Desire, Lust, Passion, Sex

Desire, Lust, Passion, Sex

Jameson Currier

Published by Chelsea Station Editions at Smashwords

Desire, Lust, Passion, Sex

by Jameson Currier

Copyright © 2004 and 2013 by Jameson Currier.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review where appropriate credit is given; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, photocopying, recording, or other—without specific written permission from the publisher.

All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Ebook design by Peachboy Distillery & Designs

Cover photo by Photo by Valentin Casarsa, istockphoto.com

Originally published by Green Candy Press (2004).

Published by Chelsea Station Editions

362 West 36th Street, Suite 2R

New York, NY 10018

www.chelseastationeditions.com

info@chelseastationeditions.com

Print ISBN: 978-0-9832851-1-3

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013943622

CONTENTS

Lessons

Snow

What Is Enough?

First Shave

Alibis

Fearless

A Date with Dracula, a Trick with Tarzan

What You Learn

Impromptu

Elvis Is Alive and Working on Eighth Avenue

Expatriates

What You Find

Flash Gordon at the Exclusive Dating Service for Men

A Kiss

Grown-ups

The Man of My Dreams

Desire, Lust, Passion, Sex

Three Lovers

What Counts Most

Buddies

Acknowledgments

Publication Credits

About the Author

For all the dates, tricks, buddies, friends, and lovers

Lessons

There was a time in my life when I became a virgin again. It was during a period when a lot of things were going wrong, or, rather, a lot of people were disappearing without saying good-bye, and those who weren’t disappearing were afraid that they would be disappearing soon themselves, and so, instead of waiting to see if I was going to vanish as well, I sequestered myself. I drew those willowy pink chenille curtains of mine closed, locked those over-painted louvered window gates up tighter than a chastity belt and decided to hide in the dark away from it all until it was safe to go back out in the sunlight again. It never really got safe again. Things never really got better but I learned how to adjust; I learned to peek through the slats, and to wear sunglasses and hats and whatever other protective gear I could get my body into when I went outside. Then one day I found myself no longer fretting about my self-imposed exile and back out in the sun again—in Sheep Meadow in Central Park carelessly sunbathing with my shirt off, without even putting on sunblock—and falling in love with a married man who was trying to fall out of love with his wife.

It was a complicated relationship for us both right from the start. Even though those gates of mine had been closed so long the locks were rusty, I was still standing outside my closet. He, alas, was hidden within his. But none of this hampered what happened between us in bed. In fact, that’s how the relationship blossomed. Soon enough we began experimenting and I discovered that his greatest desire was for me to teach him how to become a bottom, or, in more technical terms, how to become the passive partner who receives the penetration of a male’s penis. And I became more than a willing coach, never one to shy away from the kind of muscular, beefcake ass he possessed. I spent hours getting that sphincter of his to relax, lubing up a small butt plug until he was comfortable with holding it inside his ass, then progressing to a slender dildo, then gradually moving up to a larger one, then a wider one, until one day we reached the point when he was ready to take my cock up his ass. I remember thinking at the time that if someone had given me that sort of time and attention, I would have no desire to find another boyfriend. I’d want to get married.

I should have realized this was too fun to last. Once my boyfriend had mastered my cock, it wasn’t long before he wanted instead to play top to my bottom. The only problem was, he wasn’t interested in giving me the same time and attention I had given him, nor was he interested in giving up being a bottom, either. Like I said, it was a complicated relationship—I was out and he was in and he wanted to be in and out with other guys. I never had the chance to switch from top to bottom with him, because we were too quickly switching between other partners and fighting too much about our positions. But he wasn’t the only guy I had dated who, well, wanted to flip me over.

I should probably admit now that to many men I seem like the ideal bottom—boyish-looking and short, I don’t even weigh in at 150 pounds—which is why I get such a delicious personal pleasure out of turning the tables and demanding that I be a top with all of these hunky macho guys who expect me to roll over and play bottom for them. But the truth is, even though I looked boyish and my boyfriend wasn’t really my boyfriend anymore, by this time I wasn’t really boyish any longer. I suppose this is a roundabout way of saying that I wasn’t getting any younger. And, as community folklore has it, after so much time goes by, those closed gates soon look like a boarded-up wall; if you want to open the window, you have to start over again and knock out a hole to see the sun. So here I was a virgin again after all these years of isolation and waiting for the right guy to knock my window open.

And the real truth: I was a single and unattached aging gay man yearning for love. What I wanted was to find a better man than the kind I usually met, and one of the methods I thought might help me in my personal quest would be to, well, make myself more versatile in the bedroom department. Knock my own gate down before someone else hit a brick wall.

Not long after I reached that insight I began perusing the personals to meet my dream man, a habit I had gravitated to for years and years and years, whenever I felt the dating pool had grown too shallow. I picked up newspapers and magazines at the bars, the community center, the bookstore, the newsstand—wherever I could find ones that carried men-for-men personals. At home I would sit at my desk with a red felt-tip pen poised in my hand, ready to circle the most desirable ones. No matter how many personals I circled and notated in the Romance Only or Let’s Date sections, I always seemed to gravitate to the Raunch and Kink or Sex Only sections, fascinated by the obsessive nature of so many gay men and at the same time frustrated that so many guys were looking for such specific requirements, and knowing, really, that my nature would most likely preclude any visits to the kinkier sides of gay life. The only thing I had ever desired of a perfect sexual encounter was to give as much pleasure to my partner as I wanted him to provide me. And that didn’t necessarily include smelly jockstraps or foot worship, though it also didn’t rule them out.

And so one particularly lonely and forlorn day, this ad caught my eye:

BUTT PLAY 101

Let me teach you how to enjoy your ass and asshole. I will show you how to experience ultimate pleasure from the space between your legs.

I must confess now that I had never answered a sexual ad before. Yes, I read them and mulled them over, but I only circled and called the romantic, dream date ones. As for sex, because I’d always found enough action at the bars or the clubs or on the street—or from the dating ads—I hadn’t ever needed to turn to the Sex Only personals as an outlet. My goal was to find a worthwhile long-term relationship or at least someone who would stick around after the third date, not someone who only wanted to stick his sticky fingers up my butt to get his rocks off. Nonetheless, I circled the ad, partly nostalgic over my lost boyfriend and partly curious about whether I should really consider a new method to snare a new one. A few days later, when I was leaving voice mail messages for all of my potential dream dates, I decided, Oh, well, what the hell, let’s respond to the butt player as well.

None of my Perfect Husbands responded, but the butt player did. Our short, introductory phone conversation went something like this:

So you’re into butt play? he asked.

Not really, I replied.

You ever had anything up your ass before? he asked.

Not in a while.

I’ve helped a lot of beginners, he said.

I’m not exactly a beginner, I stated, just starting over.

Boyfriend? he asked.

Not anymore.

I can see you Sunday at nine, he said. His voice was cheerless and perfunctory, making it seem as if I had called to make a doctor’s appointment for a shot of penicillin. Yet it was exactly this sexless, clinical exchange that made it so easy for me to accept his offer.

Okay, I answered. We talked a few minutes more. He told me his address and that his name was Joey. He admitted that he was in his early fifties and had gray and black salt-and-pepper hair. As I hung up, I reminded myself that this was a learning experience—he was going to teach me to be a bottom, or at least teach me to be a better bottom. Henry Higgins wasn’t exactly the perfect man for Eliza Doolittle when they met, either, you know.

* * *

I arrived at Joey’s apartment nervous and tipsy and more than fifteen minutes late, which (even on gay median time) is more than a rude way to begin an association. I had indulged in a glass of wine at the bar on the corner of Joey’s street, a trendy little smoke-filled, artsy-fartsy place with skinny women in black dresses and guys in dark T-shirts and gold hoop earrings. As I gulped down the last third of my drink, I had reminded myself once again that this wasn’t a date. This guy didn’t advertise in the Looking for Love section, and I wasn’t expecting Joey to be my Mr. Goodbar. He was only Mr. Chips, after all, and I could leave him as soon as he taught me, uh, well, how to enjoy the pleasure of a man’s penetration.

Want something to drink? he asked as he ushered me into his apartment. My distress must have clearly shown on my face at that moment. Joey was more like sixty than fifty, and his salt-and-pepper hair was an unshaven beard. Otherwise, he was bald as a cue ball, with a puffy face that looked like a sandbag that had been punched and hadn’t regained its shape. He was slightly shorter than me but more than three hundred pounds overweight, a fact he hadn’t mentioned on the phone. He was dressed in the kind of light, blousy outfit that, when worn by street people, makes you immediately cross to the other side of the street. If he had not lived in one of those high-tech, luxury apartments that always seem to end up photographed in Metropolitan Home or the Thursday section of the Times, I would have turned around and left, because this potential dreamboat more closely resembled my worst nightmare.

I should probably add that the Sunday night I arrived at Joey’s apartment, it was a warm, misty late spring evening that seemed to possess more humidity and mugginess than actual raindrops or heat. I stood in his doorway holding a moist umbrella, my split ends growing into an afro. I felt old and troll-like myself at that moment; I was conscious I was standing on a clean beige carpet, worried that I had brought with me all the urban dirt and soot and grime I had carefully tried to avoid out on the street. Joey’s apartment was clearly more showplace than home. The smell from flowers in a crystal vase on a table near where I stood wafted up to my nose as I shook myself out of my damp jacket. The vestibule where I stood frozen like a rescued stray dog opened up into a living room entirely decorated in beige—a sofa and matching wing chairs were upholstered in a neutral, beige fabric; prints of blank beige-colored squares framed by beige wood were hung on a beige-painted wall; a shiny beige lamp rested on a shiny beige end table.

Any wine? I asked Joey as he led me to the sofa. I took a seat cautiously, resting my derriere lightly on the edge of a cushion as if I were going to leap out of the room at any instant, because I was embarrassed at shedding particles of dust into the immaculate surroundings. Beside me, a beige coffee table jutted out close to my knees, empty except for several Playbills arranged in the shape of a fan.

Red or white? he asked.

Whatever’s open, I answered.

During our entire greeting and exchange, Joey was beaming as if a Christmas gift had just walked through the door. I sat waiting for him to return, feeling like I had played this game a million times and was too old and tired to try it again tonight with an ancient schlumper.

I loved this show, I said, trying to deflect my discomfort when Joey returned with a glass of wine that looked more beige than white. I reached over and plucked a Playbill out of the arrangement, the fan quickly disintegrating into an unorganized mess. As I lamely tried to straighten it up, the thought occurred to me: murderers don’t like show tunes—do they? And wasn’t Joey too old to be a murderer anyway? Isn’t it usually the wealthy sixty-year-old man who is found with his throat slashed the next morning? Joey seemed unperturbed by the mess I had made on his coffee table. In fact, he seemed to be amused by my nervous stumbling about; when I looked up I noticed he was smiling, his mouth widening to reveal a set of conspicuously fake beige teeth.

The dancing was terrific, he said, but the music was abysmal. He waved his hand in the air on his last word, as if shooing away a fly, but then he started telling me about a theatrical wig maker he knew who worked backstage and as the gossip flew from his mouth, his hand waved back and forth like a flag flapping in the wind on Independence Day.

I didn’t really mind all the talk about the theater; I was grateful for any distraction from the matter at hand. We sat and kibitzed about a lighting designer stepping out of his boundaries to become a director and a composer known for his S&M tendencies. In fact, we talked so long about the theater that I completely forgot the reason why I was there in the first place. Joey was becoming a friend, not a potential teacher, and his fuzzy potato head no longer looked as if it belonged to a derelict. I could see the honesty in his face even if I couldn’t imagine him successfully pleasuring my ass. But then Joey abruptly ended the conversation, leaning over and saying, Well, shall we get started? Suddenly his wrists were no longer limp; one hand was firmly placed against my shoulder, the other reaching around to remove my empty glass from the coffee table.

Uh, sure, I answered, not really certain I wanted to go through with it.

You can leave your clothes on the chair, he said, as a doctor might before leaving a patient alone in an examining room. In fact, Joey did leave me alone in the room while he carried away the empty glass, but he returned by the time I had managed to rise from the couch and fumble with the buttons on my shirt. Joey walked to a set of louvered doors that I had thought was a closet, but opened, they revealed a full-size bed built into a small nook that must have once been a laundry room. Along the bottom of the bed was a row of drawers built into the frame and Joey opened the middle drawer and began pulling out an assortment of items: a pair of latex gloves, a box of condoms, an industrial-sized bottle of lubricant, four or five different-sized dildos, none of which, I felt certain, I could possibly accommodate, a box of baby wipes and a plastic mat, which he unfolded and placed on top of the beige bedspread. I was deliberately taking my time with my clothes, folding and refolding them as he moved swiftly about his little alcove. Finally, he turned and looked at me standing sheepishly in my underwear and T-shirt.

I sterilize all the dildos in the dishwasher, he said, as if that were my most crucial concern about sticking a giant object up my ass.

The dishwasher? I responded, flabbergasted by a mental image of a row of dildos sitting straight up in a car wash. The next thing I knew I was standing behind him staring at the paraphernalia spread out on the bed, all of it for the sole purpose of entertaining my ass. Things had never seemed this complicated when I played the same game with my ex-boyfriend. But that was the difference, wasn’t it? I reminded myself. It had been a game with my boyfriend. This was a lesson.

And I always use condoms on the dildos, he said, patting the plastic mat. Take your shorts off and sit up here. Joey seemed to realize as he said this that there was hardly room for me to sit on the bed because of all his equipment, and he started rearranging things to make a space for me, or, worse, for us. I realized the moment I dropped my briefs that I should have thought twice before agreeing to all of this. Was I that desperate to learn how to enjoy my ass? Shouldn’t I have really concentrated on finding a boyfriend first? I looked down at my cock and noticed it appeared smaller and more frightened than I had seen it in years.

Have you had many responses to your ad? I asked when I was seated on the edge of the bed, shifting myself onto the mat. Somehow Joey was already completely undressed and I was amazed to see that his body looked no different than when he had been wearing his billowy outfit: it was as lumpy and wavy as beige fabric that had been sat on all day. The only difference between his body and his clothing was the gold Hebrew symbol dangling from a chain around his neck now visible against the sparse, gray fluff of his chest. And his erection, of course: his small, slender dick popped straight out at me like a breadstick misplaced in an Easter basket.

Nope, he said. You’re my first. I just placed the ad last week.

Great, I thought, a virgin again. And a guinea pig.

* * *

But it was then that the lesson began. Or life unfolded. Isn’t that what teaching is all about? The passing of knowledge gained not so much on one subject but after the cumulative experiences of many years.

When I first met my lover I was strictly a top, Joey said. I was on my back with my legs bent and my knees pulled to my chest. I wasn’t interested in somebody sticking something inside me, because all I wanted to do was to stick something myself, you know? Then, after we were together for about four years, we started changing roles. He didn’t always want to be the bottom so I experimented with it some and decided I liked it, and we changed roles. He was the top and I was the bottom. That lasted for a few more years and then he decided he wanted to be the bottom again. That’s when we started getting all this stuff, he said, waving his hand at his assortment of dildos.

I think that’s more than I can handle, I said, twisting my body to look at the smallest dildo, which in my estimation was about twelve inches long and eight inches wide.

You think so? We’ll see.

Joey had positioned himself at the end of the bed, a plump round period to my wavy exclamation point. He lifted one of my legs and rested it against his shoulder. The next thing I knew, his wet gloved finger was in my rectum and I could feel him twiddling my prostate gland. I leaned up to watch his hand inside me, expecting him to say at any point, Scalpel, or Sutures, but instead he said, You’re very tight.

I nodded, wishing there were some music playing or somebody kissing me or a video being shown or, better yet, that I had another glass of beige wine in my hand. Instead, all I heard was Joey beginning to breathe harder, like someone with asthma. I lay back down, the mat crinkling as my skin pressed against it. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine myself a thousand miles away, but instead heard the slumpf, slumpf, slumpf of Joey pumping more lubricant out of a bottle and into his hand and then into my ass.

It’s the small ones that are the hardest, you know, he said.

I leaned my head up again and looked at him in surprise. It’s the truth. It’s all about stretching. The walls don’t stretch that much with the tiny ones. The big ones force you to relax in order to accommodate them. Give me a big, fat dick any day. It’s so much easier to manage and it’s a lot more fun. He started laughing, a high-pitched hiccup that started in the back of his throat and ended with the quivering of his shoulders and saggy chest.

It was such an odd moment from someone I had heretofore regarded as a clinical, professional worker. It’s all about relaxing, you know, he said, still chuckling. Once you learn how to relax those muscles down there you can take a football.

The thought of a football up my ass was definitely unappealing, and I pumped a swipe of lube from the bottle and wrapped the oily palm of my hand around my cock, trying to force myself to become harder. Above me, I heard Joey gasp.

What’s wrong? I asked.

Ahh, why did you do that? he asked.

Do what? I asked, shocked.

I wanted to suck your dick. Now I can’t take it in my mouth. And you have such a beautiful dick.

Ohhh, I said, sorry, really sorry, that he hadn’t acted quicker. Thank you, I added, feeling like the moronic pupil who has disappointed the teacher.

Next, he took a slender dildo I hadn’t noticed before, the kind I had once used on my ex-boyfriend, lubed it up, and inserted it into my ass. It went in easily, though I could feel the walls of my ass caving into the dildo instead of it stretching them further. You’ve been practicing, he said.

Not really. Those Kegel exercises don’t work for me.

Oh sure they do, he said. You’re just uptight. What’re you so nervous about?

Life, I thought. I’m nervous because I’m still alive after all these years. The only thing that worked out for me was that I didn’t die when everyone else did.

Open your eyes, he said and lightly slapped my chest.

I could feel the residue of lube where his hand had grazed my skin.

I’m not going to hurt you, he said. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do. You can trust me. After a few lessons, you’ll be able to take King Dong over there.

King Dong?

The super-deluxe double-headed one, he said, nodding at the giant dildo with a cock head on each end. My boyfriend and I used to play with that one a lot. There was a time when we were both bottoms. Come to think of it, there was a time when everyone in the city was a bottom. It sure was difficult to find a top some nights.

I gave him a smile and leaned back and started pumping my cock again. I felt myself growing thicker and he took the slender dildo out of my ass and lubed up a wider and longer one. Before I knew it, it was inside my ass, and I was rock hard, pumping my cock and arching my back away from the mat. And then I suddenly felt a decade younger, and a memory washed over me of a man I had dated on Fire Island. Joey bent my legs and rubbed my thighs just as the man had. He kept the dildo far up inside me and cupped my balls and rubbed them with his slippery hands. Then he reached up and twisted my left nipple.

The first time I was fucked, my boyfriend was so impatient that he made me bleed, Joey said. I turned him into a great lover, though. Then he left me. Then he came back. Said he couldn’t find anyone better in bed. Oh, he could find others to have sex with, don’t get me wrong. But none of them had my touch. It worked for both of us though. He made me feel so beautiful.

Joey was breathing hard through his mouth by now, and he moaned and moved one hand to my cock and stroked it as he returned to lightly pushing the dildo in and out of my ass. That okay? he asked.

I nodded back at him.

I miss him, Joey said. He died about three years ago.

He stopped pushing the dildo in and out of me and pulled himself up out of his hunched over position. That doesn’t bother you, does it? Everything we’re doing is safe.

I nodded again that it was all right to continue. I was aware that we hadn’t kissed each other, aware that not a single drop of body fluid had been exchanged between us. No tears. No sweat. As I looked at Joey’s face as he worked over my ass and cock, alternating one hand between stroking his cock and my own, I realized he had survived, as I had, but his road might have been more difficult than my own. I sensed that the puffiness bloating his face was not entirely due to the ravages of aging but likely came from medication or the overuse of alcohol.

But I also realized he was enjoying his task. Obviously, he had taken out the ad because he enjoyed sticking something up a guy’s butt, enjoyed giving a guy pleasure this way; perhaps this was his fantasy, his fetish, the scene he wanted to play—older teacher instructing the younger pupil. The thought of it made me smile and the delight surged through me like a jolt of electricity. I felt my body finally become sensitive to his touch. My first shot came with a wave of release, replaced almost immediately by a flood of