The Gesture

To tell of one gesture one must tell everything. His name is Luis. I met him last Sunday at the sex club just off Tottenham Court Road. It must have been about 3pm and I’d only just arrived. There’s something special about those Underwear-Only Sundays, the gathering of men in a black-walled subterranean bar during the afternoon; something leisurely, too. I usually go at about 5pm – two hours is all I need to have a good time. At 7pm they start letting the fully-clothed wander around. Between 1pm and 7pm the dress code is underwear and footwear only.

Luis was in boxer shorts.

I seem to remember I made out with someone else before I made out with him, but I could be wrong. Luis might have been the first. The first and the last. But quite a bit happened between the beginning and the end, the end which wasn’t really an end, because as I write this I am anticipating his arrival at my flat in just over two hours.

But back in the club…

I like an encounter to begin with a kiss. He was young and dark and muscley, shorter than me, just a sprinkling of hair on his chest. He kissed well. We had that nice kind of connection, gentle with each other, and every now and then becoming a bit rougher, forceful, enjoying each other’s strength, this intimate meeting we were having out in the open. We kissed a lot and played with each other’s nipples and he sucked on mine, and I licked his ear (always a tricky one, because you can never be sure if the other guy’s going to be into it; if you’re not the kind of person who likes having his lobe nibbled on and a tongue shoved into your ear canal, it can be quite a turn-off, and I didn’t want to turn Luis off) and ran my hands across his back and his stomach, and every now and then held his hair in my fist and pulled his head back so I could kiss him harder.

All this is really just setting the scene for that one gesture, the gesture that came, more or less, in the middle of our afternoon together, some time after we’d made out for the first time and then parted ways and said we’d meet up later, and we did, we were, meeting up later, in a corner of the club in the section with the cubicles that only have enough room to stand in, facing each other, but at a distance of about a metre and a half.

I watched as men gathered round him, kissed him, played with his cock, went down on their knees to suck it. I watched them touch him. I want to say that it was as if we were alone in the room together, in that space in the corner, as if, when we looked at each other, everyone else fell away. But it was something sexier than that. It was as if those men were necessary to our connection, part of it. I loved watching them enjoy him as they went down on him, knelt before him, admired his body, and I knew that only ten or so minutes ago he had done the same for me, that he’d gone down on his haunches and taken my cock into his mouth (granted, with too much teeth, but hungrily nonetheless).

I had my own men to deal with. A tall slim guy to my right, and a particularly short buff guy to my left. I touched the slim guy, stroked his back, drew him closer to me so that he would put a nipple into his mouth, and the other guy came closer, short enough to suck on the other nipple without bending down, and I held onto both of them, pressed their heads against my chest. And all the while I stared at Luis, as if I had to mesmerise him, but he was mine already – my gaze was a reminder to him, to let him know that he was the one I wanted, that he, above all these other men, was the most desirable, the most beautiful, the one I wanted to be with.

I moved closer to him.

They kissed his chest and played with his tits and sucked his cock and I reached out my hand towards him and stroked his shoulder, his neck, his face. I touched him gently. He lifted his hand away from the scrum of men around him and stroked my arm, touched my nipple. I moved closer – slowly – as if I was moving through history, through time, through a million abstract things that keep men apart – ignorance, bigotry, shame, fear – just to be with him.

The gesture was the touching above the heads of other men. To be surrounded by others and to touch, for me to choose him and he – me. That was the moment. I reach out my hand and touch you, and you do the same, and we stand there, suspended, frozen, melting, moving slowly, so slowly we are as still as a Bill Viola video piece. Only the ones who are patient will know what is happening, will see the wholeness of the gesture.

He will be here in just over an hour. He will arrive on his bike. He has been to the gym today. He looks perfect in a loose grey vest, the vest he wore when we cycled home together from the club, our flats just a short walk from each other’s. In my fantasy we have sex when he gets here, we lie in bed and talk for a bit, then we go out for a bike ride to somewhere with trees and grass, perhaps the Heath, where we can sit and talk and drink fruit juice, then perhaps wonder into the more woody parts of the park to have sex with the men who wander around there, him and I connected amongst them, on a day like today, the 3rd of July, while the homosexuals party in Soho on this day of Pride.

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.)

Some Men Love Cock

I went back to the Waterloo sauna a couple of days ago. It was the beginning of what really feels like spring in London. The sun was out and it was almost warm; you could only feel the slight chill in the air if you were on your bike, and I was on my bike. I stopped off at the Southbank for some soup and a sandwich and sat outside with my face to the sun, feeling lucky. Blessed, I think is the word. I’d read earlier that day something that Hemingway had said, something from his Nobel Prize speech, the speech someone else read out for him at the ceremony. What stayed with me was the importance of being lonely, of being alone and bearing/baring that loneliness, that in order to write you have to face the big unknown (he calls it eternity, or the lack thereof) on a daily basis, and if you don’t, well, your writing will suffer. Recognition will dilute your work. I feel most myself when I am alone. My desires and actions very rarely feel genuine when I’m in a couple. But… I’m on my way to the sauna.

There are days when you go to the sauna or the sex club or to bed with your lover and you feel sexy, you feel horny and open and confident. You can tell you’re going to have a good time and that you’re going to get the kind of sex you want. And you usually do. There are days when you go to the sauna because you’re desperate to be touched or loved or validated, or just to have someone talk to you in this strange city where you can go for days without having a conversation with someone who’ll hold you, too. On days like that it can go either way, depending on your luck, or how strong the smell of your desperation is. And there are days when you go to the sauna because you want to sit in a hot room with other men, naked. You want a men-only space where you don’t have to talk and you don’t feel judged. You go to the sauna because you can and because it’s there. That was how I was feeling three days ago – not overly horny, not in need of validation, but really just wanting to be there, to take off my clothes and to look at and be seen by other men, and, yes, it would be nice to have my cock sucked, to have a long, slow kissing session with someone. That sort of thing.

My theory is that if you go to these places with a clear idea in mind of what you want and what your motivation is, then you’re likely, more often than not, to get what you want. Three days ago I kind of got what I wanted. I got my cock sucked. I had a chat with someone I’d probably never meet in other circumstances. And I got propositioned by several men. I like to be chatted up by men. I like it when guys come up to me and tell me they want to have sex with me. I like being looked at. I like being wanted. It happens to me quite a bit. It’s taken me years to notice this, or at least to enjoy it. At the sex club today it happened two or three times. But there are still a few things I want to say about the sauna.

He was the cutest guy at the sauna that day. He was a bit shorter than me, darker – some sort of mix, maybe Brazilian, or just Spanish, or an English mixed-race guy – but his skin was a nice brown (no, I’m not going to do all the coffee/chocolate similes) and he was smooth. I like smooth men. I like smooth men with slim, firm bodies. He was all that. At first he didn’t show much interest. I was standing at one end of the cruising area upstairs, near the cleaning closet (where I had sex a few months ago with one of the employees) and I caught his eye, but he walked past without that lingering look that is a yes. A couple of minutes later when I was walking around and we crossed paths again, I could see that he was suddenly interested, and that that interest had something to do with me being bigger than him – in height and bulk, not in cock-size, as I was soon to find out.

Some men love cock. A lot of men love cock. My cock is an average kind of cock, though it might be a bit thicker than average, and judging from cocks I have come across that are similar, it is the kind of cock that fits well into a mouth. That was what this guy wanted. We were in a cubicle, we closed the door, and he was on his knees. No small-talk, no foreplay. There are times when I like that approach, when there really is nothing to say or do but suck, or give your cock over to being sucked. That was one of those times. He was hungry. He had that amazing suction thing going in his mouth that can make you feel both extremely turned on and a little anxious that your cock isn’t big enough, that he can actually suck it the way you can suck your thumb. He was good at what he did and I didn’t have to worry too much about making him choke or gag when I fucked his face. I have recently started doing this thing that when a guy is on his knees sucking my cock, I will put one hand at the back of his neck and the other hand around his throat and pull his head onto my cock. I like to play with strangulation. It’s about the breath, more than breath control. I am new to  circular breathing, and feel an immediate kinship with other men who know how to do it, to take my breath into their lungs and to breath their air back into me.

Now that I’ve told you about the guy in the sauna, I’m not sure there’s much more to say about the guys in the sex club. There is a lot to say about the sex club itself, and yes, about the guys, too. The guy with the cold mouth. The guy who feasted on my nipples and on my cock. The guy with the smooth arsehole that just opened up when I put my finger in it, in view of a gathering audience. When you see me tomorrow, remind me that there is still more to say.