Wednesday in Early February:
Took half a Viagra but didn’t really feel it. Spoke to one of my more sexually libertine – okay let's say slutty friends – to ask for his advice and he urged me to go to the video booths at the Folsom Gulch adult bookstore and get my cock sucked. I told him if I went I’d want to be face to face and he assured me that there wasn’t any problem with the “Only One Person Per Booth” rule. Another buddy told me that he got parasites there, probably from rimming ass.
Instead I ended up talking on the phone sex line and stroking my dick without coming. But this time I held back from climaxing because I planned on going to the video booths at the Nob Hill All Male Adult Theatre. Upstairs they have strippers. That costs $20 bucks. Downstairs are the video booths. $10 bucks gets you unlimited viewing. I didn’t get there either but felt fine about actually choosing to stay home and stroke. The place isn’t far but inertia ruled the day.
I went there with a friend for his 50th early last year. He’s even more of an uptight lifelong homo than me, but his Irish Catholic roots give him a better excuse. He had fun and we got lucky, financially speaking, because the guy gave us a birthday discount and we paid for just one admission. I stayed downstairs so my friend could suck off as many strippers as his guilty Catholic soul would allow him, something I know he wouldn’t do if I was in the theatre too.
Later we read the reviews on Yelp and discovered that more and more women are going to the club to watch the strippers for wedding showers and that kind of thing. Wonder if they realize they are screwing it up for all the horny guys that down want to shove dollars bills in some guys socks while he straddles their seat and feeds them cock?
A Day Later on Thursday:
Put an ad on craigslist.
After exchanging pictures I met a very smart and interesting guy, clearly way older than he said, but in great shape and handsome. We sat on the sofa talking, naked except for our underwear. We kissed a little, he massaged my feet and I learned that even though my inner-Lesbian needs cerebral stimulation, I needed more than that.
When he left I stroked off a huge load talking on the phone sex line. Déjà vu? Not really as I was in the game and decided I’d rather play alone.
A Day Later on Friday:
I had ten friends over for a party, including the funniest, sweet-hearted cokehead I know. I resisted the urge to partake even though this guy makes it so appealing. They used my bong to smoke some cocoa puffs – weed and cocaine – something I thought was only a cereal. Coke’s a once or twice a year indulgence for me. If I didn’t have a gig the next morning I’m sure I would have snorted more than my share and searched for sex.
They left at 2 a.m. I was tired, packed more weed into the bong but hardly slept at all. Instead I jerked off for more than two hours. Later I realized that there was coke residue left in the bong. Stroking my cock felt especially great. Despite only four hours of sleep I wasn’t that tired at work. Who knew the magic of cocoa puffs. My hippie speedball is just bong hits with a triple latte.
Worked, then came home hoping to catch this guy on the phone line that I talk to Saturday afternoons. He never gives his digits out. Bisexual, he says, with a big, fat uncut, white dick. I love the way he groans when I talk about punching his pecs or banging his nuts. When he comes his guttural groan is even sexier. He never leaves a greeting on the phone line so I cant know if he’s on there until he sends me a voice mail. We’ve been talking off and on for years now. Even without any discussion of when we’ll both be on the line, we’ve changed our regular times twice.
Whenever I hear a guy with an unrecorded blank message I get half-hard thinking it’s him. He usually plays the role of the top and calls my ass a hairy, beefy cunt and loves to choke fuck, putting his forearm around my neck, chewing on my ear while banging me doggie style. But he loves to give it up too and gets really excited when I call him a closet faggot.
He wasn’t on the line. I put my dick away and fell asleep on the sofa, with the TV blaring, stoned from too much weed.