Weekend of Sexual Indulgence, III

When I woke up Saturday morning, it was in a sweat. I'd slept wonderfully, if sweatily, and was ready for the new day. I put on some shorts, a tank top and my running shoes, grabbed my credit card, called for early maid service, and left the hotel. I jogged down Pine Street, ran along Pike Place Market, cut through and went down to Western Avenue to jog along the water front. It was a bit breezy, overcast, but perfect weather for a short run.

I stopped by Starbucks on the way back to grab an Americano, no calories you know, and a shortbread cookie and headed back to my room.

Smelling myself in the elevator, I got inside and took a quick shower, sparing a brief moment of pity for the maid who'd had the job of cleaning up last nights mess, and emerged clean, refreshed and ready to get dirty. Very, very dirty.

Out came my MacBook Pro to quickly reference who was on deck for today. In my spare time during the week, I'd made an Word document with the screen names, any details and stats I'd learned and the pictures that I'd seen or received for each potential fuck. Jorge, Brandon, Paul, Chris, Mike, Craig and Shawn. Quite a collection. While I had them stacked, in some cases nearly back to back, knowing the tendency of homos to flake I figured I'd have some wiggle room. Hopefully.

All of them gave me cell numbers as a way to reach them. Deciding to stick with the order, I looked at the pictures of Jorge, a 5'10" hispanic guy with short black hair, brown eyes, and an average build and cock, and pulled out my phone. While he wasn't overly hot, he was eager and had begged me to pound him til he screamed for mercy. Which is certainly doable. More than doable.

I smiled, thumbed the in his phone number, and grinned again when I heard his sleepy voice croak, "hello?"

"Jorge, this is Mike from Manhunt. How's it going?"

"OH! Mike! Hey man, not bad," he said, voice perking up, "just, you know, laying in bed..."

"Well," I said, "get the fuck out of your bed, and get the hell into mine. I'm naked (I wasn't), hard (true), and waiting impatiently for some hole (more true). Now move." I clicked off the phone, entered the hotel room number into a text message and sent it to him, ignoring his return call. I stripped down, more careful this time of where I tossed the clothes, and sprawled out on the bed. Thinking ahead, I got up and went to the door, propping it open with the lock so he could let himself in and find me hard and waiting.

I heard the knock when he finally arrived, about 25 minutes later, and shouted "come in". He didn't hesitate; immediately the door opened and I got my first glimpse of Jorge.

Hooking up from the net is fraught with perils. Guys don't always look as advertised, be it height, weight, age, or even race (yes, I once had a black guy try to use the pic of a white dude to get me into bed. I don't have anything against black guys, but am not typically sexually attracted to them and I'm against ANYONE who lies in order to get me to fuck). Jorge, unfortunately, was one of those. While he looked similar to his pictures in most respects, he'd very obviously put on at least 35 pounds since they were taken. The face was chubbier and the previously average body now sported a decent belly.

Not good.

The conversation on Manhunt had focused mainly on my desire to wreck his hole. He wanted to get pounded, and I wanted to pound. Before, even with the average body, he'd sported a flat stomach, and ok build. What stood before me stirred absolutely no desire to put my cock anywhere near his hole. In fact, my previously hard shaft was now rapidly deflating.

The silence lengthened and I am pretty sure he knew why. I couldn't imagine that I was the first guy who'd had this reaction with the lying son of a bitch. He stood there, in front of the bed, now twiddling his fingers almost spasmodically, looking as if he wanted to say something but didn't dare.

Ugh. I hate homos sometimes.

"Dude. You don't look like your pictures at all. I specifically asked," I said, anger slightly coloring my tone, "if you were height and weight proportionate, and if you still sported the body in those pics. You assured me you did and you were as the pictures showed. Honestly, are you stupid enough to think you truly look like that now?"

Having been sexually active for over a decade, I knew how homos in general, and the passive-aggressive Seattle fags specifically, operate. This was quite possibly the first time he'd ever been spoken to that bluntly or called out on his lie. Most guys will make an excuse which both people know is a lie, but avoids uncomfortable confrontations, to get out of a soured hookup. Others go through with it as a mercy fuck, unwilling to tell the other person no. And a few others will apologetically say, "Sorry man, I just don't think we're a match... It's not you, it's me."

Well, I wasn't the lying bastard in this situation, so I felt disinclined to be the bad guy. I lay there, arms crossed over my chest, cock now completely limp, and waited for an answer. Judging by the stunned look on his face and the increasing glistening around the eyes, I'd say the point had hit home. Aw, fuck. I didn't need or want to deal with tears. Goddam,it.

I sighed, patted the bed next to me, and after he finally sat down, read him the riot act.

I wasn't willing to fuck a guy who'd lied to me and whom I wasn't sexually attracted to. I didn't, however, mind getting blown. Fuck, it was just head and I could close my eyes and expend no effort in it, so what the hell. I told him if he had no problem with that, then we were good. If he did, then he could walk the fuck out the door. Period.

Apparently, blowing me was good enough. Almost before I'd finished speaking his mouth was glued to my cock, giving me what turned out to be one of the better blowjobs in my life. Not bad for a fat mexican.

I let him do his thing, licking, sucking, slurping and swallowing my cock at his own speed and in his own way. As I lay there with my eyes closed, imagining Jon from the night before sucking my cock, I decided I needed a bit more say in the play. Both hands found his head, and like a machine, I set the pace for a steady rhythm to skull fuck him with.

He never even flinched.

Repositioning his head and body, he lengthened his neck and opened up the back of his throat and took every jab of my cock with an expertise I thoroughly enjoyed. He got me close, would sense it and back off, as much as I'd let him, keeping me on edge three times. Towards the end I refused to let him off, gripping his head and slamming his nose against my pubes, unloading the 9 hours or so of pent up cum to flow into his gullet.

Much better. I walked to the bathroom, not even deigning to glance at him, dismissal clear from my demeanor, and was glad to hear the door close as I peed.

At least he took the hint.

Happy to have cum, but dissatisfied with both the guy and the lack of being able to fuck hole, I looked at the list and called Brandon.

A saucy little bottom, he had a mouth on him and a sense of humor that had me laughing and rising to genuinely good spirits. Flaming, but unashamed of it, he was a great lay and just fun to be around. When he finally begged off to a late lunch date he had with friends I was actually disappointed to see his backside heading towards the door, all six feet of him sashaying with attitude. A flamer, true, but a good lay for all of that.

Paul, Chris and Mike blurred together next. None were spectacularly hot or ugly and not one of them were more than average lays. While I certainly enjoyed fucking each of them, by the time Mike had left, the fact that I'd fucked five guys by that time and only one of them had been really good bummed me out.

Hoping to finally get a good, last lay of the day, I rolled the dice and called Shawn instead of Craig. Shawn, from his pictures, was hot as hell. About 5'9" with 7" of nice cock, he swam competitively and had the body to prove it. Ripped, lean and with great definition, he sported the bleached, punkish surfer look to perfection. He also, so he claimed, wanted to get used hard. Very hard.

I dialed his number and gave my quick introduction when he answered. He said he was horny as fuck and was ready now. I gave him my details and smiled when he said he would see me in 20.

I lay on my bed and watched TV. With 3 minutes to go, I was starting to get antsy. When my clock showed he was now 5 minutes late, I started to get pissed. When that lengthened to 15 minutes late, I entered the "I just got flaked on" stage. This stage was characterized by a massive outburst of quick anger, followed by blowing my load into my hand. Or towel. I didn't bother to call him; his type never answers, the fuckers just get their jollies off from their online fantasies and being chased and pleaded with.

I wasn't playing.

I blew my load into the hand towel I'd put on the night stand and headed back to the shower. I was fed up with sex, scary thought, and decided to call Zane. Maybe we could go see a movie or hit Nordstrums. Something.

Todays score: Guys, 5. Good lays, 1. Lying bastards 1. Average fucks, 3. Flakes, 1.

Just another day in a gay mans sex life. Fuck.

Tomorrow, I hoped, would be better.

~Mike

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