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The sex diaries of T.C. Pomeroy. Part one: phone sex confessions.

Wednesday, 12 February 2014 Written by // T. C. Pomeroy Categories // Dating, T, C. Pomeroy, Gay Men, Lifestyle, Living with HIV, Population Specific , Sex and Sexuality

This is the first in a series of unexpurgated stories, all true, from a poz gay guy wanting to get back in to the game, aka in search of sex.

The sex diaries of T.C. Pomeroy. Part one: phone sex confessions.

This is the first of what will be a continuing saga of one middle-aged gay man’s attempt to get back in the proverbial game. Pomeroy’s 2014 resolution is to enter the fray.  Whether it’s personal ads, cruising in sex clubs or asking old friends if they want to fuck, he’s tossing off the invisible cloak and embracing a new attitude to get him out of his comfort zone.

While T.C. Pomeroy is a pseudonym the stories below are all true 

The Background 

I first started calling phone sex lines in the early 1990’s.  It began as a surrogate for bars, where I was too shy to talk to guys I found sexy, too lightweight to hold my liquor and often too timid to tell those I wasn’t interested in "no thanks". 

The phone sex I’m talking about wasn’t the kind that’s a telephonic substitute for hiring a hooker. No professionals were involved.  Instead, like those omnipresent ads in the back of every gay magazine and alternative weekly papers, this was a sex line for “hot and horny guys looking to connect.”  

There were two different ways to meet. One randomly matched you to another caller. “Say hello, you’re matched.” The other, and my preferred choice, allowed you to record a greeting, listen to others, send voice messages, connect live and exchange phone numbers.   

I still had to pay for it, and eventually put a block on my phone to prevent me from calling those 976 numbers that charged for every minute. Soon I was back at it, utilizing phone lines that charged a flat fee, like five dollars for 24 hours.  The bill for my land line sometimes exceeded two hundreds dollars. 

I soon discovered these same phone lines offered teaser free lines but with a time limit of ten minutes before you were disconnected. There was, however, no limit to the number of times you could call back and I called back a lot. On evenings it might take ten, fifteen or even thirty tries before avoiding a busy signal and getting through on the free line but the price was right and the redial button made it easy. My neck and shoulder ached more than ever, but the pain in my wallet went away. 

"Despite being social, even glib I’m nearly autistic when it comes to seduction and romance."

Despite being social, even glib I’m nearly autistic when it comes to seduction and romance.  In bars I was never good at the art of seduction, In the bedroom very passive, never expressing what I liked, rarely navigating ‘yes like this‘ or ‘no, not that.‘ Sex with strangers and even boyfriends was never easy or relaxed.  Instead it was like Junior High School gym class, gymnastics fraught with the peril and embarrassment of not knowing what to do, or ask or say.   

When I first started using phone sex to meet guys, I thought of it a more efficient, cheaper and healthier.  No drinking in bars or bad music required.

Yet the absence of actual 3-D social cues had another effect when reality came to light.  Meeting someone who sounded sexy on the phone of course is very different face to face.   

The faux pheromones that were present on the phone were often startlingly absent face to face. Most times I met up it was awful, even discounting those who lied about their looks. Either I was too nervous to relax or  too awkward to be sexy. 

Not surprisingly, many times the guys I met were tweaking, high on crystal meth. Eyes that were empty, breath that stank, dicks soft from drugs, yet still they stroked their cocks, like stroking whipped cream, but they were mesmerized, the cosmic halo of speed entwined amidst their loins.  I tried to hook up with guys like that time and time again, before I finally realized anyone who was partying wouldn’t be a match for a slow burn pothead like me.  But I was attracted by their reckless, constant, unstoppable need for sex I once mistook for sexual freedom. 

When asked if I was negative I never lied, though no one would have known if I did.  Many wouldn’t ask but when I disclosed my HIV status I was often out the door. “I don’t think this is going to work out.” Year laters I came to realize that for many, a sero-postive policy of ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ was a necessary component of their sex, their fantasy escape from the worries of life outside the lubricated night. My voluntary disclosure often ruined this flight from their fears.  

"Unlike my experience with actual sex, phone sex was fun."

So both during these early years and especially five or six years later, I just looked to talk, not meet.  Unlike my experience with actual sex, phone sex was fun.  I was in the moment.  My voice was sexy, my attitude confident.  

For nearly twenty years the majority of my orgasms have been catapulted from conversations on the phone.  Phone sex with men I didn’t know.  Phone sex with men talking to me who often looked like someone else.  Phone sex about how we’d fuck and suck, twist and pull, kiss and cum like pent up dogs that had eaten Alpo laden with Viagra.  

A few times things actually went well. Three I still remember, at times still jerk off thinking of them. The lanky, sexy Jack Mormon with a big dick and bigger balls, who like me, got off on making out while banging each other’s nuts. The house cleaner, a former college gymnast from the East, who had me fuck his throat while I twisted his sexy nipples so hard he begged for me stop, but complained even more when I did. Or the guy from Tower Records, who told me his mother always thought that he was straight because she never understood he had a Farah Fawcett poster in his childhood bedroom because he wanted to be like her, not fuck her.  


I started going to gay bars when I was 17 years old.  I thought that going home for coffee or a drink was going home for coffee and a drink. Instead I’d grimace while he shoved it up my ass. I was too afraid to protest, he was too involved to care. I was like the high school girl that thought spreading her legs would ease her loneliness.   Yet unlike her, I was too scared to hit up the sexy guys I wanted.  Instead of someone from the football or soccer team fucking me while not caring it was someone twice my age who was wearing a tweed jacket with patches on the elbow before he fucked me up the ass.  Lonely and naïve, vulnerable and too nice, I was an easy one to play. 

So that was then and this is now.  So here’s to a 2014 of sloppy face to face.  Good or bad, hot or not, top or bottom, slutty or romantic, good or bad I’m really ready for my close-up. Stay tuned for the next installment.