The Glorious Day of Underwear

I’m trying to cut down. It’s been over two weeks since my last confession. If I had to say how many times I’ve sinned – sinned! he says, isn’t that being a bit sex negative? – how many times I’ve come and not been happy about it, or happy about what led up to the ejaculating, I’d have to say at least twice, and those times involved phone sex. I want to stop with the phone sex; it’s not good for me. All the rest is good. And even though yesterday when I needed a break from working and wanted to go to the sex club because Sunday is the day of underwear, I thought that maybe I should stay home, maybe I shouldn’t be rushing out there to have sex with strangers every time there is a window in my schedule. All I do is work and eat and sleep and fuck and breathe. That’s about it. I’ve kind of killed my social life, cut myself off from the few friends I have, or had. I think that’s because of the phone sex. I think the phone sex has a lot to do with that, Father. I should be praying instead. Saying whatever is the Jewish version of Hail Mary and Our Father.

But yesterday. The Glorious Day of Underwear at the sex club. I went kind of reluctantly but left there quite elated, transformed by the power of men together in an underground bar, (almost) naked and enjoying each other’s bodies. So much pleasure happens in silence, and I felt like I was back in my body and my body was a thing of joy, appreciated. He was Colombian (have I written about him already?) and he was fucking delicious. The skin and the mouth and the cock and the way he played with my tits and touched me and I’d only been there five minutes and already I was brought back to life, out of the unconscious, the murky waters of the subconscious I was swimming in (drowning in!) or wherever it is that we go when we write and become involved in a story and disappear, stop breathing, forget how to talk to other human beings… he was everything I wanted and needed at that moment, and I didn’t stop myself from showing that, from moaning loudly, almost growling, a kind of amplified purr. He sucked on my tits and my cock with the same lusciousness, his lips soft and engulfing around everything. And he kissed beautifully, An elegant slobbering – me and him slobbering at each other without vulgarity or inhibition. Like we could consume each other, drink from each other as from troughs. And so it went on for about twenty minutes until I felt I was going to come and I wasn’t ready to come. I wanted more men. To be touched by more. To kiss more. To have my cock sucked more. To be appreciated and stroked and admired and wanted. Everything. We said we’d see each other later. We said and we did.

In the interim: Two English guys. One with a very hairy chest and very long nipples. I like that. Especially the long nipples. And he was into me. I like the whole public thing. Doing it with people around. Although I liked it just as much doing it with the Colombian guy – let’s call him Romero – in a cubicle, just him and me, and the occasional hand waving about through the glory hole. But the Hairy English guy and I were making out in one of the more public areas, actually the main public area – with the barrels and the large padded platforms. The thing was that he had this strange smell, a mixture, I think, of poppers and alcohol, and maybe his lunch, too, but a combination that wasn’t altogether pleasing. It was pleasing enough to keep going for a while, but not pleasing enough to go on for longer than that.

“I’d just sat down to take a break,” I said.

“Oh, sorry,” he said. “I’ll leave you to it.”

The other English guy was smooth and lean and defined. That word! Defined. What does that mean? It always sounds like a euphemism to me, because, really, most of the people you see online who use that word, are not defined. Guys who are defined usually call themselves athletic or muscular. The smooth English guy was athletic and muscular. It’s kind of a long story how we eventually landed up sitting on the leather sofa together and then him getting on his knees to suck my cock, so I’ll skip to that…

“I do like sucking cock,” he said. “And I like getting fucked.”

“Do you like having a hand on the back of your head and getting a cock shoved all the way to the back of your throat?” I said, still on the sofa, our bodies close together, arms touching. My god, he has beautiful skin.

“Uh-huh,” he said.

“Do you like a cock banging against your throat so that you choke?” I said.

“I do,” he said.

“I think that’s your cue, then,” I said.

And he went down on his knees. It was nice. Yes, faint praise, I know. There’s something about the English and the shape of their hunger. It’s odd. It’s an odd kind of hunger, even when it’s really full-on, and I like a full-on hunger… but it;s just… I don’t know… odd. There’s something prissy about it. Even with the guys I’ve met who are into fisting and bondage and leather and some hardcore stuff, they’re still prissy. They’ll still lay their arm-size dildos out neatly on a fluffy white cotton towel. They’ll still have all their clamps and vibrators and lube and condoms all in a neat little drawer. They do everything, but they won’t kiss you after you’ve rimmed them. They love being rimmed. I’ve known a few who are not prissy at all. But they seem to be the exception.

Oh, and the smooth English guy was not into nipples at all. Like nada.

“I’m not as bad as I used to be,” he says “A year ago I wouldn’t even let anyone touch them. I just didn’t like it.”

“That would be the deal breaker for me,” I said, and yet, despite all that, he eventually got onto his knees, etc.

Romero and I hooked up again at the end, at around 6.30, about half an hour before the Underwear session ended and fully-dressed guys were allowed in to prowl the underworld. It was perfect. He came. I said I’d come next time. We lay together naked for a bit, then went to get our clothes, got dressed, and walked together to the corner. He went one way to get the bus home, I unlocked my bike and cycled the other way. (At some point we must say something about meeting someone when  they’re naked and then seeing them clothed. It’s a bit like how it was in the army where you first meet people in uniform and there’s always a slight bit of trepidation before you see them in civvies. The story you glean from nakedness is often very different to the clothed story.)


About Michael Wynne
Artist and writer. Author of The Bathhouse Hornbook, Look Dick Look, and My Life in Masturbation. See more at

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