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There is so much sex going on in the world

By MichaelAmpersant All Rights Reserved ©

Humor / Erotica


Martin and James have this really interesting conversation going on, on the Facebook video channel. It looks at first as if James only just wants to talk dirty, but then Martin discovers that his interlocutor has a cute boyfriend who needs some more excitement in his life, and then the two discover that they are neighbors. This novella won't leave you disappointed, especially if you are fond of casual sex.

There is so much sex going on in the world

You possibly have a Facebook account. I have one too, and play it sometimes when I’m bored. I’m connected to groups like Wetland Boys, Gay Art, Interracial Gay Love, Forensic Fellows, and I use my own photo as the cover picture. I'm black and twenty five years old and have a college degree. I look lean and mean and hot enough to get a lot of chat traffic, like this one, for example, the last one I received from a certain Alexandros, ”Έτσι θα σταματήσουμε τη...” Most messages come from Saverne, however, or Oodee or “ABoy,” and they start with “Hi,” or "What's up.” If answer with “Hi” (or “what’s up,”) they’ll say “Hi” again and we enter an unnecessary loop that is better avoided by me replying immediately: “You want sex?” “Yes,” they say, they always want sex. There’s a lot of sex going on in the world. Sometimes, when Oodee looks sweet, or innocent, or if has a sister who figures in the background against a scrappy beach, I play the game. I ask him whether he’s horny (“yes”), hard (“yes”), alone (“yes”), and then I tell him to chuck his shorts and start stroking (“YEAH”). Some Oodees want to show me their dick, they all want to see mine, and we mostly end up on the video chat with them anxiously jerking until they cum and it’s suddenly over (“CU”).

Yesterday was different. The “Hi” message came from a certain James whose picture looked authentic enough to be real—mildly blurred, undefined hairline, larger nose, narrow lips—and focused enough to identify him as a thirtyish Caucasian of professional appearance.

“Yes,” I say.

“You live in the city?”

“Yes,” I answer and add (trying to be polite): “And you?” You black, right, he comes back. (“Yes”). You get a lot of traffic? He means pussy, trade. (“Can’t complain.”). Well, he wonders. He lives on Twenty-third, off Castro, in the Noe Valley. And he has a boyfriend. And his boyfriend is ten years younger, and cute. Whether I’m into whiteys (whiteys). I’m versatile, I answer. His boyfriend has blond, honey-colored hair and wears horn-rimmed glasses that he doesn’t need. “You versatile?”

“Yes,” I answer.

“In which sense?”

“In any sense,” I answer.

“You more top, I guess.” You guessed right. “Most black guys possibly are.” Dunno. “Because of your plumbing.”

“My dick?”

“How you say, packin’, you say. Mondo.”

“How do you know black talk?” I ask.

He had an African-American boyfriend before Axel. “Axel?” Yeah, that’s his boyfriend.

“So, Martin, you’re hung?” Guess so. “People, when you do them the first time, they impressed?” Usually. “Usually?”

The second time, even. “There’s a second time?” I date people, sometimes. “You have a boyfriend?” Not exactly, but I date people sometimes.

Whether I mind. “Mind what?” Him talking about my appendage. “Nah, of course not, this is Facebook,” I answer.

“LOL,” he chats. So…whether I mind him asking: “How big are you exactly?”

“Dunno,” I answer—which is true, at least in the technical sense that I never measured my penis, the shaft rising from the perineum, fully erect, the measure running along the skin line on the back, I never did that. It’s eight inches, or so, at least 7½, sizable even for a black person, and it’s listed as nine inches on Grindr since odd numbers carry more weight.

“Wow,” he chats.

I’m a junior instructor of forensics and negotiation at San Francisco State, and if I would follow the rules of proper conversation I would have to ask back: ‘And yours?’

“Yeah,” I say instead.

“When you, when you, uh, plough them, you feel it makes a difference?”

“My dick?”


“It size?”


“You should know,” I answer.


“If you’re a bottom.”


“My dick is always the same size.”

“Naah, Martin, come on, you chuck your pants, they go, like, ‘OMG.’ It turns them on, right?”

“You say.”

If you chuck your pants.”

“What do you mean?”

“You picked up somebody, set them up in your bedroom, you go fetch a drink, or you’re off to the bathroom, and you’re back, and they get on their knees and unbuckle your belt.”


“They unbuckle your belt, the Lewis button pops, and then—unless they fondle your bulge first.”

“You want to talk dirty?” No-no, he’s serious: “You’d say, lots of guys they kiss the cotton first, your drawers, feel you up and stuff, like.”

“Some do.”


“But I discourage it.”


“Kissing cotton, stupid.”

“What do you do then?” I just chuck my briefs. “You wear briefs?” Usually. “Tight ones?” Nah, feels scratchy, my dick is nature enough. “You wear fresh white briefs?” Sure. “Every day?” Sure. “Goes well with your skin.” Sure. “Tight black washboard abs framed by pristine white briefs.”

“You’re a writer?” (I ask). Not really, he writes copy though, for Strawberry Pumpkin. Although, he’s mostly in acquisitions now.

“Strawberry Pumpkin?” I ask.

Well, no, he made that up, something like that. He met his boyfriend at Strawberry Pumpkin before he got fired.

“You got fired?” No, Axel got himself fired.

“Tight black washboard abs framed by pristine white briefs,” he resets. Yes. “You aware of that?” Of what? “The effect.” I own a mirror. “Which brand you’re wearing?” Calvin Klein or H&M. He likes Calvin Klein. H&M, he’s not so sure. Even though David Beckham models for them. And Frigo Number one. Ridiculously expensive. Has this adjustable interior mesh pouch that can be brought in or out to suit your individual, uh, needs. He bought a set for his boyfriend. Every color of the rainbow. It’s a pity Axel doesn’t like them.

He thinks that Beckham’s pouch is photo-shopped, by the way. Beckham’s willie is tiny, isn’t it. (I wouldn’t know). All English willies are tiny…(I wouldn’t know)…and…and he likes Slonimsky’s. (“What?”).

Cream-white briefs with a Delft-blue print in pattern-repeat, like a wallpaper. Naked men in chaste poses reclining next to low-growth bushes. Like, like in a cruising area. Very subtle. “Slonimsky?” I ask. Sure, the guy has a Facebook page, here’s the link, I must have a look, would look great on a black body. He’s an artist, Slonimsky, it’s spinoff merchandize from his art.

“Promise.” (Promise what?) You have a look.

“You’re Slonimsky yourself, right?” No, no, not at all. I should have a look. Subtle.

“I’ll have a look right now.” No-no, I should stay with him, he’s not yet done.

“Done with what?” Well, if I don’t mind, my story. (“My story what?”) These guys kissing my cotton. (“Well, they don’t, I chuck my underwear and they have to kiss the real thing…if they are into kissing.”) Which they are? (“Depends.”) They just grab your dick? Fondle your balls? You’re not uncut, right. Nothing in the way of a juicy foreskin? Pulling on your juicy foreskin. (“No, I’m circumcised”). Jerking a juicy foreskin—the sexy scent of smegma? The twitchy sound? (“No, I’m sorry, I’m circumcised”). Yeah, he agrees.

How about pubes. Your pubes? (“I shave, sometimes I wax.”) Yeah, cool, he hates pubes. He doesn’t have a single pubic hair on his entire body. And neither does Axel…

…So they fondle your balls, he asks. (“Sometimes”). Your ballsack tight? (“Nah, not really”). Big low-hanging balls? He loves big, low-hanging balls. (“My scrotum tightens during sex, though.”)

Yeah, great, isn’t it, Axel’s little sack tightens, too. His own sack doesn’t, though…big balls, big balls. Some people lick your balls, swallow them? (“It doesn’t turn me on.”) What turns you on? (“Penetration and rimming. Sometimes fellatio.”) Yeah, right, giving head, it’s a real art. Going, really going down on you inch-for-inch. Past the gag reflex. Whether I tolerate cheating. (Cheating?”) Them not taking your crown down the throat but diverting it to the inner cheeks. (“I see.”). You try to keep them on the straight and narrow. (“Straight and narrow?”) You put both hands on the back of their head, and then you push, push, fucking them, ‘take it, take it, gimme me head, gimme me head.’ (“If I’m in the mood.”) It turns you on. (“Hopefully.”)

“So, you drop your pants and they grab your dick.” Usually.

“It’s not like they, like, like you step back—your dick is hard at that point?”

“Unless I’m smashed.”

“Martin, it’s not like you step back and wave it at their face, your dick?” I don’t wave, I let it undulate.

“Undulate, cool, undulate. It turns them on.” It turns them on, yes.

“And then you smear your precum over their nose. Or lips.” There isn’t much precum at that point.

“Really not?” —he’s sorry to hear that. He likes precum. Whether I like precum.

Sure I like precum, I just don’t have much of it, at that point.

“Your dick just straight, or curving up?” Curving up. “Yeah, lots of black dicks do that. If you don’t mind. The thing about race.” I don’t mind.

“You, you stand back a bit, they’re on their knees, awed, and you let your dick undulate right into their face.” Not into their face, in front of their face.

“You, you, tip you dick, a bit this way, that way, it swings back into position.” It does.

“It’s fun.” It’s fun.

“Your dick responsive?” Swinging back you mean?

“Yeah.” Fairly responsive—depends on the state of my boner.

“The harder you are, the better.”

“Yes,” I answer, “it’s a test. I may have had some, at that point, some drinks. Booze doesn’t help. But you don’t always know. It’s a good test.”

“A good test, I should try,” he says.

“You never tried?”

“My, dick,” he replies, “uhhm. I prefer not to say.”

“Well, if you want to talk dirty?” (I say). No-no, he doesn’t want to talk dirty.

“So, Martin, your dick right in their face?” In front of their face (I repeat).

“They go cross eyed?” (Some actually do.)

“They mean it?” (How do you mean?)

“It’s for show, their cross-eyes.” (Dunno.)

“It’s not that they are cross-eyed because they are cross-eyed? Over-awed?” (LOL.)

“No, tell me.” (Well, there’s an element of adulation, sometimes.)

“Adulation, undulation, LOL.” (LOL.)

“And then what, Martin?”


“What’s next?”

“Well, obvious.”

“They suck?”

“They suck.”

“Some grab your dick and suck, some don’t grab your dick and suck. I mean, they do suck, but they don’t grab you dick,” he says.

“They usually do. They clutch my dick. You have to be fairly artful to go about it hands-free,” I say.

“Go about it. LOL. But is has occurred? This hands-free going-about.”

“Some people have tried.”

“Some people—if I don’t mind, Martin, how many partners—you have somebody every day?”

I take it easy (I answer).

“How often can you cum per day?” Three, four times.

“Geeze. Geeze.” Nothing special (I say).

“You jerk a lot?”


“In the morning?

“Under the shower, sure.”

“Always?” Always.

“And then?” Then what?

“Your next e-ja-cu-lation, Martin, when does it happen?”

“Depends…sometimes I’m off to the powder room, after lunch.”

“So the powder room would be number two.” Yes.

“This powder room, they don’t have glory holes, right?” They do have glory holes, actually, because I work at SF State. The school, the university. The men’s room off the cafeteria, they have ten stalls in a row, two or three with a glory hole (I explain).

“Two or three?”


“Three stalls or three glory holes?”

“Three stalls.

“Two glory holes, then.” Mathematically, yes.

“You use them a lot, the glory holes?”

“Not a lot, we’re not supposed to have sex with students.”

“But it happens.”

“It happens.”

“I guess it’s you, who…”


“…who sticks his thing through the hole.”

“That would be me, yeah.”

“How would they know you’re a teacher? How would you know they’re students? Dicks are faceless. Is your dick that well-know?”

“Typically I do know, though.”


People know I’m gay (I explain). When I feel like it, I make a round through the cafeteria, past the tables, return the tray, eyes following me, happens. I saunter to the exit, I turn my head, we’re walking down the hall, I turn my head again. It’s plain sailing.

“The students, they like you?”

“Some are older than me.”

“So, now, Martin, you saunter down the hallway and then your turn into the men’s room.” Yes.

“Turning your head one more time.” No. No need to. Twice is enough.

“And you enter one of these special stalls?” If they are free.

“OK, let’s assume the stalls are free,” he says. (Let’s assume.)

“But the guy who’s following you? How does he know which stall you’re in?”

“Well, he followed me.”

“That close?”

“I slow down, make sure he gets it.”

“You won’t lock the stall until you’re sure the guy knows which stall.”

“Along those lines.”

“And then what? You stick your thing right through the hole?”

“Nah, of course not.”

“But you are hard at that point.”

“Sure, my bulge started in the cafeteria already.”

“Cool. There comes the professor promenading his package. Sweet.”

“If you will.”

“You must have an exhibitionist streak.”

“I do,” I say.

“Really,” he says, “really, you like people watching?”

“I like people watching.”

“Good to know,” he says.

There’s a brief pause.

“So, Martin what do you do next?” I peek through the hole.

“You have to stoop to peek through the hole, though.” Yes.

“Make sure it’s the guy who followed you.” Yes.

“Anything else?” The usual thing. The broad stand. I extend my foot. Under the stall separation. Waiting for the guy to react.

“The guy putting his foot out, too?” Yeah, the broad stand.


“So, once you’re satisfied, you stick your thing through the hole.” Yes.

“It’s undulating into the next stall.” LOL.

“Lots of glory hole sex is hands-free though,” James says. “At least according to the porn clips.” According to the porn clips.

“But you must know, you would feel his grip.” Right, you’re right. The dick is kept in place by the hole. You don’t really need your hand.

“And then he sucks.”

“He sucks.”

“He slurps.”

“Not really. You avoid making noises. It’s not a cottage.”

“He gorges on you.”

“He gorges on me.”

Would I say there’s something special to glory hole sex? Better than plain fellatio? “Naah.”

But there’s more focus. “Focus?”

“The only contact is between your dick and his mouth. Concentrates the mind.” You’re right.

“Lots of tongue action. Sideways, down the cock lips, nuzzling the peep hole, that sort of thing.” That sort of thing.

“When he’s good,” James says.

“They are all good. People not good at glory hole sex won’t try,” I say.

“Unless it’s their first time.”

“This is San Francisco, there is no such thing as a first time.”

“So, Martin, the people you get glory-wise, they are good at it.”

“As a rule.”

“Folding their tongue around your crown.”

“Their lips, you mean, folding their lips.”

“Throat action.”

“Throat action.”

“The whole nine yards.”

“Inches, the whole nine inches.”

“While you’re getting a good work-out,” he says.

“My cock is.”

“Didn’t you say you’re not so into fellatio?”

“Not my main thing.”

“Then why do you go for it?”

“Glands fire. I need to get off. And the occasional thrill.”

“Why don’t you just jerk?”

“The thrill factor,” I reply, “you can’t jerk all the time.”

“True, true, that’s so true.” Jerking though—he adds—has a lot to it. One’s grip on one’s flesh, it affords more control. He’s doing it a lot, lately.

“Despite your honey-colored boyfriend?”

Oh, don’t talk to him about Axel…“OK, Martin, that would be number two.”


“Your second orgasm that day. Two more left.” I’m not that organized, I say.

“How about the third?” Well, during the term I’m fairly busy, there may not even be a third one, not every day.

“Every other day?” OK, every other day.

“And?” And what?

“You’re on Grindr?” Yes.

“Your place, his place?” If he has a place, his place. Gives me more flexibility.

“You’re picky?”


“Age, size?”

“Looks. I don’t care for size. I’m large enough myself,” I say.

“Looks, cool. And age?”

“Well, they are correlated, age and looks, aren’t they?”

“You may like Axel,” he says, “if you’re into pretty boys.”

I like pretty boys, but not all of them (I caution).

“The bod? The definition? The face?” Preferably all three, I’m picky.

“But you always find someone.” Not always. I search for twenty minutes, then I give up.

“What do you do then?” Go on Facebook.

“So, that’s why you are on Facebook now?” Yes.

“Having a good time.” LOL.

“Talking dirty.” You said you wouldn’t talk dirty.

“You, you talking dirty.” I just answer your questions.

“So, Martin,”—if I don’t mind—“you came twice today, right?”

(I have to think.) “Yes.”

“And the third time, that would be now. At his Grindr place.” In principle, yes.

“We would be back to your un-du-lation.” Yes.

“But this time it would be more in the way of foreplay.” Yes.

“Warming up.” Warming up.

“The guy knows you’re top, right? First thing they check out on Grindr.”

I’m listed as versatile on Grindr, I say. I’m mostly top, but versatile.

“But these people, once they had a chance to take you in, your organ…”

“You mean to have a good look at it…”

“Once they had a good look at it, there’s only one way for them to go, take it in.” He laughs. “The copy-writer speaking,” he adds. (LOL.)

“Let’s concentrate on the default case. You top them.”


“But we’re going through the fellatio-part first.”

“With Grindr folks, not necessarily. They are fairly direct, you know.”

“OK, but let’s just say, for the sake of argument…”


“…that we’re going through the fellatio-part. Your humongous thing in their maw, they’re impaled on you, literally, it could kill them, their throat completely blocked, your cockhead massaging their tonsils, AARGH, AARGH, only a few minutes and…”

“…this is only if they’re really into deep-throating…” (I say).

“…in which case they know how to handle themselves.” (Yes).

“That’s what you wanted to say, right?” (Yes).

“While you’re throat-fucking them, them snorting right, snorting, your hands still behind the back of their head, FUCK, FUCK, SNORT, FUCK, SNORT, snot dripping down their nostrils.”

“I’m not forcing them or anything, I just let it flow.”

“What’s the pre-cum situation at that point?”

“There is some, sure.”

“So they swallow as well. Adam’s apple going up and down. GULP.”

“Not that much.”

“But they make a point of tilting their tongue, licking it up and down the crack of your cock lips.”

“If we’ve reached that stage, yes.”

“Your bluish cock lips.” They are almost black, my cock lips (I say).

Yeah, right, sure, almost black. Damson.


Yes, he’s sure, damson. Damson is the name for dark-brown-purple.

“You should know, as a copy writer,” I say.

“We’re not trying to cum at that point?” he asks. (We?)

“I mean you.” No.

“You never cum at that point?” Not trying, at least.

“Come on, it must have happened on occasion…”—I wouldn’t take an oath.

“They know you’re not planning to cum?” We’ve negotiated a fuck, normally.

“But, Martin, but…”

“If I reach the tipping point…”

“…which can happen when they’re real-good…”

“…I just withdraw.”

“They understand.”

“I say ho, or something,” (I say).

“You talked about rimming.” (Yes).

“You them or them you?”

“Them me.”

“You insist on it.”


“Isn’t necessarily part of the deal?”

“Rarely comes up in a Grindr conversation. It’s about top-bottom, mostly.”

“OK, Martin, but so, now—you, you are into rimming, right?” Yeah.

“What do you do? You just stand there? You start an articulate conversation? Like, like, what’s his name, Gabriel, say, right, ‘Gabriel, would you mind your tongue on my inviting sphincter’…like that?”

“Most handles on Grindr are aka’s,” I say.

“That’s why I’m saying. Gabriel.”

“It’s rarely Gabriel,” I say. “It’s Tanner, and Brenner, and Channing of course, that sort of thing.”

Tanner is fine with him. Channing is even better. He sometimes gets off on a picture of Channing Tatum.

“You don’t do Grindr?” I ask. No, he don’t, he’s too introverted, normally.

“We’re chatting now.” Yeah, today is special…“Channing,” (he reiterates).


“What do you do then, you talk them into it?” He asks. Some are into rimming anyhow (I answer).

“And the others?”

“Sometimes I just say: ‘I go clean my pussy, I’ll be back.’”

“Sweet, Martin, from A to B, the shortest way. It works?”

“Not always, obviously.”

“Hygiene is an issue…” Obviously.

“So you’re off to the powder room again.” Not the same one.

“Martin, how do you clean your ass? Tissue, wet tissue, baby wipers?” If it’s my place I just have a brief shower…

“Working a piece of soap into you shoot hole.” Yes, that’s the way to do it.

“And if it’s not your place?” Shower, whatever.

“When you, Martin, when you are having that particular shower, how does it fare, your erection, in the meantime?” (Haha.)

“You maintain it, your erection?” (Usually, yes.) “You don’t have to make an effort, some intermittent stroking perhaps?” (Rarely.) “He’s not joining you, for a shower?” (Sometimes). “Oh, cool, now we’re getting into soap sex.” (If you want to?)

“No, let’s stay with the rimming part. You emerge from the shower, cock first, still undulating, you’re dick…we’re in Channing’s bedroom now, we can assume.” (We can assume.) “You do it on the bed?” (Easiest.)

There’s a pause.

“You’re hard?” he asks.

“Well, didn’t I just say?”

“No, I mean you’re hard now?”

There’s a tinge, in fact, between my legs. I say (though): “No, I’m not, sorry.”

((I’m not asking whether he is hard)).

Another pause.

“OK, Martin, so, we’re back in the bedroom. You’ll be on the receiving end of this. What do you do? You crouch? You lie down, prone, legs stretched wide?”

“I let it flow,” I say. “My favorite position is recumbent, legs in the air, bottom raised.”

“So that’s what you do, you lie down, legs in the air, bottom raised invitingly.”

“Unless the guy has a better idea.”

“You’re flexible.” (As I said.)

“And now the rimming starts.”

“We’ve painted us into a corner, we have not much choice,” (I say).

LOL (he says).

“The rimming starts. His tongue on your sphincter, playing with the anal ring...” (Yeah).

“His hands on your butt cheeks, pulling them apart…no oil?”

“Oil, depends.”

(He prefers oil): “Oiled up, the whole thing, butt cheeks, crack, hole. A playful smack of an oily hand on a cheeky ass, the sound is different, the slapping.” (Yes, sure.)

“His nose buried in your crack and his tongue probing the inside, the dooky.” (It’s fun).

“It’s fun for him, but it’s more fun for you. Your nerves dance. The sensitivity of the sphincter. Wired, the sphincter. Sheer sensuality. Or lust. That’s the word, lust. Am I right?” (Absolutely.)

“The electricity of the sensation, the swishy sound of his tongue, and you’re moaning. You’re moaning, right.” (Yeah).

“And he’s at it. He’s at it. Your voltage rising. This has never been so good.” (Yeah).

Brief pause.

“You’re hard, now?”

(I am, in fact.) “A tinge,” I say.

“That’s what’s so nice about sex, isn’t it? The electricity of it”—if I mind a difficult word—“the transcendence.” (Yeah).

“Channing goes on and on. Your underbelly is on fire, the whole region, you’re about to pop.” (Almost).

“Sometimes you do.” (Yes).

“Usually you withdraw, just in time.” (Right).

“Sometimes it’s not so great, because the guy isn’t good at it.”

“It’s always great,” I answer. “Rimming is easy, easier than blowing. Works for me, rimming. Always.”

He’s glad to hear that. I may be on to something. He needs to think about this. Whether I think rimming is undervalued.

“Dunno,” I say.

He’s just saying, A subject for a deeper conversation on Yelp perhaps, on any of these pages for EROS or The Hot Tubs. Or even Mission Control.

“So, Martin, you’re about to pop, but you won’t, and least you don’t want to, you don’t want to cum, yet.”

“No, right.”

“It’s tough.” (Sometimes).

“Come to think of it, Martin, that’s actually the best part of sex, this moment. You’re about to cum, you’re about to cum…suspended in mid-air…”


“Each and every second of this, heaven on earth.”


“It should last forever.”


“At that point, not cumming is even better than cumming.”


“So, what do you do?”

“Not cumming?”

“Not cumming.”

“I roll sideways, withdraw.”


“Sometimes I say, I’m about to pop, or something.”

“Well, you could, couldn’t you, you pop. Take a break. Have a drink. Regroup.”

“I’m not into endless sessions,” I say, “I prefer to keep it reasonably short.”

“OK,” he says, he understands. “So, you don’t pop. At least you’re trying. You’re on the cusp, though. You need a time-out.”


“So, what do you do?”

“I have a cigarette.”

“You SMOKE?”

“Only on those occasions.” OK, good, he was getting concerned. “Only on those occasion.”

“Good…so, Martin, you light a cigarette…if Channing lets you.” (They usually do).

“Right. So, now we’re getting into the main course.”

“Main course?”

“The anal part.”

“We went anal some time ago.”—No, he means the fucking, “the fucking. Laying pipe.”

“Laying pipe,” I echo.

There is another pause.

“Hold on,” he says. He has an idea. Where do I live?

“Why do you need to know?” I ask.

Because, because…he has an idea. Where do I live?

“Twenty-third,” I say.

“Twenty-third, that’s us. Cool. Neighbors we are.”

“No,” I say.


“I live on the bad side of Potrero Hill, in the ghetto.”

“Oh my…nobody lives there.”

“Black people do.”

“You don’t need to live there.”

It’s cheap, (I explain). I’m a junior instructor, I’m paid shit. SF State is bankrupt.

“OK, you take a taxi. How do you go to work?”

“Mountain bike.”

“Sure, on Potrero, you need a mountain bike. It’s what, it’s less than 10 minutes on your mountain bike.”

“No, 25 minutes.”

“To your school.”


“But to my place it’s 10 minutes. We’re off Castro.”

“I’m not so sure…” (I say).

“Sure,” he says, “you like pretty boys, don’t you.” He reiterates a description of his Axel: the hair, the cuteness, toned, the body—they have a gym in the basement, the only thing Axel does for a living.

“Mmh,” I say.

“And you like being watched. Didn’t you say.” (True.)

“I’ll do the watching,” he says.

(I’m rock-hard now).

“Here’s a picture,” he says. A photo of a male person appears in the chat window. This could be any Axel of course, but the picture is quite OK, sort of mid-list rock-star style plus horn rims, golden boy pushing thirty but not really trying.

“Look,” he says, “you’ve just spent 20 futile minutes on Grindr, I’m offering you this cutie here, what do you say?”

“You are offering me this cutie? What do you mean?”

Well, the prob is, the prob is, Axel really needs a good cock up his ass, that’s what he needs, Axel.

“He’s with you at the moment?”

Well, Axel’s upstairs. He—James—is downstairs.

“Upstairs, downstairs. You’re a nice couple.”

“You take your dirt bike, or you take Uber, I refund you.”

“It’s a mountain bike.”

“Mountain bike,” (he says).

“Axel,” I ask, “he’s in on this?”


“Your scheme. Laying pipe?”

“Not yet. Not yet.”

“How about… you’re going to check this with Axel first?”

No-no. It’s Axel’s birthday today, it’s a surprise.

“Let me get this clear,” I say, “you want me to come over to your place to stick it into your boyfriend while your boyfriend is being kept in the dark about this?”

“Yes, more or less.”

“Surprise…what do you mean? You want me to rape him?”

No-no, of course not, he’ll come around, Axel.

“He’ll come around?”

James can assure me, it won’t be rape. Not at all.

“Well,” I say, “if you say so. Still.”

“Look, I’ll be in the basement,” he says. “There are four gym machines plus some other equipment. I don’t want Axel to see me. There’s a dead corner. I’ll be in the dead corner.”


“Look, you arrive, you ring the bell. We’re number 4080, a Victorian row house, nothing special. Old-fashioned bell, like on a bicycle.” (OK.)

“Axel's usually on the second floor, still in bed, watching porn on his iThing. Plan A. He’s aroused already.”

“It’s six PM now,” I say.

“Six PM, yes. The way it is. Plan A. If you don’t hear footfalls, it’s Plan B. He’s already on the first floor, after his morning jerk. Chill. Plan A or B, doesn’t matter, in fact.”


“He opens the door. You say you the plumber.” (What?)

“Laying pipe, that’s what plumbers do.” (LOL.)

“Try to look like a plumber.” (Huh?)

“Focused. Professional.”

“I won’t carry a bag,” I say.

“He is low information. You say: ‘James called me. The leak. In the basement.’”


“If he asks about your bag, you repeat: ‘In the basement.’ No, wait…you say…’I do free-solo plumbing. Like free-solo climbing. It’s trending,’ you say. You show him the palms of your black hands.”

“My palms are white.”

“OK, you get it.” (OK.)

“You say: ‘I’ll show you. Using my spare hands.’”

“Bare hands, you mean.”

“Whatever. You sort of are 'Where's the basement?' He’s sort of docile after his jerk, he’ll lead you down to the gym.” (OK.)

“There are slings there. That’s the other equipment. The slings are in the corner. Nobody used them for some time. They're in disarray. You know about slings?” (Yes.)

“OK, right…now I have it together…you point at the slings. You say: 'Cool.' Or ‘sweet’.” (Cool.)

“He possibly goes ‘Yeah.’ ‘They’re in disarray,’ you say. Use the word ‘disarray.’ Difficult words turn him on.”

“Disarray,” I enunciate.

“Then you say, let me show you, you say, and you start handling the chains. ‘Here,’ you say, ‘this goes here, and that goes there.’ You have to improvise. It’s a hammock sling with a leather bottom. Once you’ve sorted the thing out…I have it together…you point at the leather bottom, and you say, ‘Would you mind?’ He goes: ‘What,’ or something. You say: ‘See if we got it right.’ Right. ‘We got it right. Would you mind?’ He’ll oblige and sit down.”

“And if not?” I ask.

“You pull him up and seat him down, right there.”

“If he resists?”

“You take him by surprise. But it won’t come to that. He’ll sit down, doci-le-ly.”


“There are shackles on the chains. Left wrist, click, snap. Right wrist, click, snap. Left ankle. Snap. Right ankle. Snap.”

“He won’t stay docile.”

“Too late. ‘Too late,’ you say.”

“He yells. Screams for help. Neighbors would hear us.”

“Nah, they used to him. He screams all the time. There’s some electric tape somewhere, on a shelf, yes, next to the lube. But you won’t need it, the tape. Let him yell. He has a high-pitched yell, like the cable car in the corner of Powell and Jackson.” (LOL.)

“You know what you do next, right? You chuck your shirt. Don’t say anything. Give him time. Keep the pants on. Let him stare at your biceps. Roll your shoulders blades. A touch of flexing. Your silky skin. A hint of go-go. All he needs. And a smile. Your pearly teeth. He’s into black skin. His screaming will soften to some childish blubber. That’s the moment. ‘Daddy will show you’ you say. And you drop your pants. He goes ‘Oh My God, Oh My God.’”

“If I have a hard on,” I say.

“You will, you will. Besides, doesn’t matter. I know my Axel.”

“Then what?”

“You know how to handle the slings, right? They are adjustable. That’s the whole point. Make him level with your crotch.”


“You know how to handle slings?” (Yes).

“Right, so, you undo the carbine hooks on the pulley block, you pull him up, or down, I’d guess you have to pull him up. Be fussy. The itchy sound of the stainless steel. Arousing.”

“He’s still dressed at that point.”

“Track shorts and a T shirt. No prob.”


“Let me think. You stand back. Perhaps you changed your mind. You fall silent. You listen to your inner self. At that point you’re hard, we hope. You point at your cock.” (LOL.)

“‘Wanna try?’ you ask disarmingly—it’s a pity we work without tape. Would be fun, him moaning ‘Yeah, yeah’ under the tape. Anyhow—you unshackle his ankles, pull off his shorts. T-shirt doesn’t matter. OK?” (OK).

“Now that you have direct access, there’s more need for adjustment. His legs are wide apart, you’re satisfied with nothing. An inch up, an inch down. Each time a mock penetration, half an inch deep, your crown on his hole. ‘AARGH,’ he yells, ‘AARGH.’ That sort of thing. His ass is very dry. Every nanometer counts.” (Right.)

“Bear with me. You’re finally done adjusting. You slap his cheek. You caress the back of his head, then you slap his cheek again. Some mock cruelty, soft BDSM. ‘Ready?’ you ask. ‘Yeah,’ he moans. ‘Where’s the lube,’ you ask. You know where the lube is, on the shelf, right? Not too much lube. It should hurt a bit. The hurt, that’s the orgasmic potential for later on. Right?”


“He knows. Nothing swishy-swishy. You understand? There should be friction, you understand.” (Yes.)

“He wants to suffer.” (Yes.)

“Hurt equals lust. The magic formula. He knows.” (OK.)

“The tiniest amount of lube on your purple cock lips.”

“They are black,” (I say.)

“Doesn’t matter, the tiniest amount. Nothing swishy-swishy.” (OK).

“The sling swings well, but you don’t need that in the beginning. ‘We’re ready for laying pipe?’ you ask.”

“He know black jargon?”

“He knows enough. He goes: ‘Yeah, fuck me, fuck me.’ He knows. He’s tight. Tight.”

“Good,” I say.

“You really need to focus. Your crown on his sphincter. Nanowork. (Yes).

“Add some more lube if it doesn’t work.” (Yes).

“Borderline, you understand. Borderline. One more drop of lube. Or spit. Spit is better, actually. Let’s keep it lube-free. You spit on your cock, spit, spit. Until your purple, your shiny cock lips gleam in the overhead lights. And the next thing? You waste him. With your shiny sausage. All the nines, they go in at once. ‘OUOUOUHG. AARGHH.’ He yells.”

“Or not,” I say.

“He yells anyhow. Corner of Powell and Jackson.”

“I mean, I can’t stick it.”

“Yeah, I’m thinking. Listen, at that point you’re on your own. You improvise. You’re in in one go, that’s plan A-A. If not, you work piecemeal. Step by step. Two inches should doable. ‘OUOUOUHG. AARGHH,’ he’ll moan. Stay with him. ‘Stay with me,’ you say. ‘AARGHH. AARGHH,’ he screams. You wait till he’s done screaming. Then you pull out.”


“Borderline. More saliva. And there you go again. Three, four inches. ‘OUOUOUHG, OUOUOUHG’ he moans. He means YES.”

“Can I ask you a question?” I say.


“How do you do it, then?”

“Like fucking him?”


“I can’t get in. That’s our problem. One of our problems.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Where were we? Four inches. You pull out. Six inches. ‘AARGHH. AARGHH, NOOOH.’ Your precum should help.”

“It should.”

“Your precum will do the job at that point. Each time you wait, OK? Before you pull out. OUOUOUHG, OUOUOUHG. You wait he’s done screaming. You wait his nerve endings have settled down.”

“This is the moment. His hurt turns into lust. Pure lust, you understand. ‘Fuck,’ he’ll say. ‘Fuck,’ you say. ‘Fuck me,’ he pleads.”


“And there you go. The perfect sex machine. Thrust per thrust per thrust. AARGHH, OUOUOUHG. FUCK-YEAAH-FUCK-YEAAH-FUCK ME. AARGHH, AARGHH. He moans, He blubbers. He pleads. FUCK-YEAAH-FUCK ME. DEEPER, DEEPER, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK YEAH. You and your dick, Martin, at that point, they become one. Nothing left of you but your dick. You’re fucking the whole planet. Like this Tom of Finland picture. AARGHH, OUOUOUHG. FUCK, FUCK, FUCK…You get the picture?”


“And then you pull out. All of a sudden. Like it’s Halloween. Trick or treat.”

“How do you mean.”

“You pull out and stand back. I appear out of nowhere and take over. You’ve heard of relay fucks, right?”

“Fuck you!”

“You know what,” he says, “I just came.”

“Fuck you!”

Whether I mind. He’ll stay with me until I cum.

“OK”, I say. Pants drop, a few jerks, the side of my hand on my ball sack, and a beautiful rope of my jizz hits the scream of the laptop. I’m a quick cummer.

“Great, he says. Great. We must do this again. CU.”

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