From the Locker Room to a Hotel Sauna to Russian Banyas March, 2013 – Chicago Cold water streaming on my heated skin, my heart throbbed in my throat. It must have been ten half-hard inches I was making out through the muddled partition, bobbing its considerable self up and down. One muscled frame of flesh read more..
March, 2013 – Chicago
Cold water streaming on my heated skin, my heart throbbed in my throat. It must have been ten half-hard inches I was making out through the muddled partition, bobbing its considerable self up and down. One muscled frame of flesh wagging a – to me – fuddled mid-section back and forth. For effect, for sure.
Flustered, and in a characteristic rush, I faltered – then fled the scene.
That impossible prick would cause me constant frustration in the days to follow. An hour afterward, a seasoned ass firmly seated on my face, the work day had begun and all I knew was that right back there in the locker room showers – right then, in that frantic instant – I’d wanted that hefty thing shoved in one of my holes. For my warmth and my depth – my feverish tightness – to submit to its pleasure. Why didn’t he let me give him my number? I felt teased. Tormented.
And then, about a week later, the eureka moment came while my rod was carefully initiating an inexperienced backside. Yes! That’s when my naïve little mind wrapped itself around the monstrous reality that the whole point had been to not get! To not even know! A heightened sense of “what if?”! To instigate an intensity that was the culmination in and of itself. “Aha!”
So a sort of make-do addiction was formed. Slight possibility over all this failsafe plausibility. The subtle in exchange for the overt. In a vocation that guarantees action just past “hello,” and in a world increasingly confusing candor for crudeness, I found myself immersed in an indecent conquest of elusiveness.
June, 2013 – San Francisco
A lover of saunas and temperature extremes, and with a spanking passion for anything that smacks of anonymous sexual ambiguity, I went to an all-male hotel hummum. A steam and dry room, a cold dip and hot tub, and plenty of places to rest. It was packed. In my insatiable prurience, I would go on all afternoon and into the evening working the whole place up. Purposefully positioning myself in select corners of the steam and dry rooms sheltered from attendants’ notice, I’d unreservedly let the mystery of my manhood rise past my towel to issue a resolute nod to the desires of the guys nearby. Hour after hour I would give clandestine go-aheads under that tiny cloth to each man to ensure that everyone was hot for cock.
The pursuit of the obscure peaked, and the frenzy began. Partly emerging from our coverings, a hushed glancing at gratuitously granted glimpses of hair and meat through the mist – we scattered from room to room. The pent-up building closer and closer to a climax just… out… of reach.
I would sit my perspiring cheeks down in one of those safe spaces and just yank that chub out and whack him to a stiff chup, intermittently pulling on my low-hangers, then casually lifting my leg to give a fleeting flash of ass. Every man got hot and bothered, and would fearfully peer out of the foggy glass windows while slowly, scrupulously, slipping their poles out and stroking them. Or simply letting them stand at attention.
Ego inflamed, and veins coursing with broiling blood, I had over 30 men agitatedly, breathlessly playing with their peckers and showing one another like little boys thrilled with the escape in not being told on. It was a rush of schoolyard sweatiness for the fully grown.
July, 2013 – Chicago
Back in the Windy City, my devotion supposed to be soundly on work, the apex of the obsession had me taking half the days off a solid five-week stint to spend hours – six to nine at a time – exploring the renovated Russian banyas. By and large frequented by both unquestionably heterosexual and seemingly straight men, my fixation came to a head.
The football games blaring from television sets and Russian, Latino, and African-American men howling from the showers, I would get offers of platza slaps and sense the homoeroticism just below the surface as all classes and sorts of men would congregate in the spirit of brotherhood to be themselves as best they could.
In truth, it was a free zone. As I felt the heat increasing, I’d have about twelve minutes before I would pass out. Straight from the ice-cold plunge to the scorching hot Turkish wet room, I’m alone the first four minutes before he inconspicuously ambles in. Seven minutes in, I detect him cruising me from the corner of his eye. Or do I? I scratch my inner thigh. Nine minutes, as I’m rubbing my chest offhandedly, head beginning to rush from stewing wetness, I witness a bulge breaking out from under its sheath. That’s it. I’m about to swoon. I take my tool out. He holds his up to reveal a rock-hard erection pointing to the wooden ceiling. He pulses it for me like, “You know you want to throat this.” He’s provided the highpoint.
October, 2013 – New York City
Still jacking off to quests of flushed flesh and drops of sweat – a quickening of the breath and aching eyes from overuse of their periphery – I would never concentrate on a culmination. Rather, I would climb to orgasm by reliving the anticipation.
I would go on to Kathmandu to stay a chaste month in a monastery with the hopes of locating Nepali bathhouses later on, still coming to terms with my newfound awareness that excess often springs from the simplest of needs. In this case, an insistence on increased excitement. And I would go on to excessively seek erotic ambiguity to prompt just that.
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