Date: Tue, 06 Nov 2001 21:42:56 -0500
From: David Buffet <tightserve@hotmail.com>
Subject: Alpha Male: Master Beta 4

Dear Sharon,

It was the date that never was.  From Dan I get, "do what you have to do,"
in that inimitable, inscrutable, meaningless way he has of giving emotional
direction.  I didn't want to be home when I was supposed to go over hottie's
apartment, so what do I do?  I go out to a campus club to protect myself
from sex with an alpha.  To make a long story short, I tricked out with a
defensive back.  But he weren't no alpha, so I don't feel like I was
cheating.  Isn't that strange?  What a world we've created.

Actually, he was pretty hot.  Six two, dark hair, brown eyes, more beef than
a Panhandle stockyard.  He came with a girl and spent much of the night
dancing with her.  Complete jock in the hate-to-love-them mode.  Stripped
his shirt off as soon as he got out to the dance floor, danced with a beer
in his hand, moved like he needed a broom stickectomy.  He had a
fleur-de-lis of brown hair on his chest (which I later discovered turned out
to be delightfully silky).  Remember our nights of wild, clubbing abandon?
He's the kind of boy we used to sit for hours dishing while we each plotted
how we were going to ditch the other and get into his pants.

So anyway, he's with the girl, so what's the harm in glancing over in his
direction every once in a while, right?  Or even outright staring for that
matter?  I'm afraid by 1:00 or so I had had more than a few beers, as had
he.  I watched as the drama unfolded.  Seems like she was not overly
impressed by his courtship displays.  Her right boob accidentally got in the
way of his palm.  Then his face accidentally got in the way of her drink.
It was too, too Days of Our Lives.

A half hour later, I'm outside leaning against the wall trying to clear my
brain in the cool autumn night air.  Who should show up but Mr. Defensive
Back himself.

"Dewd," he says.  "'Sup?"  Here, Sharon my sweet, is where I would normally
go off on an extended tangent regarding our generation's sorrowful penchant
for reducing the English language to a level that would leave a
four-year-old unchallenged.  But fuck, woman.  He had his shirt off and it
was cold.  You do the math.

"Me, guy," I said.  "All wound up and nowhere to go."

"I hear ya, dewd.  I thought I was going to get me some."

"I saw.  Who knew it would be some Chivas in the face?"

"As if," he laughed.  "Definitely a bottom-shelf chick."

I joined him in laughter, liking him despite my firm conviction that he
spelled "cool" as "kewl".

"Man," I said, "I've definitely had me a few drinks.  Having a bit of a
bottom-shelf night myself, here."

"S'okay," he said.  "Bottoms are good when you need 'em."

"Pardon?"

"Bottom shelves are good when you're in the mood.  Or when you can't get
anything better."

"Yeah," I said, catching the glint in his eye.  "That's what I thought you
said."

It's weird, Sharon.  Ever since I met Adam things have been different.  It's
not like I didn't screw guys who fancied themselves as straight before I met
him.  Surely I did (and I know - don't call you "Shirley").  But I would
always have to pick them up.  Remember those guys I used to do in the alley
next to the gym way, way back?  It was never particularly difficult for me
to get a guy to stick his dick in my mouth.  I would schmooze him up a
little, and bing, bam, boom.  But now - it's all backwards.  Now they bring
it up.  It's very strange.  I mean, I'm quite certain this guy has never
turned down a blow job in his life, but I'm also quite certain he's never
volitionally sought one out from a guy before.  He actually said as much
later after he had plowed me halfway to Spain.

So have Adam and Dan bestowed something secret on me?  Has my forehead been
inscribed with the words "Will Do Straight Boys for Free" in ink only horny
jocks can see?  Not that I'm complaining, mind you!  Just a tad baffled.

Anyway, he had me at his place within fifteen minutes, and within five
minutes of that had convinced me to go down on him on the couch while he
watched a straight porn tape.  So despite our myriad differences when it
comes to tastes sexual, here is one thing you and I have in common, I have
come to realize: neither of us like straight porn to be on while we're doing
guys!

But his dick was gorgeous.  A generous brown bush, a good but still
manageable size, a single blue vein to give it character.  And as soon as I
went down on him I got two of my favorite treats:  a) he's a leaker.  I know
we differ on this one, Sharon, but I do love the taste of precum.  It's an
amuse bouche - tasty, but doesn't fill you up or spoil your appetite for the
main course, and b) his hand went right to the back of my head to direct me.
  That arrogance is such a fucking turn-on!  It's not even that he's saying,
"this is how I like it."  It's that he's saying, "this is how you're going
to do it."  No discussion, no analysis, no choices.

Here's the thing:  when I finally settle down, I *do* want a guy who will
share my future with me.  But not in bed.  In bed, I want no sharing.  In
bed, there are only demands and acquiescence.  That sounds primitive,
doesn't it?  I no longer care.  That, if anything, is what I've learned in
the past year.  In bed I am as lupine as Dan - though not the leader of the
pack.

So the guy choked me a little while I tried to concentrate on what I was
doing as opposed to the frighteningly insipid computer-generated music
accompanying that poor woman's grunting, percussive counterpoint on the
video.  He stared at the screen and directed me in a rhythm that matched the
action on the TV.  When the guy came and the scene ended, he let me up for a
breath of air.

"You actually like doin' this?" he asked.

"You like getting it done?"

"Shit, yeah!"

"Same answer."

"Whatever floats your boat, man," he said.  "Glad we could help each other
out."

"Yeah," I said, "and this isn't even my primary talent!"

That's how I got him to fuck me.  It was still in front of the TV, of
course.  He bent me over the coffee table and plowed me right there while he
watched the tape.  But again, I got a treat.  The height of the coffee table
was wrong, and he kept having difficulty holding his upper body vertical
while keeping a good penetrative angle.  So despite the fact that he was
determined that our interaction was not to include any gestures of
endearment whatsoever (did we kiss?  I don't think so!) he discovered that
the best way to get and stay deep was to collapse on top of me.

Sharon, what is the genesis of sexual desire?  How can we possibly unravel
the mystery?  Should we even try?  Or should we just come to understand that
there is little as erotic as the weight of a man on us and leave it at that?
  And O!  What weight!  He pressed into me while he fucked.  The ample
muscles of his chest bore down on my shoulder blades, the hair on his chest,
silky as it was, scraped me from sheer pressure.  The coffee table started
inching forward under the force of his thrusts and to keep it in place, he
took a clump of hair on the back of my head and pulled it toward him as he
plunged.  It was animalistic.  How can I describe it?  It was Klingon sex.
When he came, he actually growled.

I think that's what's so cool about doing nominally straight guys.  They
lose all abandon in the act.  Freed from being required to keep up the
pretense that they care about their partner,  they become raw, selfish, and
demanding.  Theirs is pure sexual energy, and for a six like me, it is a
drug.

All that to save myself from the complications of putting another alpha in
my life.  What do you think?  Have I, after so long, at last achieved
skankhood?  If so, how delightful for you that after all these years you
finally have some company!

Love you as always,

Mark

----------------------

Heya Matt!

I've been remiss in not writing you, but I've been horribly busy setting up
the new life here.  It's difficult being away, being alone, having to get
used to everything all over again.  Exciting, of course, but still
difficult.

I was delighted to receive your letter today.  Thanks so much!  Yes, there's
a thriving gay community here, though from what I've seen it's mostly
undergrads.  No, I haven't started classes.  I'm not taking classes - I'm
just working on my dissertation.  That's the big research project that you
do at the end of a program to get your doctorate.  But I've met with my
advisor, and I'm well on track.  Yes I like the campus and my apartment is
fine.  It's part of a large complex and I have a nice view of the city, as
I'm relatively high up.  No, I haven't heard from Shmu yet, but expect that
he's doing fine.  Shmu always does fine.  And yes, I think he misses you.  I
certainly do!

I've thought explicitly of you twice.  I was walking down the street and I
passed this café where I heard a guy laughing exactly the same way you do
after you cum.  I gotta say, honey, I popped a boner on the spot.  It's a
very fond memory I have of you.  The second was when I happened across the
team here practicing.  I watched for a while, and there was a kid goofing on
the pommel horse the same way you used to - you know what I mean, don't you?
  That break dancing thing you used to do on your head at the end of the
horse?  I've never seen anyone else do that. Do you know anyone here? I
didn't catch his name.

Did you know Corey is here?  He's on the team.  What's up with that?  No one
seems to know the answer to the great Why Did Corey Leave Town mystery.  I'm
baffled.

So with Shmu off in the minors awaiting his call to join The Show, how are
you faring?  I do hope you're not spending all your time pining alone in
your room.  You're way to pretty to waste on watching television.  You
didn't mention any boys in your letter.  I expect you would have had there
been any.  Honey, can I give you some unasked for advice?  Go trick out.  I
know you're a romantic and you know I'm not.  But sometimes it's good to
just have some fun, even if you're a romantic.  The heart doesn't *always*
have to be involved in the affairs of the dick.

So put on that little black muscle shirt number I bought you last Christmas,
get yourself a beer at the Rat and chat up the first guy that looks you
over.  You'll be ever so glad you did.

Listen - I can't believe I'm even asking, but I have to.  Is Dan doing
anyone?  Not that I care, of course.  Just curious.

For my part, there's a guy I'm trying to avoid.  So I slept with another guy
instead.  I can hear you laughing, but you know how I work.  He was pretty
good.  He liked to press into me.  Not just his dick - he pressed everything
into me - his hips, his chest, his thighs.  I felt, a few times, as if he
were trying to ooze into my skin.  Do men infect us when they fuck us, Matt?
  I don't mean virally, I mean spiritually.  When they are in us, are they
in more of us than just our asses?  Christ!  Listen to me go on like this,
and with *you*!  I think I'm getting too analytical again.  Or perhaps
merely too anal.

Part of my problem is that I'm working very hard.  I'm coming up with an
instrument to measure where people are on the dominance/submission scale.
It's a kind of questionnaire that you take while attached to some devices
that measure your blood pressure, eye dilation, transdermal response, and a
plethismograph.  That last thing is a little elastic do-hickey you put
around your dick that measures your state of arousal.  It's like being
connected up to a kind of modified, souped-up lie detector.

The questionnaire itself describes a bunch of scenarios and asks how you
would react to them.  You see, the bright part about it is that it doesn't
matter how people answer the questions.  I couldn't just write a
straightforward questionnaire anyway, since people can be completely out of
touch with their innate dominance or submission.  I sure was, and if you had
asked me a year ago if I was a total sub bottom, I would have laughed.  Yet
here I am!  So I had to create something that measured what people were
feeling, rather than what people were thinking, or thinking they were
feeling.

So their actual answers are not what I'm measuring.  Instead, I collect data
on how their bodies react to reading the scenarios.  Pretty nifty, huh?  I
should be able to correlate a set of physical responses to the scenarios
with different positions on the dominance/submission scale.  And it should
be an honest response, as they think that what I'll be looking at is their
answers, not their autonomic reactions to the questions.

Anyway, you know me.  All work and no play makes Homer a something,
something.  So I played a little, and I feel a tad better.

The next step, after I run it by our ethics committee, is to test it out on
a bunch of people to see if I can calibrate it.  When that's done (and I
have absolutely *no* idea how long that's going to take - if it's a good
instrument, we're talking a few weeks, if it needs tweeking, it could go on
and on) I get Adam here, administer it to a bunch of people, then ask him to
rank them as well.  Then I do the same folk with Dan.  I want to see both if
Adam and Dan agree in their assessments of where people rank on the scale
(as I expect they will), and whether I can predict it as well (as I hope I
can).  If I can, then the next step is to study the zeros.  Sound like a
good plan?

How are classes going for you?  You didn't say.  But I'm delighted you're
happy with your progress in the gym.  I always knew you'd explode on the
floor if you just let yourself.  You're a really good tumbler.  You always
have been.  You've just been too cautious.  I think that's been what's
holding you back.  But you were getting better all last year.  I could see
the improvement.  Frankly, I think it's because you were getting it
regularly from Shmu.  When we're happy and stable at home, we're able to
take more risks and push the envelope.  So there's another reason for you to
go and trick out:  the more ass you get, the better your routines get.
There.  I ran rings around you logically.

Stay well, honey.  I miss you too, and think of you regularly.  Write again!
  Yours is the first letter I've gotten, and I do love getting letters.
Somehow, IMs just don't do it for me.  Am I being a Luddite?  I think I was
born at the wrong time.

With utmost fondness,

Mark