Bye, Bye, John

[SDBoneyard]

Bye, Bye, John

I liked John because he was big, hairy, arrogant, and married. It’s also why I had no problem charging him up once I knew I was POZ.

I don’t remember how we met. It was probably through an ad I placed on one of the computer mailing lists I’m on. Or maybe he read my computer profile, liked it and contacted me. I was going to the baths now and then and laying on my stomach so guys could come in and use my hole. This was before I met Jose who I finally let knock me up big time. In any case, I was surprised when John showed up.

John’s about 6 feet, 200 and something, very hairy, solidly build. Half Hispanic and half Italian. John had the macho of one combined with the “do-me” attitude of the other. He claimed he’d only been with a couple guys and actually got the shakes the first time I blew him, so I knew he was telling the truth. I’m not usually into middle-class dudes, even the married ones, but something told me to bear with it and just wait a few weeks and see what was under that nicey nice suburban façade. Besides, his ass was all hairy and solid and it totally turns me on to blow a wad into a married butt hole.

John was (note the continued past tense) one of those guys who thinks discrete means shutting off the porch light, then the living room lights once he gets here, turn the living room light on when he’s ready to leave, John exits, and then the porch light goes back on. Well, Mary, if that ain’t signaling to the neighbors that I’m entertaining again . . .

All it took was a couple weeks of encouragement, of letting John know this was all about HIS pleasure, that I’m not a pussy and won’t break if he needs to get rough. Not only was it OK to drop in late night, but he should drop in late night if he needed to get off. I mean, he’s straight. He deserves it, right? Heh.

It turned out that John wasn’t a hitter, though he did smack me a couple of times. And he wasn’t into verbal abuse, though he did call me a couple of names. John was basically a nice guy and wanted to get something very simple that he wasn’t getting at home―he wanted to feel appreciated. Which meant me down on my knees in the dark, licking caressing, stroking John’s body, telling him how great his body was:

“I like your thighs.”

“―Why?”

“Cause they’re big, and hairy. They’re thick, sweaty, taste good.”

“―What else do you like?”

“Your balls.”

“―What do you like about my balls?”

“They’re big and warm. Sweaty. You’ve made babies.”

“―What else do you like?”

“You’re uncut. I really like that. You’re big (Lie Pinocchio.). You use it to fuck pussy.” (Married guys don’t like to be reminded of their wives. The kids are OK, and they totally get off on the illusion they’re pussyhounds out there getting it. But, they wouldn’t brag about having saved a load for three days for you if that part was true.)

This probably all seems silly, but John was so sincere and so into being appreciated and, hey, it worked for the two of us and that’s what matters. This went on for a couple months. John would come by after he finished jogging, so he was damp and sweaty and that was one more thing I liked. And if he was an extra five minutes getting home and had a slightly heavier sweat, who’d notice?

Then, one day I get a piece of email: “Want it? . . . No rubber? . . . Take the load?” And this is, like, totally, what I’ve been craving. Some hairy married Daddy to come over on a regular basis and flood me with his babies. I’d been jerking off thinking about John doing this for quite awhile. I got nervous, because if John’s with me, he’s probably with five other guys. You know what sluts married men are. Then, I realized, like, dude you’re getting it up the butt at the baths, what’s one more load?

Only I wanted some of John’s hole. My tongue had been up there a few times and a finger, but I wanted the real thing. So I decide, do like the ad says, and go for it. I emailed back saying I wasn’t really into that and knew he wasn’t either, but since I liked him, I’d be willing to give it a try if he would.

And John said yes, and that’s how I poisoned his arrogant clueless ass.

But, that’s getting ahead of the story. He wanted to fuck me first, so I gave him enough to cause a major case of blue balls when I pulled off and said my turn. Even though I’d rimmed him a little and opened him up some with my finger you could tell it really hurt, which was cool with me, cause if the fuck doesn’t hurt, the Top’s not doing his job. I’m not into cherry-popping virgins, but it probably really was his first time. So I shot fast and then gave John my hole. It hurt and I wanted it to last forever cause I’m into getting pain from str8 dudes. So I kept telling John how great he was, which was like totally untrue with anyone else but me. I wanted him to hump me for a long time and made sure he took his time with long slow strokes before blasting off.

We got into the habit of taking turns raw. It was like a new toy. John couldn’t get enough of my butt and taking the load up his. Cool, right? Except all this time, I’d been going to the baths here in San Diego once a month and taking a load or two. I’d met an inked ex-con there who started knocking on my door when he needed a piece. I was sticking my neg butt in the air and begging for el SIDA from that uncut Mexican cock. Typical male, I kept these in two separate compartments.

I wondered how I was gonna tell John that we shouldn’t fuck anymore. Or that he should get tested. Then I realized, man, all those times I was on my knees begging John to let me lick his asshole, I wanted to see him cry, just once. Just break down, tears, blubber, totally lose it. Yuh, I had some guilt about John sharing our gift with wifey and the kids losing their Daddy. But, I got over it.

So, fast forward, I got the fuck flu, felt totally mixed up (and can tell the rest of that story another time). But now I know John’s got whatever’s in me and I feel totally affectionate towards him. Evil, but affectionate.

Only this doesn’t last very long, because one night John comes over and after we do out usual fuck-fuck routine, he puts on that “I have serious news” face and tells me his company is transferring him to the East Coast.

And then I put on mine and say, “John, I’m POZ. I just found out I’m HIV positive.” John tells me I shouldn’t joke like that and I tell him I’m not joking and John says it’s not funny and I agree and say he should get tested. And that’s when it starts to hit. And his eyes start to water. In fencing they taught us where to stab the opponent so you can miss the vital organs and they bleed to death. So I assured him he’d probably be OK, and that there’s lots of new meds on the market that keep people alive longer. . . heh. And I’m being like totally sympathetic and then casually drop in that anyone else he’s been with should get tested as well.

John collapses down onto the couch and starts crying his eyes out. I can tell he’s into shock, because what does he say? Not, my wife. Not, my kids. But, “my job”! The poor dude’s worried about missing a promotion.

And this is what I’ve wanted to see for a long time: Big, hairy Daddy on the couch crying his eyes out because he got knocked up by a fag.

Well, I apologized, we cried (I’m not heartless), and snuggled. We fucked a second time that night! A beautiful caring lay. John moved after that and I never saw him again. Can’t say I’m sorry though.