[Breeder] Three Encounters

[TheBreeder]

To see Breeder's original blog post click here

Earlier this week I wrote about the obsessive list I kept in my teens of the men with whom I had sex—every encounter I recorded in minute script and a code so elaborate it took me long minutes to figure out thirty years on, when I re-discovered the last last weekend.

I had so many positive responses, both in the comments on my journal and in private emails, that I thought I’d share a few more of the brief entries and see what I could remember about them.

Red hair beard 35 flannel shirt, Jefferson Hotel, + - $

This is the second entry in my list. It was the first stranger I had sex with. The second dick I ever took.

The public library downtown, in the city where I grew up, was mostly a pleasant modern building that had opened just a couple of years before I became sexually active. The basement of the public library downtown, was a scary place in what was left of the building’s original section. The men’s room was a dark and gloomy two-seater near the children’s section, and it was the first place I ever saw any graffiti advertising gay sex action. Suck my Sock here Tuesdays 1-2, was the first ad I ever read on a restroom wall. It took my innocent self a couple of weeks of wondering why anyone would suck a sock to realize that someone had added a curlicue beneath the first C of the word cock. Once I made that connection, it completed a electric circuit to my dick and I was on my way.

One Saturday morning, when I was supposed to be studying, I was down in the basement hoping to find some dick. I didn’t have long to wait. The door flew open with a shriek and admitted a man with an unruly mane of auburn hair and an equally unkempt beard. (He wasn’t homeless. This was merely the nineteen-seventies.) In his plaid flannel shirt, he looked a little bit like the Brawny paper towel man, which was not a bad thing. Through the crack in the stall door I watched him cross the little bathroom and sit in the other stall. Through the peephole between us I watched him drop his pants, then lower his head. I could see a green eye staring at mine.

I knew enough about cruising etiquette that when he flashed his hard dick at me through the peephole, I flashed mine back, stroking it for him to see. It couldn’t have been very long back then, or very hairy, but god knows I was turned on and not ashamed to show it.

A moment later, through the peephole he thrust a blue Bic pen surrounded with toilet paper. I unfolded the tissue. What do you want to do? it read.

I don’t know, I wrote back.

After I’d returned the pen and paper, it only took a moment for it to reappear. How old are you, kid? he'd scrawled.

14, I wrote back. I’d lied and added on two years to my age, naively thinking that it’d make a difference.

There was a very long pause. I thought I heard him sigh. I watched through the peephole as he used the wall as a writing desk. His fiery red dick was still rock hard and pointing to the ceiling as he wrote. When he thrust the pen back, the tissue around it read, I’ll give you $10 to let me suck you here. Or $50 if you go to the Jefferson Hotel with me and let me do what I want.

What do you want? I wrote.

My dick throbbed at the answer. I want you to suck and swallow my dick and then I want to suck you off.

Well, you can guess which one I picked. My allowance at the time was a dollar-fifty a week. We went to the Jefferson Hotel down the street—an elaborate, old-school hotel that at the time was slightly stodgy and in disrepair. He didn’t have a hotel room there, but instead took me to another restroom where we spent an uninterrupted twenty-five minutes sucking out each other’s loads before he gave me a combination of fives, tens, and a twenty. I went home with a stain on my shirt and a new knowledge that not all cum tasted the same.

Gym Teacher, curly black hair mustache gym shorts gym shoes, Carillon drive, + - @

Apparently I was impressed by this guy’s gym attire. I remember the encounter well, though, because when I spotted the man cruising the restroom near the park carillon, he was wearing a pair of shiny shorts, a T-shirt, and a pair of those dreadful calf-high athletic socks with the multi-colored stripes near the top that everyone wore in the mid-nineteen-seventies. And I know he was a gym teacher because one of the first questions he asked me, after he demanded my age (to which I added two years), was what school I went to. “Oh, that’s okay then,” he said, when I told him which one (truthfully). He named a school on the city’s south side and told me he worked there. “I teach gym. Just wanted to make sure I wouldn’t be running across you unexpectedly. Whew.”

Whew indeed.

It was a late August dusk when I met him. This park was further away than the one I usually frequented, so I’d made up some bullshit excuse to my parents so I could stay out later than they might ordinarily allow. My bike was chained up, so I allowed the gym teacher to take me to his car. He drove away from the park and stopped on one of the dark residential streets, and turned off the ignition. When everything was quiet, we climbed through the gap into the front seats into the back. He sat me on his lap, and made out with him. Even at my young age I knew he wasn’t particularly good at it.

It didn’t matter, though, because kissing and affection wasn’t what he wanted. He lifted me up and yanked down my shorts. His hand curled around his lips as he spat into his fingers. Then I felt myself being speared by his spit-slick dick.

The entire time he fucked me, he kept his eyes closed as if he were thinking of someone else, or pretending I wasn’t there. There was a long moment of suspense in which he stopped fucking when a car drove down the sleepy street. Its headlights danced over us for a second. We’d arrested our movements and sat very still until it drove away. Then his piston-like fucking resumed.

After he’d filled me up and we’d crawled back into the front of his boat of a car, he didn’t say a word to me until he’d driven me back to the point where’d he’d picked me up. “Okay. See ya,” he said, leaning across to open the door for me.

And that was that.

Shirley. +

I didn’t need any more notation for this one. Shirley was a colleague of my father’s. A male colleague—he'd been named Shirley in the grand tradition of many fathers and sons in Virginia tradition. He'd seemed an ancient man to me in my teens, though he wouldn’t have been any older than his late fifties at the time. Shirley had one of the thickest southern accents I’d heard, and trust me, I’d heard many a thick accent from my Georgia relatives. When I think about Shirley I actually picture Colonel Sanders in my head, which is not at all what he looked like. But Shirley was of the same iconic archetype of grand old southern gentleman. And he was what was politely called, back then, a confirmed bachelor.

Which is why I wasn’t surprised when I saw Shirley’s enormous automobile cruising up and down the back road in the park I normally haunted for sex, when I started cruising. He drove past where I sat pretending to read by the duck pond. On the second trip, he slowed down and looked at me with recognition. It was on the third trip that he stopped the car, called my name, and announced, “I do declare.” Then, after a moment’s silence, he said, “I was wondering if you wanted to set in my car with me a spell.”

We parked near the picnic structure and sat there in silence for a long while, staring straight ahead. After a few moments, his hand landed on my left thigh and rested there, not moving. We continued to gaze out the windshield as if we were birdwatching.

It was a good five minutes before he finally said, “Do you mind?” in the same tone he might have used if I’d put a drinking glass on one of his antiques that he intended to lift in order to put a coaster underneath. Then, when I nodded, he unzipped my pants and proceeded to give me the most polite and genteel blowjob I’d ever received (or have gotten since).

When he was done swallowing my load and dabbing at his lips with a handkerchief, he said, “Shall we have a gentleman’s agreement not to mention our dalliance, then?” I nodded, not really wishing to talk about it with him. He shook my hand, I got out, and we parted.

Until the following week, that is, when we did the exact thing all over again.

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[evilqueerpig]

If your postings here are a prelude to your memoirs, I'm looking forward to reading them.....if not getting myself included in a chapter or two.