Subscribe to our RSS feed

Articles tagged with: love sex and relationships

Nov24

Another installment in the sex memoires of T.C. Pomeroy

Monday, 24 November 2014

Our San Francisco poz guy T.C. Pomeroy in “Return to the Baths – Pacific Rim Part 2, Or Much Ado About Nothing”

Another installment in the sex memoires of T.C. Pomeroy

Saturday 1130 am – Taking Things Into My Own Hands in a Different Sort of Way 

Two emails received about a month ago asked the same thing: " isn’t it time for a T.C. Pomeroy story with actual sex in it?"  While gentle in expressing their frustration over my lack of ‘action’, these emails – one from PositiveLite,com editor Bob Leahy and the other from a straight friend – had been on my mind ever since.  It was time to shake things up. 

For most horny gay men in San Francisco getting laid isn’t much harder than ordering a Venti Caramel Latte. Yet I’m quite a bit challenged in the way of the sexual arts. I can find my way to Starbucks but when it comes (pun intended) to finding another guy to fuck the search is far more challenging, even for this lifelong and otherwise free-spirited homosexual. 

I’d been thinking I should go back to the baths for a while. But the combination of a hectic work schedule, a very physical job, too much weed, and the fact that the hours I spend masturbating would qualify for a part-time job hindered that.  So instead of carousing I’m home alone with my friends Mr. Cock Ring and Mr. Lube to accompany my trusty right hand to get the job done.  

Last night this trio was off to the races, but their work was left incomplete. There was no dirty Kleenex on the floor this morning. A bottle of lube carelessly leaking on the bed gave mute testament to the fact that I fell asleep, and crashed before I came. This accident of this job left undone was a signal that tonight was the night to head to the baths, shake off my bad attitude and reclaim my groove. 

Whether someone’s feet were on my chest while my dick made their ass quiver or I was on my knees trying to breath while sucking a big one didn’t really matter.  It was time to put my money where my, or someone else’s, mouth was. 

Six Weeks Earlier – Wet Suction Tuesday 

Six weeks prior to the stop pussy footing (pun not intended) around emails mentioned above, I did have an actual face to face.  I met up with a self-proclaimed “expert cocksucker.” We connected on one of those free phone sex lines that to the surprise of many still exist in this era of the digital hookup.  

While I was more than ready to get my Johnson some well-needed attention I was more worried than an acne-ridden teen heading to his first high school dance. Worried about parking. Worried he’d be gross. Worried I might know him and worried most of all that I wouldn’t be able to get it up.  

To soothe my nerves I smoked a big bowl of weed and after doing my morning stretching (no, not that kind) downed a quick shot of tequila while reminding myself to breathe deep.  

Getting there was easy. The parking was too. I walked past the park where I once coached kids baseball and followed his instructions to knock on the door on the right side of the house and he’d open the garage door. A minute after knocking I heard the whir of the electric garage door opening, an odd clarion call heralding my approach.  

I didn’t see him at first. But then I noticed him, Mr. Hungry Mouth straddling a 1960’s era vinyl dinette chair in the corner of a meticulously clean garage.  He was built and handsome, wearing gym shorts and a t-shirt he later removed so I could play with his tits. When we made eye contact he smiled and licked his lips. 

Dropping my sweat pants, he began his work with intention and expertise. Saliva, and lots of it, soon covered my cock, pubes and thighs. He seem to know just how hard to grab my nuts and everything felt good especially when he reached under my shirt and started puling my nipples.  When I put my hands on his head he got even more excited. I started to thrust with more power. 

He Wanted Salami, I Delivered Spaghetti 

Yet if this episode came with a soundtrack, the record would have scratched right here, the Barry White music coming to an unceremonious halt.  I couldn’t get it up. I tried to relax, get out of my head, to breath deep, but my little pony wasn’t coming out to play.  As I started to apologize, he interrupted me, “don’t worry, you’ve got a nice dick” plus “I love your bush,” adding he “didn’t mind working for the prize.” 

Ten minutes later I called time out. Boner-less and red-faced, I pulled up my sweats.  Sex, I thought, continued to elude me or scare me, never feeling right. Again I apologized and thanked him for the effort.  “I think being so close to the Little League field where I coached made me too nervous,” I said, surprising myself both by the spontaneity and creative bullshit of my lie. 

I like to believe he thought I was a closet case, a married guy too nervous to get off. Of course nothing could be further from the truth. Sure I had coached Little League around the block but my inability to get it up, my history of spaghetti dick was nothing new.  If he knew I was full of it he never let on. He wasn’t just a dutiful cocksucker, but a polite and gracious host as well.  

Taking Things Into My Own Hands in a Different Sort of Way.  Back to the Present, Saturday at 4:30 PM 

I wanted to make sure this time my trip to the Steamworks would be far more erotic than the visit trip I wrote about here which contained about as much sweaty gay sex as a pedicure.  Boring! 

This time was going to be different. I decided that in order to keep Mr. Johnson at attention me and Mary Jane Cannabis weren’t hanging out today. No weed for me. I didn’t want to dampen my mojo. I wasn’t going to drink either. If I was scared like an abandoned kitten, so be it. I wasn’t going to let booze get in the way of enjoying sex at the baths.  

But the keystone in my plan came in the form of that little blue bill.  I ground it into a powder, downing it with a glass of warm water on a very empty stomach. According to one of my more experienced, or slutty (it's all a point of view friends) pals this method of taking Viagra put more tiger in your tank. The other times I’d used Viagra the steely boner didn’t kick in until a day later.  

I didn’t want to get to Steamworks too early so I made plans to meet a friend for a movie. Afterwards we’d grab a drink (soda for me) and then it would be time to giddyap my little horsie and put my testosterone on parade. Yee Haw! 

Before leaving for the movies I had a double espresso, one more step to make sure I wouldn’t be a gayer Grandpa Simpson, sleeping in the midst of the tumult.

Stop The Barry White Music One More Time 

Yet after the movie I was tired.  Really tired. Allergies, maybe lack of interest or something Freudian, but I really didn’t care. I considered heading to some local cock swaddling spot in SF like Eros or The Nob Hill Cinema but I wasn’t feeling anything from the Viagra. The fact was I was fine heading home alone. 

Somewhere between the credits at the end of movie and my seltzer with no ice I realized something simple. That despite my love of porn and even greater joy in masturbating I’m not sex starved. Foreplay starved, for sure.  Touched starved even more.  But when it comes to sex I’m more Jane Eyre than Jeff Stryker and though there’s nothing wrong with good old sweaty wham bam piggy sex I can’t just shove it in.  

I was thinking about it the next morning when the Viagra kicked the lead in my pencil into hardened steel and I enjoyed a ferocious jack off session talking dirty to a guy who told me that if I was a good muscle bitch he’d introduce me to his identical twin and the rest of the rugby team.  Ludicrous for sure, but it helped me get the job done with stars in my eyes. 

After a little catnap I put away the lube and picked the dirty Kleenex up off the floor and realized that I’d beem living my life in an odd way. It was like I was vegetarian but couldn’t stop reading recipes about how to make a mind-blowing burger.  Every once in a while I’d try one, wouldn’t really enjoy it, but somehow kept believing that like a lot of my friends, all I needed was to go out and get a god damn great hamburger and my life would be different, would transform once I learned to love greedily eating a big juicy piece of meat.  

Obvious as it may seem to others I came to realize my lack of sex isn’t horrible or a burden to bear. It’s a choice. If somebody wants to blow my hard dick til I cream in their face they’ll have to make out with me first.  Baby, that’s how I roll. 

Fact is I haven’t had much great sex in my life and while I’m looking forward to adding more notches on my belt in the meantime my right hand works just fine. 

In the meantime there’s dating to be had, some food to be made, some lube to be bought and if that great blow job or ass fucking turns my world upside down I’ll be happy as a clam fried in Elbow Grease. Stay tuned. Without so much pressure to have great sex I’m already thinking “hey, I should go to the baths.  It might be fun.” 

MarketPlace