Date: Thu, 7 Feb 2002 18:32:50 -0800 (PST) From: BC Mac <ithinkitsjustme@yahoo.com> Subject: Sing Your Life part 2 Preface: This story is completely true with very few details changed to protect myself and my "characters." If you have any feedback, feel free to send me an email. I try to answer all emails. I would like to thank all those who have already taken the time to send me a not, it means a lot to me. I never thought anyone would actually read my work. I guess I was wrong. Sing Your Life Anecdote 2 Have you ever done something different, exciting, and oozing with a potential for lasting trouble despite yourself? I'm sure most of us have; some more than once. I allowed myself to be drawn into one of these situations recently. This time, though, I wasn't drawn by my own stubborn curiosity alone. Rather, I was pushed by the curiosity of my boyfriend as well, who insisted we both take part in the activities I will soon describe. My boyfriend Mark was sent to Germany on business a few months ago. Not wanting to make the long trek alone, his first ever business trip, he asked me if I would join him. Of course I am always ready and willing to travel, be it to Miami or Timbuktu, so I agreed. I bought a ticket on his flight on the cheap and his company covered the rest of our expenses seeing as we would share a room and the like. Instead of traveling to Frankfurt, Munich, or even Berlin however, we were on our way to Hamburg. Set far north in Germany, nearly on the North Sea, it isn't the warmest or most picturesque city to visit. However, what my quick Internet research did tell me was that it is Germany's most liberal city, and has one of Europe's most fabled red light districts: St.Pauli and its Reeperbahn - the most infamous street in the nation. Both Mark and I were intrigued. The flight over from JFK was easily the worst trans-Atlantic flight I have ever taken, and thus deserves mentioning. In order to obtain seats next to each other on the fully booked flight, we were forced to accept two seats in the central row of chairs in the economy section of the Boeing 747. For those of you unfamiliar with the seating configuration of a 747, let me explain. Seats in economy class are configured in a pattern with three seats on the side of the plane, followed by an aisle, four more seats, another aisle, and three seats again. Mark and I were in the two seats at the very center of the plane, with neither an aisle nor window! To add to this misery, we had a bus load of high school band members (who had to shout "Yuck" during the scene in Billy Elliot when Billy kisses his male friend who lives next door) on their Spring Break surrounding us. The absolute clincher, however, was the "peach" who was assigned to sit in the aisle seat next to me. I thought I was in an Airplane film when this 70-year-old man, wearing a well-worn maroon polyester leisure suit and missing a thumb took a seat next to me. Mark grinned mischievously at me, but I was not in a mood to indulge him. Things did not get any better when the overhead bins filled, causing the man to have to hold his coat. He let loose with so many whispered "fucks" and "shits" that I went red from embarrassment and discomfort. Then he started to talk to me! He turned out to be a nice guy, but a character I won't forget any time soon. He immediately began telling me his life story. He was a retired air force man who now lived in Hawaii and was visiting his son in Frankfurt before going to Cyprus to golf - got that? I nearly died trying to choke down a chuckle though, when he told me his name was Percy and he pulled out a picture of his 45 year-old gold digger - I mean girlfriend. Needless to say, between his stories and advice on starting a family (little did he know), I didn't get a wink of sleep until it was time to land in Frankfurt. I did manage to sleep a bit in the airport, where I managed to contort myself on a row of chairs while waiting for my connecting flight. Luckily, we had much better seats for the hour hop to Hamburg - exit row with tons of room ahead of us. Even better was the beautiful man sitting across the aisle from me. He was 6 feet or so tall, blond, blue-eyed, and tanned. I thought he was German for sure. I also thought he was gay, after seeing all the glances he was stealing at me. Turns out he was an American, who had just gotten off a flight from South Africa and was going to Hamburg on an "assignment". At least that is what I gleaned from his short conversation with the flight attendant. I yearned to talk to him, but fell asleep instead. At least things were looking up. The trip really began to heat up the night of our arrival. After crashing at the hotel all day, Mark and I decided to try our luck on the Reeperbahn. We searched all over for a decent place to eat only to encounter one too many fast food joints easily found on any corner in Manhattan. We bit the bullet and ate at McDonald's. We weren't going to let the Mad Cow and Foot and Mouth disease scares deter us from beef. Here is where our fun began. Standing outside the entrance was a harem of what appeared to be amateur female prostitutes. Not only were these girls terribly ugly, they weren't exactly dressed to impress either. One wore trainers with tight stretch jeans (the kind women buy at Fashion Bug) and a sweatshirt, while another wrapped a huge, ancient parka around herself and stood motionless under her umbrella. Needless to say, these two weren't advertising very well. Mark and I had quite a fun time watching them "at work". However, two young German guys walked in a bit after us. They were cute, not gorgeous, but attractive none- the-less. We stole quick glances at each other as gay men usually do when they suspect they are among "family". I was caught off guard when they began to hold hands across their table; and I certainly was not prepared when they kissed. It was not until then that I realized how liberal Hamburg really was. I was excited at the prospects, but also a bit intimidated. You see, for some reason, being in any gay environment causes me to break out in a nervous sweat. I could find this understandable if I was shy, overweight, less then attractive, boring or any combination of the four. Luckily, I'm none of these things. However, truth be told, I have a remarkable lack of confidence in my social skills and appearance. Even though I easily turn heads when I enter a club, often drawing catcalls from all the wrong people, I am never happy with my appearance. Sure I may seem conceited to some, but I am really not. I look in the mirror as often as possible not because I enjoy looking at myself, but because I always feel like something is wrong. It is quite tragic the more I think about it. For someone who has been told countless times how "hot" he his, I still can't see what other people see. When I look in the mirror I see a rather standard looking person: 6 feet tall, standard build (165lbs), brown hair and eyes. I wear my hair messy - not the styled to look messy look (where one can see comb lines and clumps of gel) popular with the teen set - no my hair is so overly styled that it looks completely like I just woke up! It is funny seeing me on my commuter train, in my business suit, with my messy hair. Not professional, but it looks good and my boss has never said anything to me about it -- not even when I travel to clients! I don't smile - ever, because I think I look stupid when I smile. So I go about life with Derek Zoolander's patented Blue Steel gaze: lips puckered, cheeks sunken, and eyes squinting. People either think I'm a model or just really pissed-off. I can't tell you how many times friends would stop me on the Green in college to ask me if anything was "wrong". These same people also tell me how cute I am when I smile. I just don't see it. If I do smile, I absolutely refuse to show any teeth! Not that my teeth are bad mind you - I just think I look like a clown when I smile widely. I am not really comfortable with my face. I have always wished I looked like an all-American jock-type with sandy blond hair, blue eyes, and an angelic face. Instead, I look thoroughly European. I can pass for Belgian, French, Italian, Portuguese, Spanish or even Danish -- a prototypical piece of Eurotrash. The funny thing is the French think I must be from the south; the Portuguese say I'm much too light-skinned to be one of them; Italians look at me for a while contemplating and never give me a definitive guess; while the Spanish just shrug and tell me they don't care what I am. If you want to know what I look like you'll have to watch Mariah Carey's "Honey" video -- her feeble attempt at adding sleaze to her persona. I was told by three separate people - known of whom know each other - that I looked like the guy carrying Mariah on the beach and playing around with her in the water. I'm also told I look like Antonio Sabato Jr. Hot of not, one thing is for sure, I don't look all-American and that will probably eat at me for the rest of my life. I know some of you are mockingly playing an air violin for me, but the fact remains that what matters in the end to me really isn't what other people see, it is how I see myself. I'm sure some of you out there can relate. I think a great deal of my insecurity stems from the fact that I grew up in a negatively charged environment where the ideal was always the blond-haired, blue-eyed god on the tube. From the days when I was just a 6 year-old kid I always thought myself ugly, and I had my sister and her friends confirming the fact on an almost daily basis. Though today I know better then to lend any credence to her taunts (especially since she now shows me off to her friends), years of insults built up such a wall of insecurity around me that I do not think I will ever be able to overcome it completely. Compliments are my drug -- but coming down from a compliment high is almost as bad as a real hang-over. When someone tells me I am hot or really cute I become very happy for an hour or so. I know in my head that I look great. Once I get home and look in the mirror, I feel like shit all over again and my heart tells me I don't look good at all. I know, I know. I am twisted. Listen to a Morrissey album and you will get a sense of what the thoughts in my head would sound like in a song. So now you have some insight regarding my insecurity with my appearance. But I also mentioned my personality when I began this digression from my original story. As you've probably gleaned from the first installment of my series, I am rather intelligent -- enough to gain entry into an Ivy League university without being an athlete, minority, or musician. Coupled with my perceived good-looks, people generally throw me into the stuck-up asshole category. My problem according to one person is that "I am cute and I know it." That tidbit of wisdom was related to me in my junior year of college and I will probably never forget it. I am not an asshole in any way shape or form, but that also does not mean that I will forge a lasting friendship with everyone I meet. There seem to be two very large expectations out there with which I disagree. The first is that anyone who talks to you is entitled to your life-long friendship, affection, or ass. The second is that because one is nice to another person one wants to sleep with him! I can't tell you how many awkward situations I have had to squeeze out of because of people who really have these expectations. In the end I can't be too nice and I certainly don't want to be mean so I just clam up. I tried to suppress all of these feelings as the night progressed and Mark and I walked back out to the Reeperbahn. In preparation for our trip we had written down the name and address of a number of supposedly gay bars and clubs. We walked up and down side-street after side-street in the rain looking for each place. None of the clubs we had read about appeared even remotely gay -- so much for travel guides. Finally, the straw that broke the camel's back was when we stumbled upon what I'll call "Brothel Alley." Mark and I were trying to get back to the main boulevard when we found ourselves outside a small dark street with a gate like entrance that read "Men Only" (in German of course). So of course, being the curious guys that we are, we entered the gate and found ourselves on a quite attractive, but dark street lit only by lovely lanterns hanging by each doorway. Once we started walking we realized that this street wasn't so innocent. Each building had large picture casement windows backlit by red light. Sitting behind the windows were topless women sitting on towel covered swiveling chairs that appeared to have been stolen from a beauty parlor. As we walked by these ladies of the night would lean over to the window, turn the crank so the window would swivel open and call out for us. Mark and I struggled to contain our laughter, finally realizing that this neighborhood wasn't quite right for us. The cabbie on the other hand knew exactly where to take us. Kicking ourselves for not just hopping into a taxi sooner, Mark and I were dropped off in front of a club in a relatively quite area of the city that the cab driver nonchalantly told us to avoid late at night. It being 1:00 AM we thought it best that we go right in. The club was a three level pleasure palace. On the first floor was what appeared to be a butch leather bar, while the second floor contained a trendy dance club and the third floor housed a small lounge area. Mark and I decided the club level was probably the best place to start. Upon entering the club we were greeted by the usual mix of music, trendy decorations, and a hot go-go dancer in a tank on the center of the dance floor. All around him people gyrated to the beat of the music while he writhed in faux pleasure beneath a running shower. I was actually very impressed by the setup as well as the dancer. However, the clientele wasn't exactly made up of the hulking blond-types I was expecting in this city. And then - horror of all horrors - I spotted somebody wearing the exact same shirt I had on! My boyfriend laughed - I nearly ran out the door. You see that is another thing about me - probably my most "gay" trait - I take my fashion seriously. You know: no white before Memorial Day or after Labor Day; never wear a black belt with brown shoes and vice versa; never wear H+M, Banana Republic or French Connection anywhere gay men congregate, and never ever wear the same thing twice to the same place! Well I broke one of my rules and paid for it - I wore a shirt from H+M in New York, which I was hoping hadn't been released in the European stores - but alas I was wrong. At least the beer was only 2 bucks a bottle, which allowed me to drawn my sorrows and lose my inhibitions quickly. Before I knew it, off came the shirt and I no longer had to worry about my dilemma! I tucked the shirt into the back of my pants and danced like there was no tomorrow until I finally had enough of the place. I was proud that I had at least garnered the attention of some admirers including the now off-duty go-go dancer - mission accomplished! It was well past 3:00 AM when we decided to leave. And then fate stepped in. Rather then allow to go back to our hotel content and amused, fate tempted us into the leather bar. We almost didn't get in because of the strict dress code (only jeans and/or leather pants allowed). I guess seeing that we were fresh meat, the bouncer made an exception and let us in. This was the first leather bar I had ever entered and it was everything I imagined and more. Everything was black - tables, bar, couches, chairs - you name it. Hanging from various points on the ceiling were TV monitors playing all sorts of gay pornography. And off to the back and the far right were odd rooms that looked like a maze made out of bathroom stall walls. Painted on a number of these walls were "Tom's of Finland" type cartoons with naked sailors sporting giant boners. It was actually all very amusing until Mark and I walked a bit further into these rooms and realized they lead into another set of pitch dark rooms, which I dubbed the gauntlet, to and from which men would disappear and reappear after a few minutes or so. I didn't take long for me to figure out what was going on. After I saw the third man in a row come out of the dark, walk over to the wide open bathroom sinks and rinse their mouths, I knew exactly what they had been doing and it both aroused and revolted me at the same time. Mark seemed to feel the same way. I can't even remember how long we stood in the anteroom to the dark "gauntlet" just taking in the whole scene, but before I knew it Mark was pulling me into the dark rooms to explore. After a few steps I quickly high- tailed it back out into the open area completely disgusted and nervous as hell. I had never experienced anything like what was going on in this place before and I was surprised that I was actually warming to the whole situation. I felt like a child running up to the ocean at the beach, feeling the cold water on his feet for a moment, and running back to the warmth of the dry sand before returning back to the water with bolder intentions. Mark walked into the gauntlet a number of times for ten or fifteen seconds at a time to "see" what was happening. Finally, I began to join him and we went in and out of the dark rooms giggling like a couple of school girls. That is until I found myself with two admirers - one of whom became a bit aggressive. The first had been eyeing me all night long. He was a large black man in his early thirties who I am sure would have made many guys happy - but didn't turn me on in the slightest. Towering a good three to four inches over my six feet and weighing at least 230 pounds, this bald- headed guy reminded me of a black Mr. Clean. He spoke English very well through a slight German accent and wanted to know everything about me. I humored him at first, answering with quick and trite one-word answers. He didn't know when to quit. Finally, I excused myself to the bathroom in hopes that he would forget about me. I couldn't have been more mistaken. After returning to Mark in the open bar area, we decided to enter the gauntlet again. I am not sure why we went back. I guess we were both ready to break out of our shells. It didn't take long before Mark and I found ourselves in a dark room with numerous men breathing heavily. Soon enough Mark giggled some words to me in a whisper and placed my hand on some guy's penis. I think the recoil of my arm nearly knocked Mark out of the room. I had enough and began to walk out. Before I got very far my tall dark friend appeared out of thin air and grabbed me before I could leave the gauntlet. He held me from behind with his arms draped around my shoulders and his hands pushing down through the front of my pants into my underwear. No matter how much I squirmed I couldn't get free as he repeatedly told me to relax. I was getting scared and wondering how I was going to get out of this tactfully. When one of his hands finally made it to the pot of gold, however, I lost all inhibitions and jerked away from him so forcefully I managed to escape with a very loud "leave me alone" making my intentions clear. Before I could make it out, however, I ran into admirer number two. He stood there at the gauntlet's exit staring at me with what I could easily make out to be big blue eyes. I later came to find out he was 29, but at the moment he seemed younger. He smiled at me expectantly and I froze. He seemed cute and "normal" but I wasn't interested. I smiled and walked out. Mark found the whole incident with Mr. Clean amusing, but I wasn't happy. I had this urge to leave the bar altogether, but Mark insisted we stay and try to get lucky in some way. Let me say here that Mark is one of the most sexually conservative people I know. We aren't in an open relationship and we've never had a threesome or any other kinky experiences with other partners. However, whenever we go to Europe, Mark acts like he is in a fantasy land where he can do almost anything he'd never dare do back in the States. I admit, I am the same way to a large extent. This doesn't mean Mark and I can go off with any person we find attractive in some European bar, it just means we can have some less-than-innocent fun once in a while as long as each of us is within shouting distance of the other. I think Mark prefers to watch and be a more casual participant than me, however. The two or three times we have returned to similar bars in Europe since this episode happened, Mark has tended to join groups of anonymous guys jerking each other off. I on the other hand, don't like the group action nor do I like losing control of who touches me. Therefore, I will carefully watch who enters the dark rooms so I know with whom I am "dealing." I don't let anyone "unkown" touch me. But I do go further than petting as you will soon see. After freeing myself of Mr. Clean I let Mark continue his quick jaunts in and out of the dark rooms. I was growing very aroused but no one struck my fancy. I took a walk alone around the bar and ran into Mr. Blue Eyes. He held my gaze again but this time he spoke to me - in German. I replied in English and he quickly changed languages. I'm always amazed at how proficient in English foreigners are - but how bad Americans are at foreign languages. He told me his name was Andreas and asked me why I was in Hamburg. I lied and told him I was there on business with a coworker (aka: Mark my boyfriend). I didn't want to tell him I was there with my boyfriend for fear he'd think I was lying to deter him. I know. I know gentle reader. you are wondering why I would even care about offending him. Like I said before, I hate being mean to anyone and having anyone think I'm being less than sincere. I wasn't interested in Andreas at all, so it wasn't as if I was lying to fool around with Andreas. Though Andreas was cute: standing about 5 feet and 10 inches high with dark black hair, pale yet rosy skin and bright blue eyes -- he gave me the creeps. I can't explain why -- he just did. I think the fact that he was even in a place like this had something to do with it. Then again it seems a number of men from the dance club came down to this bar afterward. I finally managed to escape this one by taking his phone number, though with no intention to call him. By this time I was getting tired. It was nearly 5:00 AM and the bar was slowly clearing out, which meant there were less and less men with whom to score. A few of the men who attracted me earlier in the evening were gone so I figured I was going to be out of luck this night. Mark wasn't having any luck either. We were finally coming to grips with the fact that most of these guys were old and unappealing - the reason they were here in the first place. Just as I was getting ready to leave the dark rooms once and for all, feeling strangely dejected, a handsome guy in his mid- thirties walked in. He went down a corridor, came back around and stood a few feet away from me by the exit. Mark and I were standing together and I told him it was now or never. I mustered all the courage I had and walked by the handsome guy into the main dark room. Right on cue he followed me in, and Mark was right behind him. What happened next is a blur. Somehow we ended up standing side by side against the dark room wall rubbing each other's clothed crotches. Slowly he became more aggressive and turned to me. He pulled me away from the wall and into the center of the room where he slowly unbelted my pants and pulled them down around my knees along with my underwear. I followed his lead, unbuttoning his pants and reaching in to squeeze his underwear encased cock. He was wearing European style nylon briefs that left little to the imagination. Quickly enough his underwear joined his pants down around his ankles and we began to jerk each other's cocks. From what I felt, he had a rather thick six or seven inch cut cock which arched downward. Neither of us became fully erect as we stood there jerking each other. Finally he brought his face up to mine and kissed me deeply. His mouth tasted of beer but I didn't care. I love to kiss and this guy knew it. I couldn't believe I was actually engaging in this sort of random hook-up and I wasn't sure how much Mark could see. I know he didn't want me kissing anyone, but when this guy initiated I lost any willpower I had. Before I knew what was happening, my German friend was on his knees and blowing my cock like there was no tomorrow. I shudder just thinking about how good it felt despite his rather inept technique. I realize now my pleasure was due more to the situation rather than the action. I still had no clue where Mark was. The guy eventually pulled off my dick and rose to kiss me again. This time I knelt down and took him in my mouth. Never in a million years did I think I would be doing this but I felt obligated to reciprocate. I thought about how Mark would not be pleased about this so I pulled off the guy rather quickly with a sinking feeling in my stomach. The encounter was going too far for me and I was ready to leave but a sense of obligation kept me there. Again the man went down on me but this time he didn't let up until I shot deep into his throat. I gave him ample warning but he chose to swallow. I would certainly not be doing the same. Luckily, he was jerking himself off as he blew me and he brought himself to climax a few minuets after I shot. As soon as I was sure he had come I pulled up my pants and walked out. Mark wasn't far behind. Mark had been standing by us the entire time but was involved with another group of guys. Unfortunately or fortunately for him he hadn't gone further than touching - though I think that had more to do with the quality of the men he was near. I couldn't think of anything else expect wanting to leave the bar as soon as we emerged from the gauntlet of dark rooms. I felt dirty, used, and extremely guilty. I think I washed my hands and rinsed my mouth in the bathroom ten times before I left the bar. When Mark and I finally made it out it was 6:00 AM and we were ready to crash into bed. I told him most of what happened.about the touching and the kissing and receiving a blowjob. but I didn't say a thing about giving one myself. Mark mentioned he saw someone kneeling down and thought it was me but I didn't confirm the observation. Looking back I don't think he would have gotten overly angry, but I didn't want to risk it and I didn't feel very proud of myself. Back at the hotel I ran into the shower and gargled some more with mouthwash trying to wash the guy off of me. I had let myself be lured into something for which I was not prepared and once again I felt burned. I felt angry at the guy for sucking my dick. I felt mad at Mark for wanting to stay and explore what this bar had to offer in the first place. And I felt mad at myself for allowing myself to enter the situation and feeling obligated to suck a stranger's dick. So much for my intelligence.