On More Than One Occasion

Sometimes I feel like I am a blank slate. I can go from place to place, person to person, and need no adjustment. I also have an extremely high pain tolerance. Not enough to join some super spy network or anything but enough that I don't get hurt a lot. As a result, I sometimes have a problem identifying when a normal person would need some adjustment.

On one occasion Usually, I'd be sitting at home doing homework with AOL open. Sometimes I'd be in an m4m room. On one occasion I used to get lots of IMs from boys around my own age looking to hook up. I'm not hot or anything. I don't even consider myself attractive. But where I'm from, it's hard to find other gay boys in the general populace. There were some boys who wore gay pride like a pair of their favorite jeans, but the boys who were looking for me weren't looking for them. They wanted anonymity.

Brian wanted to bottom for someone. He had never been with another guy before, and claimed to be in the closet. He was also a drama student, chorus member, and AIDS activist. But he was in the closet.

He showed up at my house with a case of Zima around 3 in the afternoon. We put MTV in the background and talked a lot. Around three hours and eleven Zimas later he wanted to kiss me.

Brian was beautiful. Nineteen years old, short messy blond hair, blue eyes, perfect teeth. I was twenty-one and knew that if he was comfortable with his sexuality he would not be meeting guys like me over The Internet. I said as much to him. As much as I wanted him, and as much as I knew he would probably regret losing his gay virginity this way, I didn't want him to feel that I pressured him.

We talked some more, and we made out. Around 8 o'clock he started taking his clothes off. He had been working out. I suggested that we move upstairs as I had a sliding glass door with no blinds on it, and a community of nosy neighbors. We moved upstairs into my bedroom. He immediately went down on me, listening very carefully to my suggestions on technique. After about fifteen minutes he climbed up on the bed and said "Penetrate me."

Even the most clinical unromantic come on line in the history of bad sex talk failed to break the moment. I giggled. Quietly. I also started with the appropriate kissing and fingering of the butt. Then I entered. Not very clinically. Very passionately in fact. He responded with first an "Ohhhhhhhhhhhh" and then an "Ohhhhhhhhh god, I think I'm going to" and then he puked. Everywhere. Mirror over the dresser? Splattered with puke. Quilt that my grandmother made me? Covered in puke. I was, however, still clean.

That's not the part of the story that bothers me. That's the bad_sex story. What bothers me is this: I never comforted him. Here was this physically beautiful, intellectually beautiful, sweet boy living through what was probably the most challenging day of his life to begin with. He was finally confronting his sexual identity, and one of the most embarrassing possible things that could happen to a guy, happened to him. Sure, I asked how he was, but I didn't touch him. I cleaned up the mess, but I didn't rub his back when he continued vomiting ins the bathroom. Sure I told him not to worry about it, but I don't think I sounded very sincere.

He asked me if he could still stay the night. I may be an emotionless robot sometimes, but I'm not an asshole. I asked if he wanted to share my bed or sleep in the guest bedroom which was closer to the bathroom. he chose the guest bedroom. All night long I heard him alternate between crying and vomiting. And I did nothing.

He got up the next morning before I did. I never heard from him again.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/1240.html

Drowning Pedophilia

So what do you do when you find out the stranger you picked up in a grocery store is underage? You fuck him.

Maybe it was the pot mumbling, or maybe I was just an unethical hornball. Whatever the lame excuse, once I processed the fact that I couldn't actually be arrested for being a twenty-one year old fooling around with a seventeen year old, all my reservations about how his family could kill me anyway flew right out the window. Perhaps they were trying to catch up with the pot smoke.

Tommy wanted to blow me again, and how could I say no to more head from the best barely legal fallater to ever walk the earth?

We're on the bed doing some 69 and, as I'm wont to do when there's ass to be played with, I let my fingers do the walking. A little squishy squish, some slappy slap, and some pokey poke (I'm gonna stoppy stop now). I'll confess it right here, publicly, for all the cringing world to see that yes, I have an ass fetish. Tommy's ass, while not ideally round, was at least present. So I slide my index finger in and out a few times before upgrading to the middle finger. Next up is the thumb of doom which, while it obviously can't get in as deep as it's better hung companions, has better girth, and is much easier to make eccentric ellipses with.

Tommy is bucking and thrashing and SPLAT. Drizzle. Drizzle. Moan. SPLAT. Drizzle. Yelp. SPLAT. Drizzle. Drizzle. Screech. SPLAAAAAAAAAT. Drizzle. Drizzle. Drizzle. Drip. Drip. SPLAT. Drip.

Damn.

"Fuck me. Please."

I was taken a bit aback. Not that Tommy wanted to be fucked, but that he was so enthusiastic about it. He had been a typical mellow stoner up to this point. Monotonous voice, Garfield shaded eyelids, and slouch.

It would be nice to think I had some sort of internal dialog about whether or not this was a good idea, but the only thing my dick could think of to say to my brain was "Thank God you keep your condoms within reach of the bed, now move my damned arm."

And in we go, doggy style. This boy was tighter than spandex on David Lee Roth. The only word that accurately describes sex with Tommy is "Damn."

When we were finished, we passed out draped across each other. When I woke up it was dark outside. I kept staring at Tommy, thinking he was bathed in moonlight, but it was actually a streetlight. Eventually we got up, and I drove him over to a friend's house, where he'd decided to stay the night.

This was the start of something a tad more meaningful than just whoring around. You know that cliché about how there are other fish in the sea? I kept thinking Tommy would be the keeper. Turns out I had throw him back. He was too small.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/17452.html

A Minor Situation

The warning signs:
He lived with his parents.
He rode his bike because he didn't have a car.
He liked cartoons.
He got my sense of humor.
He was smoking pot with the bagboys at a grocery store.

On their own, none of these things mean everything, but put altogether, how did I not realize that I had picked up an underage boy in a grocery store parking lot. I mean, he looked over 18.

His profile hadn't listed an age, but I assumed --

Fuck.

I was now the posterboy for "contributing to the delinquency of a minor." We'd drank, smoked pot, and he'd sucked my dick.

I was going to prison.

But first I was going to take a long hit off the joint he rolled. I briefly pondered buying some off him and offering him a beer just to cover the points spread.

"Want to go back inside?" he asked. Yes. I wanted to go back inside with him, alter the timeline and meet him when he was eighteen. If I couldn't do that, I wanted to go inside and freak out about the fact that he never told me he was jailbait, and I wasn't intelligent enough to ask him how old he was. But I thought that might ruin the mood, so I asked "How long have you known John?"

"Since we were kids." Right. When they were kids. As opposed to now that they were in high school together. I ---

I remembered something from an online argument in one of the chatrooms. A sixteen year old was talking about his twenty year old fuckbuddy, and when people harangued him about legal issues, he'd linked them to a website about state laws. In our state it was perfectly legal for someone under twenty-two to fuck around with someone over sixteen. I was under twenty-two.

"How old are you?" "Seventeen."

I did the legal happy dance in my head. Morally, I was still less than thrilled. I just couldn't picture myself driving a white van and hanging around tech school parking lots. I was too good for that. Only grocery store parking lots for me.

"My friends tell me I give great head." Nice segue.

"You're amazing. You should be teaching classes." Instead of attending them in a middle high school.

"I've always wanted to get fucked, but never had the courage to ask anybody about it. It's why I decided to meet someone online today."

Rut-roh Rhaggy.

There were so many ways this could go horribly wrong.

1.) His parents could find out. Being absolutely terrified about his parents discovering his sexuality, he could lie and say he'd been seduced. Neither of us would ever be able to go out in public in Nowheresville again without facing some sort of ridicule.

2.) His parents could find out, and he could be completely honest with them, and they could fuck up his life anyway.

3.) Miss M. could hear us through the thin walls, if she hadn't already, and start telling everyone in the neighborhood, and her family, and his family, and my family, that I was fucking teenage boys. Goodbye any sort of political career (which is a moot point at this stage in my life, but at the time it was still a nearly improbable possibility).

4.) He could suggest a threesome with Johnny, who I'd known since Johnny was eleven. That would never happen. Johnny was cute and all but he was Johnny, just a kid. I couldn't be attracted to him any more than I could be attracted to his fri-- Bugger.

5.) No one would find out, and we'd end up having a secret relationship which would do wonders for us sexually but distract him from his college applications.

6.) We would end up in a relationship so wonderful that he would come out to his parents, introduce me, and then they would beat me to death with their collection of Gideon's Bibles.

7.) We would end up in a relationship so wonderful that he would come out to his parents, who would pretend to love me while secretly pooring arsenic into my Cherry Coke until I died.

8.) We would end up in a relationship so wonderful that he would come out to his parents, who would really love me, and want to spend some time camping or something with my family who would kill me when they found out I'd been fucking a seventeen year old boy.

There were hundreds of variations on these thoughts involving angry mob justice, Jerry Springer, NAMBLA meetings, and various other things I never wanted to be a part of my autobiography if I ever became famous. But we connected on so many levels before I found out how old he was, and it wasn't as though he were thirteen, or mentally retarded or anything. He was nearly a consenting adult.

I was nearly kidding myself.

I decided to make it a non-issue. We spent some time talking about how long he'd wanted to get fucked, why he wanted to get fucked. If he was sure it was a great idea to get fucked by some guy he'd just met on The Internet. The fact that I really wanted to fuck him, but really didn't want to fuck him up. I suggested we wait.

He kissed me. That boy could do anything with his mouth.

At this point, age was a moot point. I still wasn't going to fuck him until he'd really thought about it, but it was because I didn't want to see him make a mistake, not because he was seventeen.

His hands went down to my zipper again. I took his hand and led him back upstairs.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/9235.html

Sex Acts Named For Car Models

While most of the other people in CranberryLakeM4M room scrolled things like: "38/m/brown/brown/5'4/8," I would check profiles and send deliberately horrible one-liners to guys who I thought might be my type.

I was an AOL lurker.

This is how I met Brian, and Big Gay Tom's friend (though once I found out who he was, we actually called and met before I went all ho). This was also the way I met Tommy.

I don't know what ridiculous thing I said to Tommy, but it made him LOL. We talked for all of about twenty minutes before he relayed to me that he was horny. This was someone I could bond with, but not in that ropes and whips sort of way. He said he was saving up for a car, but was currently biking places. He said this as a way of telling me he was fit (little did he know how low my standards were). He was still living with his parents in order to not pay rent and save up for some HolyGrailMobile, and was not out to his parents, so he didn't want to meet at his house. While I didn't live too far from him, it was far enough that he didn't want to bike it.

We agreed to meet in a grocery store parking lot. I was meeting someone in a parking lot for sex. I didn't think I could get much lower. Little did I know.

Neither Tommy nor I had pictures online, so we gave each other descriptions. I didn't see anyone on a bike when I drove in, so I went into a bookstore, and sat at a table by the window, waiting. After about ten minutes, I went back into the parking lot. The only person I saw with a bike was near the grocery store carriages, smoking cigarettes with the juvenile delinquent bag boys. I waited another fifteen minutes, then headed home.

I had been stood up in a grocery store parking lot.

So I went back home and resumed my online lurking. About five minutes into it, Tommy IMed me.

Tommyisawhore: What happened.
Insafemode: I went to the grocery store,
Insafemode: waited about a half hour, and didn't see you,
Insafemode: so I came home.
Tommyisawhore: Oh. Were you the guy in the bookstore?
Insafemode: Yea.
Tommyisawhore: Yum.
Tommyisawhore: Sorry. I ran into some friends
Tommyisawhore: had to smoke them out.
Tommyisawhore: I wasn't sure if you were you, so I didn't say anything.
Tommyisawhore: Want to try again?
Insafemode: Sure.

I was smitten by the fact that anyone said "Yum" in reference to me. I don't think it's happened since.

Back to the parking lot I went. Sure enough, one of the boys who'd been smoking by the carriages earlier sauntered over to my car. It was my turn to say Yum. I did wonder what he was doing hanging with the Stop and Shop bag boys, but I was meeting a stranger for sex in a grocery store parking lot, so I didn't think I could take much of a moral high ground.

We had a few good laughs on the brief car ride over to my house. We had a lot in common. So much so that we decided to hang out and play MST3K while watching TV for a while. At around 4 in the afternoon, Animaniacs came on, and we realized we both had a place of reverence for Wakko Warner and Pinky & The Brain. At some point in the episode, Pinky started playing with some sticks or something. "This is getting me incredibly hard." Tommy said, as he stood up and demonstrated.

Due to the lack of visual barricades, and multitude of nosy neighbors, we headed upstairs to my bedroom where Tommy turned the TV onto Animaniacs, and began taking my pants off. I've mentally filed "Pinky & The Brain" under surprisingly gay pornography ever since. Though neither of us spent much time watching the TV.

If saraH gave the world's worst blowjob, Tommy gave the world's best. The prelude to the blowjob was a sexy striptease that lasted about thirty seconds before he was naked and and kneeling over my cock.

He was all over the place. His tongue went from head to shaft to sac to belly button to shaft to sac to shaft to head. It was as if he was born with four tongues. I quickly reached the internalized orgasm phase where you use every iota of your sexual power not to be a victim of premature ejaculation (and when premature ejaculation is involved, everyone's a victim). He had pressed every button except the one in my ass, where I carefully guided his finger. Bingo.

After about ten minutes, he took each nut into his mouth individually and began to hum. This was the only time I've ever had a hummer. Mind/wadblowing doesn't even begin to describe it. I fought the wave, and I won. Barely. He kept looking up and smiling at me. Then he'd go back to making me the happiest man to ever pick up a strange man in a parking lot.

We'd been going about twenty minutes when I just couldn't take it anymore. So Tommy did. I must have lost ten pounds in that orgasm. I didn't think it would ever stop. Tommy swallowed easily a half dozen times before I was through.

"Huuuuuuuuuuaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh." was really the only appropriate thing I could say.

After a few full body spasms while he continued to suck the sperm inhaler, I reached down to begin some well deserved reciprocation, but he intercepted my hand. "Mind if we go out for a smoke first?"

He could have asked me if I minded if we went out and bought some submachine guns and took out a preschool and I would have said "No problem."

We threw on some clothes, and headed to my back porch. Tommy rolled himself a joint, and we passed it back and forth a few times.

My next door neighbor to the right was a really sweet grandmother. I used to visit with her every couple of days. Sometimes I'd make dinner for her, other times she'd come over to my house and listen to me play piano. When I used to work at a summer camp, she had her grandchildren attend it. They were great kids. Taylor was nine, Clayton was twelve, and John was sixteen.

I'm reasonably sure she knew what we were smoking when she leaned over the fence and said "Something smells good. Oh, I miss being able to smoke my -- Well, hello, Tommy."

"Hey, Miss M. How're you?"

"I'm doing great. I didn't know you knew Insafemode."

"Yea, we go way back."

"Well you have excellent taste in friends."

"Awww. And you're not at all biased because I hang out with John all the time."

"Not at all. Ta ta boys." and she headed off her porch and over to the community pool.

"Where do you know Miss M from?" I asked.

"Oh, Johnny and I were on the JV football squad together last year."

Uh. What?

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/9192.html

In Stealth Mode

Apart from the occasional tourist looking for a more enjoyable vacation, Nowheresvillem4m was mostly filled with the same desperate whores every day. Not that I was a desperate whore or anything. I'm just saying.

There was TommyIsAWhore, RandomProvincetownSlut, AlwaysOnEBoy, and VinnyTheStylist. They were like a background image. I always noticed them but rarely engaged them in conversation. After all, I'd already hooked up with, or rejected all of them. Isn't that what whores are supposed to do?

I'd never met up with VinnyTheStylist. Even via AOL, I sort of sensed there was something not quite right about him. We'd never IMed, but he would often scroll his sexual frustrations throughout the chat room. And who wants to fuck a whiny AOL scrollmonster?

One day I was IMing with Tommy (he was the one person I had no desire to ignore, even if we didn't plan on hooking up again) when I got a deluge of IMs from people in the chatroom. I answered them all with the appropriate responses. Most quickly got Xed out and forgotten, but one of the conversations seemed to be going pretty well. I was being my usually charming hysterical self and he was finding me amusing. We were several minutes into the conversation when I noticed that it was VinnieTheStylist.

Some times your first impressions of people are wrong, so I decided not to begrudge his scrolling habits, and continued the conversation.

He seemed really sweet. After about a half an hour, he suggested we meet at a local hotel for drinks. We wouldn't hook-up that day, but we'd hang out and see what happened. He didn't have a pic to send me, so I declined to send him my own.

I got to the hotel about fifteen minutes early. I ordered myself an amaretto sour, and watched golf on the hotel lounge's obscenely large television. About five minutes later an incredibly disheveled (and not in a cute way), wild-haired, junkie-looking guy shuffled in. He looked the way William S. Burroughs should have looked when he was about forty. I had a disturbing feeling that this was VinnyTheStylist.

He sat down and ordered a Bud. The bartender flat out refused to serve him. For the first time in my life, I became completely engrossed in the PGA on ABC.

The person I assumed to be Vinnie ordered a Coke. The bartender gave it to him. Reluctantly. Vinnie downed his Coke, and got on his cell phone. "Hey, Mom? Yea, I'm not gonna be able to make it for dinner tonight. I've got a date. Huh? No. I'm clean. Just a little nervous about my date, that's all." He rubbed at his nose, which I noticed was crusted with blood. Birdie, par, drive, nice lie, to the pin, fairway, please don't let this be VinnieTheStylist, chip, water hazard, sploosh.

"Hey." he turned to me, as he hung up his phone. "Are you AliasUsed?"

John Daley is in the rough. "Sorry?"

"I'm Vinnie. You're AliasUsed, right?"

"No. Sorry."

"Oh." Tiger Woods. Greg Norman. From the tee.

I watched golf for a half hour while Vinnie preened, picked up, then returned his cell phone to his pocket, drank four or five more overpriced Cokes, then went to the bathroom.

This was my opportunity. I paid for my one, well-nursed drink, and walked out to my car. As I climbed into my car, I heard Vinnie call out the alias (not Insafemode) that I had given him. I closed the door, turned the key in the ignition, and pulled out of the parking lot.

I was getting ready to turn onto the highway onramp when a jeep swerved alongside me. Vinnie was inside. He was shouting something I couldn't make out in my direction. I turned onto the onramp. He cut off a tractor trailer truck, nearly getting himself killed, in order to follow me. Shit.

Rather than try any fancy driving or speeding, I drove as if I wasn't being pursued by a coked-up online whore reject. He rode my ass, flashed his lights, beeped his horn, pulled alongside me and made the roll-down-the-window pantomime. Since he didn't appear to have a gun, I obliged.

"I know who you are. Pull over. Let's talk."

"Go away." I rolled my window up. He swerved really quickly in front of me, and slowed down. I fucken hate crazy people. I tried to get around him, but he kept swerving in front of me.

The next exit was mine. I hoped that he would continue swerving in front of me, so I could quickly veer off the highway and drive home.

No such luck.

He pulled in behind me, and started riding my ass again.

There were very few times that I was pleased to live near a police station. This was one of them. I pulled into the parking lot. He did not follow me in.

I sat in the lot, destressing for about five minutes. There was nowhere, excepting people's driveways, for Vinnie to park and have a view of the police station. I pulled out, looking intently both ways. Nothing. I breathed. I took a right into my condo complex. No Vinnie. I parked next to a massive SUV (I knew they were good for something), and trembled to my apartment.

I decided this was a perfect time to end Whore Month. I signed onto my AOL screenname, went InStealthMode, and blocked VinnieTheStylist from IMing or e-mailing me, and signed off. Then, because I was more horny than enlightened, I signed in under a different screenname.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/9510.html

Smell This!

I used to use a shower gel called "Smell This!", which smelled like cake batter. I liked it because it's a faint smell. Not overbearing like patchouli, not girly as perfume, not jocky as Old Spice, and not my fathery like Brut.

Most people never noticed it. But one guy who really into rimming, came up for air and said "You know, your asshole tastes like cake frosting."

"Makes sense." I replied. "I got fingered by a baker about an hour ago."

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/210871.html

Alternative Methods

I hope whoever coined the phrase "There's only one way to find out" died long-suffering from a debilitating disease. Is there really only one way to find out whether a friend has syphilis? No. You don't have to fuck them to find out, you can ask them, or if you're too shy, ask someone who's slept with them, you could even spy on them in the shower and see if they exhibit any symptoms.

Wondering if your mother's having an affair? You don't have to sit in the closet and wait for her and the postman to make a delivery to the dead letter office. You don't even have to set up a camera in their room. You could just ask her, or put a sleazy ad on Craigslist.org, or tell your father you heard her and his best friend jumping on the bed together while he was at work. There are always several methods to discover things. Yet, I found myself in Joey's bedroom, talking about the taste of cocks saying "There's only one way to find out."

I don't remember what his cock tasted like except that it probably tasted more or less like cock. This was after I discovered the taste of Altoids, but before I discovered when they could really be useful. So all cock tasted pretty much like cock.

There was nothing particularly interesting about sex with Joey. This is not a condemnation of him, merely a sad commentary on how much sex I had been having with assorted people that month. Were we to have met at any other month in my life, I probably would have been able to regale you with more details about what we did in he and his boyfriend's bedroom. As it was, I don't even remember what happened after we blew each other. I know at some point I must have left. Otherwise, I'd still be there now.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/14601.html

Everything's Going Nineteen

Joey was nineteen and...well...nineteen. We IMed for two hours that I should have been outside enjoying the summer days. I was mostly unemployed, the show I was stagemanaging wasn't up yet, and the show I was acting in when Mike and Gina visited wasn't into heavy rehearsals yet.

The conversation, like all the IM conversations I had that month, meandered around how horny he was. Unlike the rest of the conversations I had that month, Joey already had a boyfriend, so he didn't need me to unhorny him.

We agreed to meet anyway. As friends.

I take a quick shower, in case there's still the scent of cum on me from the kid I blew on the beach a few hours before. Once I'm all dressed and ready, I check my e-mail for better offers, and head over to Joey's.

Joey was cutiful. A little more than cute. Not quite beautiful. He was about 5'6" with brown hair that was almost gray. He showed me around his house while his father snoozed in the living room.

It was a nice house. Kitchen, three bedrooms, living room, dining room, front porch, pool in the backyard. Typical Cranberry Lake house.

"The best room in the house" he says, in case I don't know where he's leading me to, "is my bedroom. This is where Forgethisnameit'snotimportant & I sleep."

"Wait. Your boyfriend lives with you?"

"Yea."

"Your boyfriend lives with you, and you invited me over to hang out in your bedroom while your boyfriend who lives with you isn't home?" I aked.

"Well, my parents don't know he's my boyfriend."

"Do your parents know you're gay?"

He shook his head. "No."

"But they know that you sleep in a room with another boy. A room with only one bed?"

"Yea. They're really not too bright."

Apparently his father was Sleeping Ugly, snoozing his life away in the living room. I wondered if he secretly knew that his son was a fairy prince.

Joey showed me a picture of his boyfriend whose name wasn't important enough for me to remember. He was cute but older. Of course, I was older, too, but his boyfriend with the unremarkable name looked a few years older than I. He was 28.

No parents were this dumb. I had a feeling they weren't the ones who'd dropped out of high school to get their GEDs.

I tried to get off the subject of his boyfriend (primarily because I was trying to get off). I don't know what we started talking about. I know that we were only talking about ten minutes before we started discussing what kind of cock we liked.

At that point in my life, I had only ever been with circumsized guys, and I was circumsized myself. Joey had only been with non-circumsized guys, and was non-circumsized himself.

"I wonder if they taste different?" he asked uninnocently.

"There's only one way to find out."

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/14267.html

Say Huh?

One of the cumstains I picked up in bar came over to my house. I had no plans to fuck him, we were just going to hang out, and chill. While I was in the kitchen, grabbing us some malt beverages, I hear him going through my magazine rack. "Oooooh." He says, picking up a magazine "I've never even heard of this before. Schoolgay Today? Sounds hot."

"That's Psychology Today, pervert."

Turns out the guy was completely illiterate. He couldn't even read the signs that said "You're not getting any."

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/44639.html

A Couple Of Nights I Wish I Could Forget

There really wasn't that much special about Eric. He was a heavyset business guy, roughly my age at the time (21) who was visiting The Peninsula for a week. His hotel was roughly a half an hour drive from where I lived in Cranberry Lake.

The first night that I encountered him in an AOL chatroom, I passed him over in favor of AlwaysOnEBoy. That proved to be a worthless evening, so the next night I decided not to be so choosy. I gave Eric directions to a local bar where we met up for drinks. Eric was husky. While husky isn't my favorite body type, I'm certainly not Johan Paulik enough to make fun of a person's appearance. So I'll just leave it at husky.

After a few Captain and Cokes, we headed over to my house, took a few Mike's Hard Lemonades out of the fridge and took off our clothes. A typical Wednesday night at Insafemode's house.

I'm not one to belittle another man's manhood. I'm no Long Dong Silver, but this guy ---

When I found his cock, I wasn't sure what I wanted to do with it. Return it to the Smurf Village Lost and Found? Impale it with a toothpick and offer it at cocktail parties? Keep it on ice in case I ever lost my pinky in a freak fingering accident? In the end I decided to try and suck it for a while, but his rolls kept bopping my nose. He wasn't a behemoth, but he refused to lay back, which would have made access to his microphallus much easier. As it was, his stomach was pressing against my nose, and since his cock was in my mouth, I was out of breathing holes. So I stopped.

"Maybe we better try something else."

His eyes were two lone bulbs on a a vast Light Bright. "Do you want to fuck me?"

Technically, the answer was no. I managed to skirt around the issue by announcing that I had no condoms (a shaved face lie). He offered to pick some up, but my nose had been close enough to his ass to know that I didn't want to go in there, even with a layer of latex around my cock. "That would be great. But the nearest 7-11 is a few miles away, and I'm awfully tired. Maybe we should try this another time."

After an awkward goodbye kiss, *shudder*, he drove out of the condo parking lot for what I assumed was the last time.

The next night I was IMing with AlwaysOnEBoy, negotiating a less frustrating rendez-vous when I got an IM from a screenname I didn't recognize. EBoy couldn't make it out that night, and after the frustration with Eric, I was desperate for some orifice. So, after exchanging pictures, I gave the guy directions to my house.

I'm always honest with I send out pictures. I don't consider myself hot but I've never made anyone run screaming from the site of my face. I've had my fair share of rejection when I've sent out my pic, but I've also had my fair share (and perhaps a few other people's) of acceptance.

The boy in the picture was fairly average looking. I love average looking guys. And not just because I may be one.

The guy was going to drop by at nine. I showered, and put some Gomez on, and sat down in my living room. At 9:15 the doorbell rang.

Imagine my surprise when I opened up the door and found Eric.

"Ummm..Hi, Eric. What are you doing here?"

"Sorry I'm late but I had a tough time finding this place."

I wondered if I'd somehow entered a Twilight Zone episode.

"Oh. Did you" Awkward pause "leave something here?"

"Huh?" Awkward pause "No. I thought -- Are you Insafemode?"

What the?? "Yes."

"Didn't we agree to meet up tonight?"

"No. We talked about getting together again at some point but I have plans tonight. I'm actually supposed to be meeting someone here very soon."

"Oh. I thought you said tonight at nine." He was staring at my rug.

"No." I felt really bad. I tried to figure exactly how I'd misled him into thinking we were going to meet again tonight. I hadn't. I'd suggested that there may be some time in the future when our paths would cross again, but I'd certainly never said "How about tomorrow at nine?".

Eric started to walk away. I was about to close the door when he turned around. "I know I look a bit different than I did in the pic I sent, but I'm not ugly. You're treating me like I'm ugly."

"You're the one who sent me the picture tonight? You're TheAliasThatIveSinceForgotten?"

"Yea. who did you think I was?"

"You're Eric. We met last night for drinks. You came over. We hung out a bit."

"Really? We've met before?"

I don't believe in amnesia. If I've ever had it, I've forgotten. I certainly don't believe that Eric "forgot" that he'd been over the previous night. I didn't know what game he was playing but I wanted no part in it.

"I'm sorry," he said, as I made to close my door, "I meet a lot of people on the road. Sometimes I forget who I have and haven't met."

"Well, good luck with that. Night."

You couldn't have picked his face off the pavement with a spatula. "Night."

I went back online to chat or hookup. Business was slow, so I decided to get some reading done when I heard an IM open up.

AliasIveForgotten: Hey there!

Insafemode: Hello, Eric.

AliasIveForgotten: I'm sorry. Have we met?

original post: http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/556568.html

Decidedly Unawesome

Jordan was twenty-three, sunburnt, and had the sort of hairstyle that can only come from sitting on the top deck of a boat on a very windy day, which made sense, he'd just taken a ferry over a small island not too far from where I lived. He was a writer. I was to discover, later, that he was a very awful writer, but I was twenty-one year old wannabe writer with an erection, a drawer full of condoms, and a refrigerator full of beer, and he was an attractive...writer.

Jordan's sunburn was a Speedo sunburn. Only his cock and his crack were left unlobstered. This, he said, was the reason he had to take a few Vicodin before we fucked. It's also the reason we had to stop at CVS and buy him some Solarcain on the way back to my apartment.

"Oh, yea." He said, as I sprayed the Solarcain on his back. "This feels awesome." If he was this easy to please, I had the feeling we were going to be in for a night full of -- "Ow. Ow. My back is...ow...careful." or not.

After three beers, and two shots of Tequila (plus three Vicodin for him), I decided to make my move. "Easy." He said. "I still kinda...oh yea." I, gently, very gently, put my hand on his face and begin kissing him. His lips were cracked. It wasn't too noticeable when I closed my eyes and kissed him, but when he started kissing down my body, I got a sensation I imagined not dissimilar to having my stomach licked by a cat. While his tongue seemed pretty adept at giving head, his lips caused the little man in charge of my brain synapses to push the button marked "Chafing! Chafing! Avert blowjob!"

I pulled out of his mouth, and pulled him up on the bed, where I began to--"Do you want to 69?" He asked.

"Uhhhh...ok."

I had a plan. I would let him think I was into 69ing for about five seconds, and then I would knead and/or spank his burnt ass. Surely, this would cause him to..."Oh, yea!" He yelled after the first spank. "This feels awesome." What kind of writer says this feels awesome to every physical sensation they feel. Oh, right. One who's been popping Vicodin all day. My spanking was not going to produce the intended result.

"Have you ever...fucked a guy?" He asked.

"No." I said. Which would have been true had he asked "Have you ever...fucked a guy...today?" I was taking artistic license.

"Want to?"

I smiled the way I imagined virgins smiled. "Yea."

"Awesome." And he laid his head down on the pillow and stuck his ass in the air. A position, I've since learned, isn't exceptionally comfortable even when you're not 90% sunburnt.

I strapped on a condom, and "Ow. Ow. Yes. Ow. Yea. Ow. Awesome. Yea. Ow."

His little ow symphony started to grate on me. "Ow. Yea. This feels. Ow. Awesome. Ow." So I started pulling his lower body toward mine, like I was giving his inner thighs The Heimlich. "Ow. Yes. Ow. Ow. STOP!"

I stopped.

"Ow. Ow. Ahhhhhhhhh. Thanks."

The hell? I'd stopped, thinking he was in pain from the way I was gripping his thighs. He rolled over, revealing several unmistakably sticky spots on the blue sheets.

"That felt awesome. I'm gonna, like, pass out, though. Those Vics...yea, I'm tired. You can keep fucking me until you're done or whatever, but I'm..yea, don't worry about it. It feels awesome."

While I admired his desire to make sure I got to come, I was a little leery of fucking someone I know regarded as a comatose drug addict, even though I, clearly, had his consent. "How about until I wait until you wake up."

"Yea." He said. "Whatever."

I pulled a sheet over him, propped a fan in his general direction, and went downstairs to get another drink. He was still out cold when I was ready to fall asleep. I debated whether or not to crawl into bed with him. On the one hand, he was cute. On the other, he was liable to say "Ow. Awesome. Ow." every time I touched him. On a mythical third hand, I didn't know him very well, and didn't want to discover that he was kleptomaniacal drug addict after he left my house. So I climbed into the spare bed. "Mmmmmm." he said. If this was followed by an awesome, I was going to punch him very hard in the middle of his peeling back. "Change your mind?"

"Huh?"

"You gonna fuck the Sleeping Beauty?"

Eww, dude. "Only after he wakes up."

"I'm awayyyy...ow!" He said, rolling over to face me. "Do you know where I left my Vicodin?"

On the nightstand to his left. "No."

"Oh, then maybe, we'd better wait. I feel kinda..." He was getting pukeface. Code red! Code red! "Where's your bathroom?"

I pointed. Then decided to take action, and have him lean on me, as I half-dragged him into the "Bluhoooooruk." bathroom. He didn't make it to the toilet. Close, though.

While I toweled up the puke, Comatose No Longer Beauty went back to the spare bedroom, popped a few pills, and put on his clothes. "I'm gonna....yea, I'm sorry about the puke, but...I think I'd better go. I don't want to miss the last ferry. I've gotta...you know...work tomorrow and stuff."

"No problem." I said.

He ambled over and leaned in to kiss -- "Dude, you just threw up on my floor."

"Right. Sorry."

"I'll e-mail you tomorrow when I get out of work. Tonight was...awesome...until the whole puking thing. Again, sorry."

"No problem."

"Talk at you tomorrow then?"

"Sure." I said. "That would be...awesome."

original post: http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/2345421.html

Fighting Nitrous Oxide

During Whore Month, I averaged about 1.33 random hookups a day. Most of the time, I couldn't even be bothered to learn a person's name. Really, who wants to risk the codependent personal attachment implied in calling the person you're fucking by name?

One name I remember vividly is Ryan Duda. I hadn't planned on learning it, but it was written very neatly on his mailbox. From the moment I read it, I couldn't get "Camptown Races" our of my head.

I rang the doorbell, and was relieved to discover he wasn't one of those weird assholes who sends out fake pics. He was just as nerdy hot as I'd hoped. Blond, alfafed hair, glasses, and Milk and Cheese t-shirt. I wanted to take him right there on the doorstep. Instead, we headed up to his apartment and smoked apple flavored tobacco out of his gigantic Shiva shaped hookah.

After about a half hour of smoking and John Madden football, our clothes were off, and I was admiring his shaved seven inch cock. We were in the midst of one of the better kisses I've been involved in when

Who's got a Shiva shaped bong? Duda, Duda.
Who's got a seven inch schlong? Duda, Duda,

Suddenly I was in The Giggle Loop. He probably grew up having people make fun of his name, I didn't want to be the umpteen millionth guy who thought he was cute by making a Duda joke. Laughing at his name while we kissed would be extremely inappropriate. *snork*

"What?" he asked.

I knew if I spoke, I was going to start giggling. So I returned to kissing him. Soon he was licking his way down my stomach, and

Who's as long as he is thick? Duda. Duda.
Who's about to suck my dick? Duda. Duda.

*giggle*

He looked up at me quizzically. "What?"

"Nothing, I'm *giggle* ticklish."

"Ok."

I couldn't concentrate. Not that one has to concentrate in order to get a blowjob. Still, it's nice to be able to enjoy the sensation of hot nerd tongue without having to think

Who's got plaid sheets on his bed? Duda. Duda.
Who's real good at giving head? Duda. Duda.

*snicker* *snicker*

"Wow." he said. "You must be really ticklish."

"Well, that is a uhhh sensitive area."

He smiled at me. "I didn't know you were so" lewd smirk "sensitive." Neither did I.

Another fifteen minutes passed. Smirking, giggling, and moaning flip flopped as often as sexual positions until I couldn't take it anymore.

"Who smokes apple flavored hash? Duda. Duda.
Who's wearing a come mustache? Oh, Duda's gay.

original posts: http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/778973.html
http://community.livejournal.com/metaquotes/1700626.html

Apiphobia And Frank's Ass

Frank had the type of ass you wish they modeled pillows after. An ass that soft, he had to be eating nothing but goosedown. Frank was the sort of person I could see myself spending the rest of my life with. In bed. It was not to bee.

Frank had come over around four in the morning. He'd got lost on his way down from Boston, and with no cell phone he had only managed to find my place by dumb luck. I had actually given up on him, and was just starting to jerk off when the doorbell rang.

A few Mike's Hard Lemonades later and we were testing my bedsprings, and the stability of the computer chair, and the angle of the staircase. His ass was so soft, I was afraid that if I gripped it too tight he would pop and float all over the room. We were still going at it hard and heavy at 5:30 when I noticed the first yellow jacket.

Ever since I stepped in a wasp's nest when I was ten years old, I've had a tremendous fear of bees. I don't mind spiders, caterpillars, moths or anything. Cockroaches disgust me, but they don't give me the willies. I just squash them or Raid them. Bees and I have an arrangement. I don't mess with them, they leave me alone. It usually works out splendidly but this particular morning a yellowjacket had decided to land on Frank's perfect ass.

While he didn't exactly deflate, the sting did send him flapping around the room. That's when we noticed the other yellowjackets. Dozens of them. Not swarming, just hovering. We threw on our clothes and slowly made our way downstairs where dozens of other bees were having some sort of bizarre hoedown in my living room.

It turns out there was a hive in my next door neighbor's attic, and the bees were flying through the cracks into my attic where they sought to establish another colony. I hired an exterminator to take care of that. No one ruins a sweet ass fucking and gets away with it.

original post: http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/548993.html

The Kind of Beach Movies They Didn't Make In The 50s

I know how sand is formed. It is the rubbing of bodies against rock. The incoming waves are only there to clean your skin cells away. You may not want to touch the shiny part of sand. It could be a potential ancestor who got recreationed out of procreation.

BoyWhoseNameICantRemember: You use awfully big words. Weird concepts.
NotYetInsafemode: My libido is unscrupulous
BoyWhoseNameICantRemember: Should I bring Trojans?
NotYetInsafemode: Only if you want to let the Greeks invade
BoyWhoseNameICantRemember: So I'll see you in an hour?

I drove myself out of my mind and on to the road. I was still fairly new to the whole hook-up thing. The days of me saying "Sure, let's fuck" weren't far off, but there was just enough hill on my horizon that I couldn't make them out yet. I was still believing that I was looking for love. That somehow this stranger would be the answer to my every agnostic prayer.

I drove by him twice. It was two AM. It was dark outside. He was wearing a black hoodie. I was about to turn around and go home when I saw his hand wave.

He kissed me when he got in the car, as though we were lovers who hadn't seen each other in a few days.

"Where's your car?" I asked, because I am the king of social grace.

"I didn't want to risk my Aunt hearing me pull out, so I biked here."

"You live with your Aunt?"

"No. I'm just here on vacation for a couple weeks. A little downtime between exams and summer work."

"Oh, where are you from?"

Where he was from was such an important detail that I stored it next to his name. I must have blocked the synapse necessary for its retrieval with something slightly more important to me, like what I had for breakfast on my fifth birthday: Pancakes.

We talked for hours. All I remember is that we spent a great deal of time talking about The Black Cauldron, and how Disney never gave it its due. We talked about everything but what we were there to do. Eventually, I couldn't help but kiss him. I straddled his body because the sand was making my ass itch. He kissed like a closeted college student who met up with another closeted college student over The Internet. No one would make a romance movie about our lovemaking. The tide didn't come in over our bodies. The breeze didn't blow either of our hair in a sultry manner. I sucked his cock because it seemed like the right thing to do. I swallowed because I hadn't yet. He'd been eating a lot of fruit.

His lips were chapped.

I was almost there when the sound of someone approaching approached. He looked up startled. I hit him on the chin. This startled him more.

No one was approaching except daylight. I gave him my number. He said he'd call me the next day. Of course, I never heard from him again. As I pulled away from the beach, my headlights caught his back as he leaned over into the sea to wash his face. I'd like to think my sperm grew into jellyfish.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/17108.html

Requited (Part 5: Near Truth)

Every hack psychologist and creative writing teacher will tell you that writing is therapeutic. I feel it’s my job as an author to tell you they’re full of shit. Reliving Ryan’s death has never brought me an ounce of peace. I feel like I’m Bill Murray’s character in Groundhog Day. Only instead of aiming to seduce Andie MacDowell, I’m trying to kill Ryan in such a way that no one will know who he is. As his lover, his confident, and his killer, it’s my duty to keep his secret.

So why am I telling it here? There’s no moral here, no healing, no zen realization about life’s suffering or love. I can’t offer any reason why I happened to Ryan or vice-versa. I offer it only as what it is, near truth. Which is all I have left.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/44954.html