[Skin On Skin] Fucked on the Upper West Side

[rawTOP]

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So, in keeping with my fucktales catch-up theme, it's time to tell you about the really hot time I had with a guy from Kuwait.

I was at Campus Thursdays at Splash on one of those really cold nights last month, when it came time to go home. There were cute boys, there was good music, I was having a good time - but it was just time. I had a lot to do, I wasn't feeling great, etc.

As I waited for the uptown 1 train at 18th St, I noticed this hot Middle Eastern guy who had been in the bar glancing my way. He had a buzz cut, light scruff, one of those cool leather jackets with no collar that I'm dying to have (here's another one that's actually approaching my price range), and even under the jacket you could tell he was really built (which I already knew from seeing him on the dance floor at Splash).

I stood by the edge of the platform, looking down the track to see if the train was coming.

"We just missed it," he said with a slight accent.

"Oh, that's too bad," I said. "Better have a seat, then, huh? I'm Adam."

Well, that was an easy enough first contact! I thought to myself.

"I'm Salim," he said [not his real name]. He extended his hand and we shook. His hand was powerful. I started to get a little hard but tried to control myself.

We went through the small talk, the "I saw you dancing," etc. Eventually the train pulled into the station, and we rode up. I enjoyed his company and the conversation. I asked for his number as we pulled into my stop in Midtown.

"I don't usually give that out," he said. I felt a little disappointed and (to be honest) I felt a little foolish for thinking he was interested. I have lost a lot of muscle tone since the beginning of winter, not to mention muscle mass. Maybe I just didn't have it anymore.

As I prepared to exit, I said, "Well, then, it was nice to meet you, have a great night!" I started to walk out the doors of the train.

"But don't you want to come to my place?" he said, loudly enough to be audible to anyone in the car. I stopped in my tracks and looked around. About thirty pairs of eyeballs were trained on me in surprised expectation.

"Um, sure!" I said, a little more loudly than I needed to: "I haven't seen it since you redecorated!" (Yeah, that'll fool 'em!, I thought to myself sarcastically.) Confusion registered on his face, so I quickly changed the subject back to the conversation we had been enjoying before.

We got to his place on the Upper West Side (near one of my favorite Chinese restaurants, actually) and he took me upstairs. The doorman smirked at me knowingly in a way that clued me into the fact that this guy was probably a big old slut (said the bareback blogger hypocritically).

Upstairs, we got comfortable and sat down. Then, he started smoking - ack! Now, you should know, I hate being around tobacco smoke. I think it's disgusting, it's deadly, it's smelly, it makes people (and cum) taste bad - there is nothing at all sexy about it. A strange thing, happened, though... in looking at him in disbelief (he didn't even ask permission!), I started to find that it kind of made him hotter and more exotic to me - my dick got completely rock hard in no time flat. But I quickly let him know that it caused me respiratory problems and he apologetically extinguished the offending item.

He leaned in to kiss me, and his breath wasn't actually nearly as bad as I expected, so we went for it. Soon we were tangled in an extremely passionate tongue-fest that was equal parts panting and grinding. One garment after another went flying against the wall or the bookshelf or over the top of his flatscreen... till finally I was gobbling his gorgeous cock with its gentle upward curve, all the way to the base.

After a few minutes of me sucking him, he said, "I want to be inside you."

In the heat of the moment, HIV disclosure is NOT easy, let me tell you. That's why I much prefer to talk about it on a dance floor in the lull between being those people making out on the dance floor and heading out the door together, or online, where it's just spelled out. So, in that moment, rather than bringing up the buzzkill that is HIV, I just said, "Cool. I have condoms and lube." They were in my bag beside the couch, so I reached in with one hand while we made out some more.

He was on top of me, his dick pressing against my hole in that pre-fuck tease that used to scare the shit out of me before I was poz. "Is he going to do it? Oh no! I want him to. I don't want him to! Shit! What if he does? Do I have the willpower?" Well, nowadays, it doesn't scare me for me, but I still try to be a good boy. I really wanted him to push on in raw, of course, but I was determined to do the right thing.

He repositioned himself, kissing me in a more relaxed way while lubing up my hole. His fingers were so amazingly strong, I could even tell it from that. His chest was amazing, his thighs were like something from a statue - he really was something else.

Then I felt his dick against my hole, bare. For a split second I considered not speaking up, but I did. "Um, how about a condom?"

"It's ok, I trust you," he said. Trust me?!, I thought. You didn't even ask yet!

I told him he should wear a condom because of my HIV status, and he just sort of shrugged. "I've topped positive guys before. I might even be positive, I haven't tested in almost a year. I just really don't like condoms, I can't feel anything."

Having experienced the difference, now, I understand. In my earlier, HIV- days, I would have been completely pissed at him. Now, there's so much gray area that I never knew existed. I said that I would only do what he was comfortable doing, and he said he was only comfortable doing it raw.

So, he did. And he was an out of this world top. He fucked me so hard I thought I was going to crack my skull on the bookshelf beside the couch. He was verbal too, but I have no idea what he said half the time because he was speaking his own language.

After a few minutes, my misgivings melted away and I gave in to the warm, wonderful invasion of my ass. He flipped me over, fucking me on all fours. He flipped me on my back. He fucked me from below. He put me ass-up in his chair. He fucked me on my back on the floor, on all fours on the floor and finally standing, bent over the little table he called a dining room (in the living room).

My dick was hard as a rock and I started to get close. I told him, and he said, "Oh yeah! Show it to me! Show me your cum!" I jerked my cock and after about two strokes I started shooting, beginning with a lightning-fast jet across the table. He started grunting behind me and I could tell he was cumming inside me. He put his head down on my back as we both grew weak from the force of our orgasms.

He withdrew and we curled up on the couch together for a while. I asked him some gently probing questions about his laissez-faire attitude towards HIV; he reacted by asking me why I let him go ahead, if I was worried about him. The truth was, I couldn't answer. I felt kind of bad - but also good that I had given him the power to make an informed decision. I would never top a bottom without a condom; maybe I just buy into the myth that tops don't get it, on some level. But of course they do. After we talked some more, we cleaned up. In the shower, he kept going on and on about how hot it was.

"I want to do that with you over and over and over and over," he said. I can't lie, I'd like nothing more than to oblige that request. But we'll see. I really do try to be a good boy, and I'm not sure that I'm comfortable doing that when my head isn't clouded by the puberty-level hormonal surges that have been pulsing through my body the past few months. Furthermore, he never did give me his number. So unless I see him some Thursday at Splash... he's just another one night wonder.

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