My adventures in sluttery.

As I mentioned in my last post I dated two men this week, and on Thursday night and Friday night I got naked with each of them respectively. Both men were outside my normal age range of interest - the first a dozen years older than me and the second a dozen years younger - but both of them were interesting dates. And not just because of the nakedness... although that did play a significant role.

The Thursday night guy and I met at an inner city cafe for a cup of coffee, then went for a walk, then we went for a drive in his car so that I could listen to some music he'd been telling me about. When we got back to my car we kissed... and while we both agreed that we didin't want to have sex, he invited me back to his place for a drink.

Half a hour later, at his pleasant house in the suburbs, we sat outside enjoying the balmy evening air and a couple of glasses of wine. We got into a fairly deep philosophical discussion (is it preferable to follow the Buddhist philosophy of seeking joy in ever simpler things, or is it also important to follow an Enlightenment ideal of seeking joy in ever more complex things?). Then we decided that, as it was getting late, we'd just round the evening off with a little more kissing.

One thing, however, lead to another. Soon we were lying on his bed rather than his couch. Soon after we'd lost most of our clothes. And soon after that there were tongues being applied to places where tongues are usually discouraged on first dates, even in gay circles. We stopped short of sex, but only just.

In retrospect I'm not sure about how I feel about him. His body was as impressive as his photos had suggested, and he was intelligent and good-natured. But he tended to monopolise the conversation, and he was of the school of kissing in which a man seeks to insert as much of his face into his recipient's mouth as humanly possible. By the next day my tongue hurt and I was lacerated all around the insides of my lips. I told him I'd contact him again, but I haven't yet and frankly I'm in two minds as to whether I want to. It's rude not to, but then again, he hasn't contacted me either.

Oh well... back to the story.

On Friday night I decided to put aside my reservations and have sex with the Chinese Malaysian guy I mentioned in my last post. After all, as an out-of-shape man in his early 40s, how often will I get a chance to get laid by a hot-bodied 30 year old? We met at a city bar for a drink, then walked over to a Chinese restaurant for dinner, then drove back to my place to get each other naked.

I already knew that he was a good kisser: very gentle and tentative and sensual, the antithesis of the guy I'd kissed the previous night. As we started shedding our clothes I saw that his body was just what I'd hoped for; smooth and muscled with honeyed dark skin, with a pale line around his ass where his speedos usually sit. I was a little disappointed when I pulled his underwear off and found that he was slightly smaller than average, but within a few minutes he'd provided proof of the old adage that it's not the size of the wand but the power of the wizard behind it that matters.

In one of my few coherent moments over the next two hours, I decided that his designation on this blog would be The Virtuoso. Because he was prodigiously, spectacularly talented at sex.

As he sucked and licked and tickled at my cock, the feeling was so intense that it was 95% of the way to being actual pain. When we moved on to anal it was much the same - pleasure so electric that it straddled the line between ecstacy and torment. I kept asking to change position, partly because my feet were cramping, but also to give me a brief respite, and as soon as we'd changed off he'd go again, driving deep and hard, with an apparently infinite ability to withhold his orgasm. Every time his vigorous thrusting got faster, and his breath quickened and his body shuddered I thought, "Okay, he's come... we can relax for a moment". But then after a few more gentle thrusts off he'd go again, so that all I could do was grip and twist the edge of the mattress and hope that I didn't tear it apart. After the third or fourth time he did this, I asked if he'd just come, but he said no, in a tone that suggested that such a thing would only happen to premature ejaculators.

Normally I regard the gasping and moaning during sex as a sign of appreciation - not pretending enjoyment but rather adding to the theatre. With The Virtuoso, the ragged gasps and cries of "OH FUCK!" were more involuntary, a way of releasing energy that was otherwise threatening to overwhelm me. It didn't hurt, but it was so intense that it was hard to handle.

Not that I'm complaining. As I said to him in a tone that I tried to keep from being gushy or besotted, "I'm so not sorry that I asked you to come home with me."

The only serious downside came at the end of the evening, when he warned me that he was a loud snorer. He wasn't kidding. He fell asleep as he spooned me, with his cheek resting on the nape of my neck, and it sounded as if some sadist was running over a flock of panicked geese with a steamroller. Full on, deafening, sleep apnea-riddled snoring. I lay there for half an hour, marvelling at the constant changes in pitch, duration and vibrato, until with a particularly loud snort he woke himself up, and then offered to leave. I liked the feel of his hot naked skin against mine, but seriously, I was never going to get to sleep with that cacophany in my ear. So I let him go.

I expect that I will see him again; he texted me saying words to that effect, and he seemed very excited that he'd finally met someone who was mostly into bottoming. As for me, I'm just hoping that I can appreciate the literally eye-popping pleasure better next time.