Jack off: 15,202
Damn that was loud. When I cum, I’m usually not vocal. I blame my childhood. I grew up in a house full of first cousins, male, like forty of them. My cousin because I was one of the youngest and most naïve about sex used to always set me up for cruel jokes. They would get me to ask my grandmother inappropriate questions like what’s a golden shower. For some stupid reason, I thought it was a fairy tale like the golden goose. My grandmother of course, being a devout Baptist, hit the roof. She chased me around the house with her remote control and when she couldn’t catch me she threw it at my head leaving a permanent mark. Insane form of parenting before child protective services cared, my grandmother was always throwing her remote control at me when I asked questions she refused to answer like if Adam was fucking Eve wouldn’t that be incest. It was a sturdy remote cuz it never broke.
In out of systems and foster care and shady relatives, privacy had always been an issue in my youth. It seemed as if I was never alone. So when I did start jacking, I learned to be as quiet as possible. I call it possum jacking off. It was my secret and I wasn’t about to let any of my hyena cousins know what I was doing because they would just mock me. They were always mocking me. So even to this day, when I climax I’m really silent. My ex, when he reached climaxed would look like he was about to have a heart attack or he forgot to breath. I used to watch in awe just in case I might have to call 911. I could imagine the call. “Operator can you please send help, my lover just got off and I think he may have killed himself.”
The phone rang. Died lust clung to my fingers when I answered. It was Jonathan.
I had been avoiding him since he told me he was a re-born Christian. I never knew he was a Christian to begin. I thought he was proud of his first class ticket to hell. I’m finding, and I include myself, nobody I know takes getting older well especially when you hit your thirties. When I turned thirty a month later I was in a mental hospital. Most of my friends are in their third failure of rehab. Nobody is happy. My stripper friend decided she was wife material and moved to the suburbs. A ho can be turn into a housewife if you never remind her of the past. It’s like the glass houses people used to fuck in, they suddenly put up curtains.
Jonathan was still pissed from the last time we saw each other. The bitch slapped me. Nothing dramatic like Dynasty but more of a girly slap, like a mother putting her hand over her child mouth to quiet shame. It was a firm clash of palm and face, enough to raise my blood pressure ten points. My violent knee jerk reaction would’ve been to slap that bitch back. Yet, I knew I deserved it. I had called him out. With bible in his hand, he started acting holy than thou like he never done a wrong in his life. He did more than wrong. He was why they created the word sin. I liked him better when he drank and did ecstasy. I liked the Jonathan doing cocaine off some dollar stripper dick.
They say what happens in Vegas should stay in Vegas. In college, where I grew up in Texas, we had a saying that what happened in New Orleans should stay in New Orleans.
1999, it was Mardi Gras, my friend Jonathan had gone missing. We searched the streets for him everywhere. It wasn’t abnormal for anyone of us to migrate from the herd into the chaotic sex, liquor filled street of New Orleans. We usually ran into each other again on somebody’s dance floor. Yet, Jon had been missing for hours. I wasn’t worried. I knew he find his way back to the hotel. I decided to disappear myself into a dark corner bar called Rawhide. It was basically a sex bar. The front part everybody got their one minimum drink requirement especially enforced with the black clientele. The back part, there was a pool table where people basically fucked on. I was young, 22 years old and curious. The denominator was pure lust. I had every planned to hook up as many times as possible.
I bought my stagnant rum and coke and walked into the darkness immediately my eyes failed me, shocked by lack of light. I could smell and the frustration of cheap sex permeating the air, cigarette smoked lingered and tickled my nostrils. I could hear belts scrapping the floor of men with their pants down to ankles, moans and groans. So many men were stacked against each other that I suddenly became just an anonymous part that made the whole of a drunken orgy. Men searching and touching, dicks out without shame, some guy fell against me and nutted on my jacket. I wouldn’t know that until I saw the lights of the streets again. I knew I shouldn’t have worn my good clothes on the dirty streets of New Orleans. Finally my eyes could see, but it was still so damn dark. I could make out bodies but faces weren’t clear, more blurs of figures like shadows. The place wasn’t that big, somebody’s basement, but at least a hundred men filled it. I knew it was a firetrap, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to get off.
Wherever the sea of men went, I was being dragged along like a lost helpless fag. It pushed and I pushed back, circled the pool table, we all did, like musical chairs, waiting for someone to reach out and touch; a dick big enough to stop and pay attention; a mouth hungry enough to accept a stranger horny dilemma. I stopped caring about faces, just felt for body, grabbing shoulders, sliding my hand down somebody’s back, grabbing for dick print and getting my dick grabbed. I stumbled on a figure getting bent over getting fucked. He wore a baseball cap pulled far down on his head and nothing else. He was naked as birth. I wonder what had happened to his clothes. Men surrounded him in an orgy glee. I tried to walk by but he grabbed my hand. Somebody started kissing the back of my neck and firmly squeezing my nipples like he knew that was my spot. I closed my eyes, maybe to hid from what I knew I was about to do. The naked figure in the dark grabbed for my dick. He unzipped my pants. I let him have it. His mouth was wet and tight, firm sloppy kisses, overflow with warm spit that flooded my dark shaft and clanged to the end of my balls. I surrendered to the thrust of men falling on each other in flesh waves of lust. It was all so intense, new, what I always dreamt gay sex would be like, dogs fucking. The heat, the firm sloppy mouth, the guy behind me twisting my nipples, the sex thundering like clouds forming for a storm, so I let it rain. I exploded. I cried out into the darkness. My pure release only blended in the symphony of aching noise. It was music if you listened. A seductive son. The guy behind me held me firm as to make sure my knees didn’t buckle. It was back to reality. I would have to open my eyes and make my way back to the sex, liquor filled streets of New Orleans, get me a cab and go back to the hotel. I reached for my pants that had fallen to my airforce basketball shoes, pulled them up, zipped. It was when I looked down at the naked figure still getting fucked, as to thank him for reliving my horny dilemma when a speck of dim light caught the bottom half of his face. “Jon, is that you?” He immediately swallowed. We looked at each other with different eyes. I didn’t know what to say. I just left.
I was quickly back on the crowded party crazed streets of Mardi Gras and ran into the rest of the crew. They asked me if I had seen Jon. I laughed. I honestly didn’t know what to say.
Four years later, after we graduated college, we all got together for a birthday party. We were drunk, laughing, reminiscing, when I didn’t think and told the story. I had told it several times. It wasn’t like it was anything new. The years to come, I would see Jon do a lot worse. Before I got out the last line, “Jon, is that you?” I saw his face reddened and he tapped me across the face. I had managed to embarrass him. I thought I should’ve been the one embarrassed.
But things had changed. Some don’t like to be reminded of past lives.
It wasn’t judgment. I wasn’t telling the story to embarrass him. I thought it was funny. I was just as guilty. I, too, went in that seedy bar looking for sex. I wasn’t throwing a stone in a glass house where I fucked.
Sometimes the gay life can be like an all girl middle school: insidious nagging, giggling and juvenile gossip. We all like to point fingers, say what we saw him doing in that place, acting like we bake apple pies on the weekends and dance the Holy Ghost on Sunday. It’s a peculiar sociological dysfunction. The bathhouse, bookstores, parks, dark corners, the places where men go to have sex and don’t care about names is for that reason only, sex.
If you saw him, that means you were there, but of course we are all so damn innocent.
But I had broken the rule. I only did it as to remind or to make myself feel better that another gay friend had decided to leave me. I can’t go the way re-born Christians because I would find it to contradictory. I can’t lie to myself what I’ve done. My life is still a glass house. After I got off the phone with my old friend Jonathan, I sat in my bed naked. He started reading my bible verses and I pretended to listen. I felt I would ride out his latest insanity. Yet, in my bed naked, I couldn’t help but think back to New Orleans. I remember sticking a dick in his mouth shut him up. I grabbed the lube again. I went back to that dark place, firm sloppy kisses. Just for old time sakes, I made him jack off 15,203.
