Wednesday, November 18, 2015

Not the hookup type

When Sam Smith achingly explains in that reflective tone on the cusp of falsetto that he's not that great at the hookup, I can't help but empathize.  Not because I'm the same way.  Ha!  That's obviously not the case as this blog shows, which even as it encroaches on a quarter thousand entries, it only captures a fraction of my experiences.  But it's not quite sympathy either.  See, I almost approach these encounters with the same hope of possibilities that I do when listening to the radio, or Pandora, or a music blog... Soundcloud...  It's that anticipation in the exploration that I crave and that big payoff when I listen to something new that penetrates the physical layers and strums something deep within beyond the actual, beyond the logical, straight to the emotional.  That moment of discovery that the record industry is trying so desperately trying to commoditize in light of the fracture of record labels.  That moment where something just utterly blows you away.  Yes, you think.  And you play it over and over to scratch that itch and revisit that flood of emotions, good or bad, that's an echo of that time that you found that new thing that just hit the right nerve and it harmonized to set the fuse leading to firecracker explosions of fuck yeah.

But that's just me.  My promiscuity that has resulted to a level of frivolity that not everyone understands.  It fills that space where I'm not looking for another significant other.  But my sexual conquests aren't anonymous disposable napkins either.  To fulfill that elation from discovery, you gotta dig in and know a guy or be perceptive enough to deduce it from his microactions.  Really drill it into a guy while you're drilling into a guy.  Thoroughly fuck him in five different dimensions.

So I get it when you're a Sam Smith.

He works for a university in the financial aid department and finally decided to move out to his own apartment.  We've been chatting off and on for a couple years and finally our schedules worked out.  He knew what was up.  I didn't hide the fact that I was partnered.  And he didn't hide the fact that he has a week off and wouldn't mind breaking in his new apartment.

He poured me a glass of wine when we got there and we talked.  Talked about everything and nothing.  Family, real estate, pets.  Educational institutions.  Technology.  My hand was always present.  On his neck, stroking his back, hovering over his forearms to lightly rake his fuzz in different directions.  He sighs and loses his train of thought every now and then when I do something that awakens something in him.  And as my questions probe to lighten the shadows in the picture I've formed in my mind, my lips formed things other than words.  Not words but symbols, a character he can reach at the crossroads of his mind between the personal and the sensual.  To the point that our lips meet to vocalize a need beyond the words.

And yes, we ended up in his bed where I fucked a load out of him, a load so urgent it rained down onto his pillow and shot his eye.  Cum right in the eye.  Funny that despite over a couple decades of experience, when I'm fucking and stroking a guy I forgot to aim somewhere other than straight at his face when he's about to cum.  You can't help but be distracted when a guy likes naked and emotionally bare before you.

He messages me an adequate number of days after to say he enjoyed the encounter and with as wistful of a sigh that can be expressed over messages in an app he notes that I was the first hookup in a long time.  Almost a year.  And he scratches as the memories of our passionate kisses and my hard cock in his ass to freshen them in his mind.  Then he offers me a place to stay when I'm in town.  I understand the sentiment.  But for me, it's less about shortcutting that path to intimacy, less about resting upon a proven foundation where the chemistry works and isn't awkward and is comfortable, and it's more about reliving that memory of discovery, that moment where I got to bathe in new perspectives and new ideas, new thoughts and interactions.  So yes, I'd love to play again.  But I'm gonna feel like a bit of a fraud as I evade the questions about my promiscuity.  I won't lie but through lies of omission.  Because I feel this intense responsibility to preserve that delight of discovery that first time, both for me and for him.  And next time I'm with him, I'll honor that by being fully present.  'Cause that's what he wants.  That's what he needs.  I see you kiddo.  And because I see you, I hide a part of me behind a (sheer) curtain.


Not Alone said...


That is what it is all about. I long for the excitement, and thrill of the unknown. I have been with one guy in Milwaukee three times, and the last two the motions were exactly the same. He does this, then we do this, then he fucks me like that, then we do 69, then like that, and he goes to the bathroom and cleans up, then we fuck like this, and I cum.

NEW Adventures... Why do you think we cheat?

Bruce Chang said...

I used to make excuses like how my partner and I are both tops but that's only a small part of the reason why...