It's not me...It's you.

Well, there are good ways and bad ways to use your time on the government’s pay clock. I suppose writing my blog isn’t one of the “good” ways. Eh. If I wasn’t sitting bored on my ass, though, I wouldn’t be doing it. Got to love military life: it’s either a monsoon or drought, not much in between. Fuck.

Since today is shaping up to be both boring and tedious, I decided to do a flashback posting covering my leave over the 4th of July.

As I said in my first entry, I am originally from rural Indiana. I have, however, lived near several metropolitan areas, courtesy of the Marines. While my previous station was in North Carolina, I initially reported straight to Camp Pendleton for my first tour of duty (yes, right after "bootcamp"). Located about 40 miles north of San Diego, Pendleton is, by Marine standards, a fairly sizeable installation. More than that, it has great weather, tons of shit to do, and no shortage of drop dead fucking gorgeous men and women. AKA: Heaven.

While I enjoy living in the Pacific Northwest, memories of my glory days spent having fun in the sun continue to encourage my pilgrimages back to So Cal. So, when I had the opportunity to take 8 days of leave over late June and early July, the destination of choice was, obviously, California.

After landing at LAX, my good friend “Tom” picked me up, and got me spun up on the evenings plans. We got on the 405, headed towards West Hollywood and a trendy restaurant called Campanile. Meeting us for dinner was Tom's fiancé, "Tina", and a small gathering of our mutual friends. A great place to feast on Mediterranean fare with Californian flair, and close friends to boot. Good shit!

It had been awhile since I had last seen Tina, and seeing the pair of them together again was great. Tina…wow. While I don’t mind fucking the occasional pussy, women typically aren’t my method of choice for good sex. There is just too much drama (funny that, homos seem the same way sometime, goddamn), mood swings, and, quite frankly, they are too fucking expensive. Tina, however, could have been a guy in a chicks body. She was crude, blunt, loved the outdoors, and her body was tight, supple, and, from what Tom tells me, extraordinarily flexible. Like, circus freak flexible. Lucky bastard.

Tom and I have known each other for years. He was my first roommate. After a heavy night of drinking, and the loss of my higher brain functions, I brought a boy home to the barracks and pounded him into oblivion. In my stupor I forgot to take into account Tom, who walked in to find me balls deep in this boy’s ass. Oops.

We’ve been best friends ever since.

So, to humor me, Tom, Tina and the group, took me out to The Abbey. Reasonably close to the Companile, the Abbey is a huge bar on North Robertson Boulevard. For my Seattle and other non-Los Angelian readers, the Abbey is a great place with outside seating, multiple rooms and bar sections and plenty of couches with cozy places to chat it up. It is, without a doubt, one of the LA's premiere homo establishments.

We paused at the wrought iron gate, showed our IDs, then crossed the patio and headed inside. We made our way across the hardwood floors, commandeering two couches from a handful of people (easy to do when 3 guys in the group appear to be made out of tree trunks). Tom’s buddy Ray went to get the first round of drinks from the bar, while the rest of us settled down and chatted. The conversation shifted constantly; sometimes it touched upon the way things were going in Iraq, other times it changed to more mundane topics, typical for our age group (i.e., who is fucking who).

After my fifth drink, I had to piss, excused myself, got up and headed for the latrine.

The Abbey's latrine was a bright affair, and I headed for the urinal on the far left, ignoring the towel boy standing quietly by the sink. I unbuttoned my fly, let my cock snake out of my 7-for-Mankind jeans and released the flow.

Ahhhh, much better.

As I stood there, pissing out $40 worth of drinks, I took a glance at the young guy who just took the urinal to my right. With one up and down glance I had him sized perfectly: 5’11”, dark brown hair, deep tan, an oddly compelling set of gray eyes, and a toned, tight little body of about 170 pounds. Judging by the meat he was displaying, about 7.5 cut, with a youthful 20-ish face.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

I murmured something casual, not really caring what, and, as my heart jumped with his reply, struck up a short conversation as we drained our bladders.

Fucking crap. Not enough piss.

I shook the last few drops free, stroked it a time or two as we locked eyes, then put it away and walked to the sink, conversing with him all the while. He joined me almost immediately, and the interest he had for me was plain (judging by the tent forming in his khakis). We left the bathroom, and I expressed regret that I was only here visiting and needed to get back to my friends. He gave me a disappointed look, but quickly flashed a very white, toothy, perfect smile and handed me a business card with his name, Dave, and number on it. It said, surprise, surprise, that he was in modeling and acting, and we parted with him murmuring to call him. Soon. Very, very soon.

Not a problem at all.

As luck would have it, I ended up getting a horrible stomach ache, likely from the crappy food found at the SeaTac airport, and I regretfully told Tom & Company that I had to call it a night. They gave me shit for a few minutes, but, knowing that I was in town for another 7 nights, they laid off (finally) and I made good my escape.

As I walked out into the warm night, I took out the white card and dialed the number. “Hey Dave, this is Mike, we just met at The Abbey? I’m not really feeling all that great, and left my friends early…” I said. “Want to get a drink?”

“This is my address,” he replied, and rattled off a street address about 10 minutes away. “I will meet you there in 20 minutes,” he said and promptly clicked off his phone.

Well, hot damn.

I took a cab to the address, went to the door and rang the buzzer. A different person, not the Dave from the Abbey, answered the door. This guy was slightly Latino, about 5’8”, 170 pounds, sporting highly defined pecs and shoulders. He answered the door with a towel looped around the waist and stood there, momentarily silent, staring me up and down, every bit as intently as I was staring at him.

“Hi”, he finally said, holding out his hand, “you must be Mike. I’m Carlos.”

He pulled me inside and within seconds I had my hands rubbing his back while he got the skull fucking of his life. Judging by the strength of my thrusts, I hoped the rug burns on his knees wouldn’t be too bad. Oh well, fuck it. As I rammed my cock past his uvula and into his gullet, I heard the front door open, and seconds later a laugh and the rustle of falling clothing from behind me.

“Jesus, Carlos,” I heard Dave say, “you couldn’t wait till I got home?”

Needless to say, as I had my cock rammed down his throat up to my bush, Carlos wasn’t capable of a reply. I growled at the kid, pulled him closer, grabbed a handful of hair and mashed my mouth against his. That shut him up. I stroked Dave’s right nipple with one hand, and ripped his PAPI briefs clean off his body with the other. I really didn’t feel like talking.

Carlos was busy trying not to choke on my meat, while I kissed Dave within inches of his life. Fucking hot. Even better, the kid could kiss, I give him that.

As I sat there thrusting my cock into Latin boy and orally raping the other, I heard a sound, like a jar being opened. Carlos had, out of my line of sight, dipped his hand in something slick, and was trying to probe my hole. Digitally. Now, I don’t mind the occasional finger up my chute when I get off, but I wasn’t an especially rabid fan of it. With two hot boys doing whatever the fuck I wanted…what the hell. Go with the flow.

He was persistent, and finally wiggled one up there, stroking my prostate as his throat milked my cock. As I kept thrusting into his mouth, I could feel a second finger trying to make its way up and into me. This time, it was one too many. I stopped kissing Dave, looked down, mouth open to tell him to back the fuck off with the fingers, when my eyes fell on the jar. Elbow grease. Holy shit.

Fisters.

Oy. Why are the hot ones always fucked up?

I jerked away, yanking my cock out of his mouth, along with a shit-ton of drool. They both looked at me with a questioning look and I simply pointed at the jar. They looked at each other, a bit sheepishly, and then back at me. I sat there, waiting for something.

“We didn’t want to fist you, Mike. We just like to finger and get fingered a bit… that’s all,” Carlos said. “Sometimes, if one or two more get in accidentally…”

I didn’t wait for more.

I put on my clothes, ignoring whatever they were trying to say. As I walked out of their place, I turned, smiled, and simply said, “Oh, and by the way. It’s not me. It’s you.”

Forty five minutes later, I was logged onto my Manhunt account waiting for a vanilla bottom, who just wanted to get fucked, to arrive at my hotel room at the Chamberlain.

Shit. So hard to get laid.


~Mike

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