From: honjohn@gate.net (John E. Smith)
Subject: Good-Looking Latino "Model" Part 4 (M/M Oral Anal)
Date: 27 Jul 1998 00:00:00 GMT
Good-Looking Latino "Model," Part 4
While we were resting, please let me tell you about the Barracks Baths,
where Jorge and I were enjoying sex with each other, because it was torn
down to make room for yet another office building -- something New York City
needed like more cars and more pot holes on its streets. Instead of tearing
it down, I think it should have been included, along with the old HAYMARKET,
a hustle bar up on 8th Avenue at 46th Street, as part of the Landmark
Preservation Program because they were both as historically significant as
the Mayflower, the ship that carried the Pilgrims to America, because many a
beautiful young stud "came across" in them.
Anyway, the Barracks Baths, in those days, was a sleazy place that
catered to a seedy, Forty-Second Street clientele of mostly blacks and
Puerto Ricans. Even if my taste for the Barracks Baths revealed a taste for
the seedy (some psychologists might say it revealed some deep-seated
character defect such as "lack of self esteem") I didn't care. I liked the
place. I often went to the Barracks without a sexpartner, looking to pick
up a trick, because I was sexually attracted to the type of people that the
Barracks attracted. Even though I am a lily-white WASP, my forefathers and
foremothers were English and Welsh, (some of then actually did come over on
the Mayflower), I am not a bigot because some of my best lovers were blacks
and Puerto Ricans. I liked the clientele that the Barracks Baths attracted
-- ballsy, horny, macho, sexually experienced, street-wise types. Unlike
video game arcades in suburban malls, no blond, circumcised, surf-boarding
adolescent virgins wandered into the Barracks Baths by mistake.
I liked that feature because nothing turns me off sexually more than
the innocent-looking youngun in the porno movies who says, "This is the
first time I ever did this." I wanted to gag, like Joan Rivers doing her
famous finger-in-the-throat routine, because I knew that if that
innocent-looking youngun had as many cocks on him as he had in him, in his
life as a porno star, he'd look like a porcupine.
I'd never be a chicken hawk because, even in real life, young guys, the
only kind who are honest-to-goodness virgins, turn me off. I like mature,
sexually experienced Marlboro-type men. If the Army doesn't want you, Baby,
neither do I. Furthermore, even if I did run into an honest-to-goodness
mature virgin, I'd be sexually turned off because I'd think his virginity,
at an older age, revealed social retardation, crippling codependency from a
destructive relationship with an overly domineering and controlling Mother,
for example. In any event, I've never found sexual incompetence exciting.
I liked men with experience, like Jorge.
Second, the atmosphere at the baths was warm and humid. It appealed to
my Oedipus complex because it was, I imagined, something like returning to
the safety and security of the womb. It was comfortable to be naked there
even without bed covers.
Third, you might think that meeting someone and having sex with them,
in a sleasy "gay" bath house like the Barracks, would be a turn-off. In my
case, it had quite the opposite effect. Since I am an aural and a visual
voyeurist, the sound of sex from the adjoining ceilingless cubicles -- the
slurping of cocks getting sucked, the juicy sounds of manmeat slopping in
and out of wet assholes, the rhythmical slapping of flesh fucking flesh as
hips pumped pleasure into hips, the ecstatic grunts, groans, and moans of
other customers in the throes of climaxes, along with the peep-holes into
adjoining cubicles, was like an aphrodisiac to me. Having sex there was
like getting a blow job while watching a porno movie. The aural and visual
images enhanced the sexual experience.
Fourth, the bath house was a very earthy place, with no civilized
pretentions, and I liked it that way. I liked the sexual honesty. Everyone
knew why everyone else was there. Everyone was sexually available.
In addition, it was easy to identify those clients who would be
compatible sexpartners by the way they behaved. There were "walkers" and
there were "roomers". The "walkers" rented lockers and walked the halls
looking for sexpartners. We called them the "black foot tribe" because,
after a night of cruising at the baths, the soles of their feet were black
from walking all night on the city's dust and grime that polluted the
hallway floors.
The "roomers," on the other hand, rented rooms and, even though they
sometimes locked the doors to their rooms and became "walkers," they usually
remained rooted in their rooms, like sea urchins anchored to the ocean
floor, waiting for willing "walkers" to come within the reach of their
tentacles. The "roomers" usually were people who wanted a form of sex that
was most comfortable in a bed, like getting fucked. They waited in their
rooms for a "walker" to be sexually attracted to them, come into the room
and shut the door, to indicate that he was "in the mood for love." The
"roomer" then either accepted or rejected the candidate.
The "roomers" could be further subdivided into two groups -- the
"sitters" and the "layers." The "sitters" sat on the edge of their bed and
communicated their sexual preferences with their body position. If they
were leaning forward, penis concealed, they wanted to perform fellatio on
any willing "walker" who entered the room. If they leaned back, penis
exposed, they wanted fellatio performed on them.
The "layers" could be further subdivided into two groups -- prone or
supine. The prone "layers" (on their belly) were communicating to the
"walkers" that they wanted to be the passive partner in anal intercourse.
The supine "layers" (on their back or side, penis exposed) were
communicating that they either wanted to be the active partner in anal
intercourse or they wanted to "sixty nine" with a "walker." With this
informal positional code, sexpartners at the baths got paired off quickly,
to everyone's satisfaction.
The Barracks Baths, as you might imagine, from its name, was a "leather
and western" or S & M (sado-masochistic) bath house. There were rooms that
patrons could rent that had leather slings in them, suspended from the
ceiling by chains, where patrons could lay and wait to get fist fucked.
As Jorge and I lay there, resting, I could hear the sexy sounds from
other cubicles adjacent to ours, transmitted freely over the ceilingless
walls of the room. I could hear the rhythmical rattle of chains and the
rhythmical creak of leather and chain links as someone nearby got his ass
fist fucked. I could hear the continuous pitter-patter of bare feet as
members of the "black-foot tribe", padded around the halls, looking in all
the rooms for a desirable sexpartner. I could hear the slow rhythmical slap
of a ritual spanking as a patron got his ass spanked, where, in reenactment
of his childhood with a dysfunctional family, when he codependently learned
to mistake abuse for affection, he was first erotically aroused by a
spanking his father or his mother gave him.
Then, there were the odors. There was the steamy-humid odor of the
steam room and the showers, mixed with the pungent odor of body fluids --
shit, piss, cum, and spit, that was masked by the pine-oil scent of the
disinfectant that attendants used for cleaning each room after each use.
There was the odor of freshly laundered sheets on the beds and towels around
the hips of the patrons. There was the reek of expensive cologne that some
patrons poured over themselves, before cruising the halls, hoping, I guess,
that by drenching themselves with fragrance, they would be able to attract a
desirable sexpartner, like a bee to a blossom.
But the odor at the baths that I enjoyed the most, was the odor of men.
It saturated the locker room, where the "walkers" were separated from their
clothes. There, construction workers, sweaty from a day's hard labor
building skyscrapers or digging subways, left their work clothes hanging
before heading for a hot shower and a "massage specialist" to relax their
cramped love muscles and get the kinks taken out of their stiff joints.
There, service men, in town for a little R & R, on leave from the Army,
Navy, or Marines, left their uniforms so they could get their shortarms
serviced. There, "jocks," sweaty from jogging or a work out at the gym,
left their athletic clothes while they exercised their love-muscles. There,
business men, sweaty from the emotional stress of the board room, left their
clothes while they engaged in a little tension-reducing therapy in the orgy
room.
The locker room had the concentrated masculine odor of sneakers, and
arm pits, and crotches, and hair, like the odor of gym clothes left to ripen
too long in a gym bag. In less concentrated form, this deliciously raw odor
of men wafted through the halls of the bath house and mingled with the other
erotically stimulating, earthy odors of raw sex.
As we lay there resting, enjoying the sounds and smells of the
Barracks, I asked Jorge, "In addition to your 'modeling' work, do you have
another job?"
"Yes. I drive a delivery truck," Jorge replied, anticipating my next
question.
"That was nice," I thought, a nice macho occupation. I could imagine
how good he looked in his brown UPS uniform, and, I knew then how he kept in
such good shape. Those guys really trotted to make their schedules and they
had to carry heavy loads. His job really added to his macho mystique.
Then, I asked him, "I'm curious. Would you mind telling me who the woman
was who answered the phone?"
"Yes. That was my sister, Carmen. I've been living with her since I
separated from my wife," he replied.
When he told me this news, my heart sank. "What made him think I
wanted to hear that he had a wife?" I asked myself, blaming the messenger
for what, at first, I felt was bad news, because it aroused all of the
moralistic, codependent feelings that I had felt when I first called to make
a date with him and I heard a woman answer. "Why did I ask him that
question to begin with," I wondered, blaming myself for innocently revealing
information that I did not want to hear. "Why did I open the door to
revelation, thereby ruining my fantasy?" I continued to reprimand myself.
"I wanted him to be an etherial, spiritual depersonalized sex-god. With
that question, he might still be a god, but I had turned him into a Greek
god with human faults and passions. Instead of the depersonalized sex
object that I wanted him to be, I turned him into a human being with
problems?"
Almost masochistically, I continued. "Do you have any children?"
"Yes, one, a boy. He's a year-and-a-half old," he replied.
At first I didn't want to hear that he had a child because it put me
again on the horns of the dilemma. It made me feel ambivalent about having
sex with him again. It fed the first impulse I had, the crazy impulse that
I had that I was going to save him from his life of "modeling," by not
having sex with him again for the sake of his wife and kids.
That initial impulse was opposed by reason. He had placed the ad in
the classified. He was there with me because he chose to be with me. My
refusing to have sex with him again would be just a futile protest -- it
would just make me look weird and it would "save" him from nothing because
he would just go on to another "modeling" job the following night. I
resolved that even though he had a kid, I was not going to get caught in the
same emotional trap of trying to "save" him from himself, that had soured my
relationship with Todd. Besides, Jorge was one of the sexiest men I had
ever been with in my life. Selfishly, I wanted to take advantage of his
circumstances to enjoy sex with him again and again.
Logic and lust won out over codependent insanity. I reached out and
touched his beautiful pinga, now soft, with its head fully retreated back
into the warm folds of its mackinaw. Somehow, in that mysterious alchemy of
the brain, that can intellectually rationalize the desirability of decisions
made by the id, the original "vice" of his humanness, now became a virtue.
The knowledge that he had sired a son sexually excited me. It made me lust
even more for him because it made him seem more masculine to me.
I realized that this change in attitude revealed an antigay prejudice
on my part, an attitude that I got at a very early age. As the Catholic
Church and the Nazis used to say, "Give us a child before the age of seven
and he'll be ours for the rest of his life." Before I learned to reject
such rank discrimination, society and religion had indoctrinated me, as it
does all male children in our society, with an ideal of "manliness." That
ideal included being assertive, emotionally cold (real men don't cry),
self-sufficient, and, above all else, heterosexual. I associated "normalcy"
and "manliness" with "heterosexuality." I felt that heterosexual men were
more "normal" than "gay" men.
Somehow, in a very peasantish sense, Jorge's having impregnated a woman
and produced a child, made him seem more "manly" to me. It proved that the
pinga, that got hard for me in a homosexual embrace, could also get hard for
the receptacle for which it was designed.
His revelation also made me appreciate how lucky I was to have him. It
made me appreciate the improbable sequence of coincidences that had brought
him to my bed. First was his need for additional income, then, his
bisexuality and his choice to "model" to supplement his income, then, his
decision to place an ad in the classifieds at the time that he did, then, my
happening to read his classified ad just when I did, my sexual tastes that
attracted me to his ad instead of another one, and my not hanging up the
phone when I heard a woman's voice. In addition, there was both of us
showing up for the date, and our being attracted enough to each other to go
through with it. All those coincidences made me wonder if some "higher
power" was guiding our destinies, if we were, in some cosmic sense, "made
for each other."
"No! Stop that shit!" I reprimanded myself. "It was that kind of
crazy thinking that got you into trouble with Todd."
As I frigged his foreskin for him with my hand, getting his baton
d'amour ready for another bout d'amour I whispered, "Make love to me,
Jorge." With this order, I was returning quickly to my role as the
purchaser of his services, presuming that my money gave me the right, like
royalty, to command his performance. "Make love to me, you macho Latino
Rican stud. Make love to me like you made love to your wife on your
honeymoon. Make love to me like you made love to her when you gave her the
kid."
Jorge responded appropriately. Now that he knew that I liked to kiss,
he did not hesitate. My face had been level with his shoulder. He slide
down on the bed, leaned over me, and kissed me firmly on the lips. As he
kissed me, he slid his arms under mine and held my head firmly, forcefully,
in his hands so that I could not have avoided his embrace, even if I had
wanted to, which, of course, I didn't. By holding me that way, he was
expressing mastery or dominance over me, saying to me with his actions, as
Simon Legree said in the old-time Uncle Tom's Cabin melodramas, as he
twirled his spiked moustache, "Do not try to escape me clutches, me proud
beauty!"
This delightful feeling of dominance was bolstered by the fact that he
slid over on me, crushing me scrumptiously under the full weight of his
body, locking me under him like a captive bride, forced to submit to the
sexual whims of her libidinous husband on their wedding night. In this
position, as if he were trying to show me how good sex with him could really
be, his tongue darted into my mouth like a horny serpent looking for
something to rape. Once there, it rushed around boldly as if it were
urgently seeking a victim, dashing in and out of my mouth, between my lips,
as if it couldn't decide where hunting would be most fruitful, anticipating,
with its in-and-out motion, the copulatory action of his hip-driven pinga in
and out of my passion pit.
At the same time his mouth played its love games with my senses, his
hips rolled his pinga across my belly like Julia Child rolling out a crust
for a sexual gourmet's meat pie, a motion that engorged an essential
ingredient for that pie, his love-salami, as if he were squeezing the bulb
of an inflatable dildo.
As his mighty meat was preparing itself for its essential role in our
concupiscent recipe, he seemed to know intuitively, like a skillful
courtesan, what to do to arouse his "client" erotically. As if he had been
given a treasure map that revealed all of my erogenous zones, identified by
erogenous zone number, he seemed to know exactly what would excite me. He
seemed to know that like Martin in Laugh In, if he blew in my ear, I'd
follow him anywhere.
To get to that erogenous zone, numbered 5a, labeled Left Ear on his
treasure map, his hands brought my ear to his mouth by turning my head under
his lips. As he did this, his tongue, on its way to my ear, left a
sticky-moist track across my cheek, like the precoital fluid of a horny
snail. Once at Left Ear, he laved the shell then triple-tapped a waltz clog
over the hole like Fred Astaire puttin' on his top hat. That tongue,
tickling the tiny hairs in my ear, sent passionate shivers of erotic energy
racing up and down my body that drove me madly to a salacious frenzy of
uncontrollable desire for him.
His titillating tongue did not remain there very long. That tongue and
his macho moustache, like the bristles of a brush, traced a track of erotic
stimulation down my neck, focused my attention to the site of his erotic
activity like a spotlight in a darkened theater on a star performer. Slowly
the spotlight moved down my neck, down my chest toward the next erogenous
zone, Left Tit, number 4b on his treasure map, that was already waiting in
the wings, breathlessly trembling in anxious anticipation, eagerly expecting
the arrival of the spotlight so it could have its turn to perform gloriously
with the star.
Left Tit was awaiting the arrival of his lips, like a virgin bride
awaiting the first caress of her bridegroom's lips on her virginal nipples.
It did not have long to wait. Jorge's mouth enveloped it, tongued it,
sucked it, and gently bit it until it stood up stiff as a tiny Lilliputian
pecker, that was as audaciously cocky as a flea climbing up an elephant's
ass with rape in mind. It was ready and willing to valiantly service and
satisfy the Gullivarian mouth, much bigger than it was, that was trying to
devour it. Left Tit stood up to Jorge's oral abuse, stiff and hard and
cocky as if it were a native witch doctor, who had taken yohimbine to keep
his phallus erect, for hours, during a pagan fecundity festival.
The tickling spotlight of erotic attention abandoned Left Tit and moved
across the erotically arid desert of Chest, leaving its moist snail's trail
behind it, to Right Tit, numbered 4a on the treasure map, where, to avoid
jealousy, Jorge lavished as much attention to it as he had given Left Tit,
making Right Tit stand up as stiff as Left Tit. At the same time, so that
Left Tit would not feel neglected, Jorge pinched and gently rolled it
between his thumb and forefinger, pulling on it as if he were trying to
bring it to climax, to make it shoot its Lilliputian wad all over his hand.
The spotlight of erotic attention started moving again, from Right Tit,
down my belly toward the volcanic crater marked Belly Button, number 6 on my
erogenous zone map. Again, his tongue left the moist track, like the path
of destruction following a tornado, as evidence that the storm of erotic
activity had passed there. Now it was Belly Button's turn to wait
breathlessly for the arrival of the spotlight, with butterflies in the pit
of its stomach, like the inhabitants of a Caribbean Island awaiting the
arrival of a predicted hurricane. It was Belly Button's turn to endure the
intense excitement of stage fright in anticipation of its turn in the
spotlight with the star. It was its turn to bear the breathlessness, the
rapid heartbeat, and the anticipatory anxiety as it awaited its turn to
perform.
It did not have long to wait. The storm of erotic activity enveloped
it and it was subjected to buffeting and pelting, the hurricane passing over
the crater of the volcano, as lightning flashes of erotic energy ignited
forest fires on the ground beneath. It weathered the storm, heaving up and
down as if it were struck by an earth quake at the same time as the
hurricane, until the storm of erotic activity passed over it to shower
Erogenous Zone Number 1, the Dingus Peninsula, lying right along side of it,
with erotic energy. Dingus Peninsula leaped joyfully several times, like an
impatient child at Christmas, about to receive its presents, in eager
anticipation of the erotic attention it was about to receive.
"AAAAHHHH," I sighed involuntarily as Jorge's satin smooth mouth
enveloped my nine-inch, unclipped love-meat like a warm velvet fog rolling
in from the sea, enveloping everything lovingly in its soft-moist caress.
Slowly, ever so slowly, punishing me exquisitely for my impatience, his
mouth moved sluggishly down the shaft until my whole sex stalk was buried in
his head to the love jungle at its root.
Not satisfied with this amazing performance, and responding to the
subconscious wish to punish him a little for making me wait so long, I
grabbed his kinky Rican-haired head so that he could not retreat, and pulled
him down farther on my lust lance as I hunched my hips hostilely, thrusting
Rodney even deeper into his cunt-throat, testing him, making him accept
discomfort for my pleasure. He did not shirk his duty. He accepted every
inch I had to give him, and made me feel good doing it. He took all the
punishment my thrusting hips could dish out, and seemed to ask for more. He
won the gold metal in the ride-the-bucking-bronco contest. He graduated
Magna Cum Loudly from the circus performer's school of sword swallowing.
When it came to cocksucking, I rated him definitely a ten.
In comparison to the poor blow jobs I have gotten from some "gays," I
was amazed at Jorge's proficiency. It was remarkable because "gays" are
supposed to be homosexual. They are supposed to get their kicks out of
sexually satisfying another man. Yet, here was a macho man sucking dick
better than most queens I knew. To master the art, he must have been
willing to study cocksucking as I had, at Morehead University under some of
the best teachers in the world, such as my biker friends. Then he must have
been willing to practice long hours to develop the necessary skills, because
he was superb.
In addition, he must have been able to reject society's bullshit
masculinity rules because, here was a macho man who was so masculinely self
assured that he could suck dick unashamedly. Here was a macho man who
valued pleasing his sex partners so much that he was willing to master the
art of skillful cocksucking.
After experiencing Jorge's proficiency, I now think that cocksucking
performance is all a matter of attitude, and that attitude is independent of
sexual orientation. Some of the worst blow jobs I ever got were from fellow
"gays" because their attitudes sucked instead of their mouths. I think that
some queens are poor cocksuckers because they are selfish egomaniacs. They
take erotic stimulation from their sexpartners and are unable or unwilling
to give satisfaction in return.
Even though they were supposedly homosexual, they either never bothered
to learn to suck cock properly or they were unwilling to put forth the
effort. Either they didn't learn how to keep their teeth out of the way,
when they sucked cock, or they didn't care how the blow job felt to their
partner. Either they never learned how to deep throat a big cock, or
satisfying their partner wasn't worth the effort. They didn't learn to keep
a steady rhythm to bring their partner to climax or, once they were
satisfied, they didn't care if their partner was satisfied. In any case, a
poor blow job resulted from a poor attitude.
Some of the worst blow jobs I ever got were from some of the prettiest
queens. Perhaps they thought, conceitedly, that their beauty permitted them
to take mercilessly from their sexpartner, without giving a good performance
in return. Perhaps they felt, erroneously, that their beauty was payment
enough for the privilege of having sex with them. Maybe they thought that
their prissy concern about not messing up their makeup, or not liking the
taste of cum, made them look femininely "pretty" and would be endearing to
their sexpartner. Well, let me assure them that it does not endear them to
me because I don't find egotistical attitudes sexually exciting. It just
makes me want to shake some sense into their vacuous, addle-brained heads,
and tell them, "Get with it, girl! Learn to suck cock!"
In some cases, poor cocksucking resulted from some fantasy that took
priority and repressed the attitudes necessary to give their sexpartners
cocksucking satisfaction. Maybe those dizzy queens who are poor cocksuckers
thought that the incompetent enthusiasm of an inept beginner would be a
sexual turn-on for their victim. To those woozy-brained floozies I say,
"Get serious!" The most impassioned enthusiasm, that leaves my cock feeling
as painfully shredded as if I got a blow job from a shark, is no substitute
for skill!
Some of us might be attracted to fresh-faced beauty and supposedly
virginal innocence; but, for me those virtues are not worth the pain and
aggravation of dealing with the immature personality that goes along with
them. Its a consistently reliable, experienced performance that wears well
with me in the long run. Give me Jorge's cool proficiency over amateurish,
albeit enthusiastic incompetence any day.
"Whoops! I've got to stop thinking of Jorge that way, as if I were
considering him as a candidate lover," I thought. "I've got to stop
checking off benefits and features as if I were comparison shopping for a
new car. Its that kind of thinking that got me into trouble with Todd."
Jorge now turned his attention to Anus, Erogenous Zone Number 2. He
lifted my legs onto his arms and buried his face in the cheeks of my ass
like a gopher digging for a grub. He spread the cheeks of my passion pit
with his fingers as if he were separating his wife's labia looking for my
clitoris. "Sorry, Jorge. There is no clit in this man's pussy-ass," I
thought. "You'll have to amuse your tongue in some other way than with clit
play."
He did. He buried his face in my ass and tongued my pleasure pit as if
it were an olive and he was trying to get the pimento stuffing out with his
tongue. He raped my rectum with his tongue and his fingers until I was as
loose as the Lincoln Tunnel and he could have driven a Peterbilt tractor
with twin-tandem trailers into me.
When he had me loose as a goose and twice as juicy, he swung my legs up
on his shoulders, aimed love's arrow for the bull's eye, and leaned into me.
"Oh, my God!" I gasped from the shock and deep-felt pain as he thrust his
hips at me, burying his love-lance in me to the hilt, overwhelming me
suddenly, like a blitz kreig invasion of my viscera by his panzer division,
overcoming my defenses and giving my innards little time to adjust to his
stiff military-strict control of my lowlands. There was no arguing with the
iron-fisted reign of terror his invasion had won over my freedom of
movements. Like control by a repressionistic dictator, I felt that any
rebellious movements on my part would be crushed by the reality of pain,
dictated by the animate object that had invaded my body, threatening me with
grave bodily harm if I did not submit to its will.
In addition, his precipitous invasion of my body, was an overture that
set the tone for his fucking. For some reason, perhaps because he resented
the fact that I had peeled off his persona-grata mask, and had exposed his
wanton passions, when I bit his cock and spurred him into sucking mine, he
now seemed to be punishing me physically. His merciless plunge into me was
the first evidence of this change of attitude. Either that, or now he was
more familiar with me, his true hostility was being revealed by his actions.
In any event, I knew from that first belligerent attack, that this was going
to be a challenging fuck -- and, at first, I loved it.
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