. Usually, those times are on my days off or as I’m recovering from an intense work week on the road.
One of those experiences was memorable not just because of the hot sex and the hot man, but because it had a surprise ending (not what you’re thinking!) This experience was with someone I finally met in person after chatting with him for several years on a gay social app. And, during those attempts at trying to meet him in person, my invitation was not for sex, but for an invitation to come up to my hotel room and watch the news on the couch while both us remained cuddled up against each other.
“I’ll serve some snacks, we can both unwind in front of the TV and I’ll work on your hands and feet,” I’d say to make the offer more enticing. Yes, couch time rather than sex. Remember, I’m exhausted after a long day.
Because of our busy work schedules, we could never find a time to meet. But, I knew there was something between this stranger [Bart] and me and we continued to stay in touch long after I left his city.
When we finally met, it was on our day off. Our connection had grown very strong and we both expressed to each other that we wanted more than just couch time. We both craved a romantic night of passionate sex.
Bart is 5'6", 185 lbs, and somewhere around 40. He is an amateur bodybuilder, has Irish smooth skin, piercing blue eyes, black wavy hair, and a jaw that is stereotypical of manly men seen on the big screen. When he enters my hotel room, he is sporting a three-day scruff that makes him look like a celebrity in hiding. He doesn’t flex intentionally, but when he bends his arm to scratch the side of his face, you can see the bicep muscle separate through his voguish tight-fitting shirt. When I removed him from his beige long-sleeved pullover, every ab muscle God gave us could be seen on him without him trying to flex. UGH! Was he an Angel? Or an American god?
After a lot of catching up on the couch, we moved to the bedroom to continue our catching up and where I eventually separated him from the rest of his tight-fitting clothes. While he watched, I pulled off my undershirt, dropped my walking shorts, and flicked my Puma ankle socks behind me. As I crawled onto the bed, he was lying on his back and I kissed him from head to toe while I waded in the waves of his gentle moans.
Soon after, I moved over him, and laid my forearms across his pecs and gently sought out any trigger points with my elbows. This was not a massage appointment, but my massage instincts were taking over, and I followed them. My forearms finished working on his pecs and the pectoral attachment sites. I continued upward toward his clavicle eventually anchoring my elbows into what most people call the shoulder area but are really named the trap muscles. He wasn’t expecting massage work.
I sat up in bed and reached for a very small Pyrex bowl of coconut oil that I had warmed a few minutes earlier. I began to oil up his torso.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“You’ll see,” I whispered. I lowered my pecs onto his and let my chest absorb the excess oil on his while I barely moved from one side to the other.
“Ohhhh my God,” he exhaled, “no one’s ever…” He was responding to the feeling of having a chest overgrown with soft black hair trail over his chest. His voice trailed off. Then I heard him whisper in surprise “Ohhhhhhhhhhhh my god.” I spread his arms outward and leveraged my body weight to keep them in place. My body covered his and he felt the giant human luffa slowly move in all directions.
Throughout the night, I incorporated very short-lived variations of what I do in my work (during the Wally Special.) I wanted my body on him as much as possible. There was no space between us until I left him in bed to retrieve condoms from my suitcase.
When I returned, he was still lying on his back but his feet were positioned flat on the bed and placed shoulder-width apart. His hands were folded up behind his head exposing his beautiful pits. It was the perfect position for a picture, or rather, a giant ceiling poster over my bed back in Texas.
I crawled back onto the bed and positioned myself between his legs. I raised his smooth soft pink feet to my lips and slowly kissed them on both sides. I placed them on my pecs. He reached up towards me and pulled my neck down to kiss me. But before he kissed me, he stared intently into my eyes and whispered quietly,
“It’s been a long time since anyone has been inside me. You’ll have to go really slow and be very patient.”
I nodded and sat up anxious not just to please me, but to please him. I aimed my gun at its target and made my presence known as I moved forward. I slowly pushed against him. I waited for his body to respond. I barely made it into the entry hall before his face grimaced. He pushed his calloused palms against my pecs. As as I started to back out, he grunted forcefully which seem to erase the tension in his face.
“Wait, wait…” he panted quietly. I waited. After a half-minute, he would give me the signal to resume and I would try again.
“I want you inside me bad,” he said.
My brain was in overdrive. I felt like a base-jumper just before their feet left the steady ground. It had been so long since I felt so completely carnal. I had become so connected to him and the fantasy of mutual desire was materializing. My anticipation only charged my desire to slather him with every pleasure. He ceded to my towering presence and I craved to be interwound with every part of him. I inhaled masculinity in every breath, kiss and groan. I had so much to give him.
I gently pushed a little more and his back arched upward as he moaned from the bottom of his belly.
“OMG. OMG,” and, then, “WAIT WAIT, PULL OUT,” he exhaled. “I’m sorry I’m so tight,” he said.
This scene repeated itself a dozen times until, eventually, I was halfway in. The thought had occurred to me that I might not be able to top this boy after all. We had already been in bed together almost ninety-minutes and I hadn’t even started sliding in and out yet. Once inside, I could only remain without moving. I felt like a shoe stretcher and these shoes were made of leather.
We took a short break and I tried again. When we tried again, in one slow movement, I was able to get in halfway before his hands met my pecs. He inhaled sharply. His eyes were as wide as saucers and his mouth was fixed open. He looked at me as if he was saying, “don’t move…don’t move…if you move, the bomb will detonate.”
I slowly pushed in a little further until suddenly he slapped his palms again my pecs in alarm. He whispered in a crescendo,
“…oh my godddHHHHH….OHMYYYYYYYYY GODDDDddddd! …i’m gonnnaAAAAA AUGGGHHHHH MMPPHHHHHH” he reached for himself and in less than three stokes covered much of his torso in ambrosia.
His entire body pulsed and contracted for a minute or two until finally, he lied there motionless. I was slowly pushed out and laid down beside him. We remained tangled up in each other’s arms and fell asleep. Neither one of us acknowledged that I never ‘took care of things’ for me, but, it was okay. It was late and we had been together for hours.
We awoke from our half hour nap, and he headed for the shower while I started to pick up the bedroom. I pulled the towels off the bed and threw them into a pile on the bathroom floor. I placed the now empty bowl of coconut oil into the kitchen sink. I picked up the condom wrapper off the floor and that’s when it hit me. I looked down at my now soft buddy which was bare. I pulled the sheets back on the bed — no condom. I retrieved the towels from the bathroom and held them into the air letting them unravel — no condom. I checked the bathroom trash can and the bedroom trash can — no condom. I illuminated the bedroom with all of the lamps and carefully checked around the baseboard of the bed. Still, no condom. I stood there trying to solve the mystery when suddenly, the answer materialized as my eyes moved from the floor to level.
I returned to the bathroom where my sexy bodybuilder was standing lathered up in this hotel’s modern shower featuring a thick glass wall. He saw me walking towards him and smiled. I pulled the heavy solid glass door towards me and before I could say anything, he leaned forward and kissed me deeply saying,
“That was so fucking hot. Thank you.”
I smiled for two reasons: For what he just said to me and for what I was about to say to him:
“Hey, uh, do you have a condom hanging outta your ass?”
It took an entire two seconds for him to register what I was asking because the acoustics in the shower made it possible that what he thought he heard was not what I said. Without speaking, he reached behind him. His eyes and mouth opened wide at the surprise of finding the navel of a condom sitting barely outside his ass. There was no slack in the condom. It was all the way up there. He attempted to pull it out, but it was stuck.
“It’s stuck. How do I…”
After a few very gentle sustained pulls, he said, “Ugh!! Got it! OMG, I’m so glad you (trailing off)…How did you know?”
“It wasn’t anywhere else,” I said with a grin on my face. We both laughed heartily. The masculine laughter of two men reveling in the presence of the other was amplified by the shower acoustics.
He finished showering, dressed, and I gave him a goodbye kiss at the front door. We still stay in touch and have seen each other one other time. When I think about that experience, it inspires me to go to the gym and work out extra hard.
I think it’s about time I make another trip to Pensacola!
