Good-Looking Latino "Model," Part 4
While we were resting, please let me tell you about the Barracks Baths, where Jorge and I were enjoying sex with each other, because it was torn down to make room for yet another office building -- something New York City needed like more cars and more pot holes on its streets. Instead of tearing it down, I think it should have been included, along with the old HAYMARKET, a hustle bar up on 8th Avenue at 46th Street, as part of the Landmark Preservation Program because they were both as historically significant as the Mayflower, the ship that carried the Pilgrims to America, because many a beautiful young stud "came across" in them.
Anyway, the Barracks Baths, in those days, was a sleazy place that catered to a seedy, Forty-Second Street clientele of mostly blacks and Puerto Ricans. Even if my taste for the Barracks Baths revealed a taste for the seedy (some psychologists might say it revealed some deep-seated character defect such as "lack of self esteem") I didn't care. I liked the place. I often went to the Barracks without a sexpartner, looking to pick up a trick, because I was sexually attracted to the type of people that the Barracks attracted. Even though I am a lily-white WASP, my forefathers and foremothers were English and Welsh, (some of then actually did come over on the Mayflower), I am not a bigot because some of my best lovers were blacks and Puerto Ricans. I liked the clientele that the Barracks Baths attracted -- ballsy, horny, macho, sexually experienced, street-wise types. Unlike video game arcades in suburban malls, no blond, circumcised, surf-boarding adolescent virgins wandered into the Barracks Baths by mistake.
I liked that feature because nothing turns me off sexually more than the innocent-looking youngun in the porno movies who says, "This is the first time I ever did this." I wanted to gag, like Joan Rivers doing her famous finger-in-the-throat routine, because I knew that if that innocent-looking youngun had as many cocks on him as he had in him, in his life as a porno star, he'd look like a porcupine.
I'd never be a chicken hawk because, even in real life, young guys, the only kind who are honest-to-goodness virgins, turn me off. I like mature, sexually experienced Marlboro-type men. If the Army doesn't want you, Baby, neither do I. Furthermore, even if I did run into an honest-to-goodness mature virgin, I'd be sexually turned off because I'd think his virginity, at an older age, revealed social retardation, crippling codependency from a destructive relationship with an overly domineering and controlling Mother, for example. In any event, I've never found sexual incompetence exciting. I liked men with experience, like Jorge.
Second, the atmosphere at the baths was warm and humid. It appealed to my Oedipus complex because it was, I imagined, something like returning to the safety and security of the womb. It was comfortable to be naked there even without bed covers.
Third, you might think that meeting someone and having sex with them, in a sleasy "gay" bath house like the Barracks, would be a turn-off. In my case, it had quite the opposite effect. Since I am an aural and a visual voyeurist, the sound of sex from the adjoining ceilingless cubicles -- the slurping of cocks getting sucked, the juicy sounds of manmeat slopping in and out of wet assholes, the rhythmical slapping of flesh fucking flesh as hips pumped pleasure into hips, the ecstatic grunts, groans, and moans of other customers in the throes of climaxes, along with the peep-holes into adjoining cubicles, was like an aphrodisiac to me. Having sex there was like getting a blow job while watching a porno movie. The aural and visual images enhanced the sexual experience.
Fourth, the bath house was a very earthy place, with no civilized pretentions, and I liked it that way. I liked the sexual honesty. Everyone knew why everyone else was there. Everyone was sexually available.
In addition, it was easy to identify those clients who would be compatible sexpartners by the way they behaved. There were "walkers" and there were "roomers". The "walkers" rented lockers and walked the halls looking for sexpartners. We called them the "black foot tribe" because, after a night of cruising at the baths, the soles of their feet were black from walking all night on the city's dust and grime that polluted the hallway floors.
The "roomers," on the other hand, rented rooms and, even though they sometimes locked the doors to their rooms and became "walkers," they usually remained rooted in their rooms, like sea urchins anchored to the ocean floor, waiting for willing "walkers" to come within the reach of their tentacles. The "roomers" usually were people who wanted a form of sex that was most comfortable in a bed, like getting fucked. They waited in their rooms for a "walker" to be sexually attracted to them, come into the room and shut the door, to indicate that he was "in the mood for love." The "roomer" then either accepted or rejected the candidate.
The "roomers" could be further subdivided into two groups -- the "sitters" and the "layers." The "sitters" sat on the edge of their bed and communicated their sexual preferences with their body position. If they were leaning forward, penis concealed, they wanted to perform fellatio on any willing "walker" who entered the room. If they leaned back, penis exposed, they wanted fellatio performed on them.
The "layers" could be further subdivided into two groups -- prone or supine. The prone "layers" (on their belly) were communicating to the "walkers" that they wanted to be the passive partner in anal intercourse. The supine "layers" (on their back or side, penis exposed) were communicating that they either wanted to be the active partner in anal intercourse or they wanted to "sixty nine" with a "walker." With this informal positional code, sexpartners at the baths got paired off quickly, to everyone's satisfaction.
The Barracks Baths, as you might imagine, from its name, was a "leather and western" or S & M (sado-masochistic) bath house. There were rooms that patrons could rent that had leather slings in them, suspended from the ceiling by chains, where patrons could lay and wait to get fist fucked.
As Jorge and I lay there, resting, I could hear the sexy sounds from other cubicles adjacent to ours, transmitted freely over the ceilingless walls of the room. I could hear the rhythmical rattle of chains and the rhythmical creak of leather and chain links as someone nearby got his ass fist fucked. I could hear the continuous pitter-patter of bare feet as members of the "black-foot tribe", padded around the halls, looking in all the rooms for a desirable sexpartner. I could hear the slow rhythmical slap of a ritual spanking as a patron got his ass spanked, where, in reenactment of his childhood with a dysfunctional family, when he codependently learned to mistake abuse for affection, he was first erotically aroused by a spanking his father or his mother gave him.
Then, there were the odors. There was the steamy-humid odor of the steam room and the showers, mixed with the pungent odor of body fluids -- shit, piss, cum, and spit, that was masked by the pine-oil scent of the disinfectant that attendants used for cleaning each room after each use. There was the odor of freshly laundered sheets on the beds and towels around the hips of the patrons. There was the reek of expensive cologne that some patrons poured over themselves, before cruising the halls, hoping, I guess, that by drenching themselves with fragrance, they would be able to attract a desirable sexpartner, like a bee to a blossom.
But the odor at the baths that I enjoyed the most, was the odor of men. It saturated the locker room, where the "walkers" were separated from their clothes. There, construction workers, sweaty from a day's hard labor building skyscrapers or digging subways, left their work clothes hanging before heading for a hot shower and a "massage specialist" to relax their cramped love muscles and get the kinks taken out of their stiff joints. There, service men, in town for a little R & R, on leave from the Army, Navy, or Marines, left their uniforms so they could get their shortarms serviced. There, "jocks," sweaty from jogging or a work out at the gym, left their athletic clothes while they exercised their love-muscles. There, business men, sweaty from the emotional stress of the board room, left their clothes while they engaged in a little tension-reducing therapy in the orgy room.
The locker room had the concentrated masculine odor of sneakers, and arm pits, and crotches, and hair, like the odor of gym clothes left to ripen too long in a gym bag. In less concentrated form, this deliciously raw odor of men wafted through the halls of the bath house and mingled with the other erotically stimulating, earthy odors of raw sex.
As we lay there resting, enjoying the sounds and smells of the Barracks, I asked Jorge, "In addition to your 'modeling' work, do you have another job?"
"Yes. I drive a delivery truck," Jorge replied, anticipating my next question.
"That was nice," I thought, a nice macho occupation. I could imagine how good he looked in his brown UPS uniform, and, I knew then how he kept in such good shape. Those guys really trotted to make their schedules and they had to carry heavy loads. His job really added to his macho mystique. Then, I asked him, "I'm curious. Would you mind telling me who the woman was who answered the phone?"
"Yes. That was my sister, Carmen. I've been living with her since I separated from my wife," he replied.
When he told me this news, my heart sank. "What made him think I wanted to hear that he had a wife?" I asked myself, blaming the messenger for what, at first, I felt was bad news, because it aroused all of the moralistic, codependent feelings that I had felt when I first called to make a date with him and I heard a woman answer. "Why did I ask him that question to begin with," I wondered, blaming myself for innocently revealing information that I did not want to hear. "Why did I open the door to revelation, thereby ruining my fantasy?" I continued to reprimand myself. "I wanted him to be an etherial, spiritual depersonalized sex-god. With that question, he might still be a god, but I had turned him into a Greek god with human faults and passions. Instead of the depersonalized sex object that I wanted him to be, I turned him into a human being with problems?"
Almost masochistically, I continued. "Do you have any children?"
"Yes, one, a boy. He's a year-and-a-half old," he replied.
At first I didn't want to hear that he had a child because it put me again on the horns of the dilemma. It made me feel ambivalent about having sex with him again. It fed the first impulse I had, the crazy impulse that I had that I was going to save him from his life of "modeling," by not having sex with him again for the sake of his wife and kids.
That initial impulse was opposed by reason. He had placed the ad in the classified. He was there with me because he chose to be with me. My refusing to have sex with him again would be just a futile protest -- it would just make me look weird and it would "save" him from nothing because he would just go on to another "modeling" job the following night. I resolved that even though he had a kid, I was not going to get caught in the same emotional trap of trying to "save" him from himself, that had soured my relationship with Todd. Besides, Jorge was one of the sexiest men I had ever been with in my life. Selfishly, I wanted to take advantage of his circumstances to enjoy sex with him again and again.
Logic and lust won out over codependent insanity. I reached out and touched his beautiful pinga, now soft, with its head fully retreated back into the warm folds of its mackinaw. Somehow, in that mysterious alchemy of the brain, that can intellectually rationalize the desirability of decisions made by the id, the original "vice" of his humanness, now became a virtue. The knowledge that he had sired a son sexually excited me. It made me lust even more for him because it made him seem more masculine to me.
I realized that this change in attitude revealed an antigay prejudice on my part, an attitude that I got at a very early age. As the Catholic Church and the Nazis used to say, "Give us a child before the age of seven and he'll be ours for the rest of his life." Before I learned to reject such rank discrimination, society and religion had indoctrinated me, as it does all male children in our society, with an ideal of "manliness." That ideal included being assertive, emotionally cold (real men don't cry), self-sufficient, and, above all else, heterosexual. I associated "normalcy" and "manliness" with "heterosexuality." I felt that heterosexual men were more "normal" than "gay" men.
Somehow, in a very peasantish sense, Jorge's having impregnated a woman and produced a child, made him seem more "manly" to me. It proved that the pinga, that got hard for me in a homosexual embrace, could also get hard for the receptacle for which it was designed.
His revelation also made me appreciate how lucky I was to have him. It made me appreciate the improbable sequence of coincidences that had brought him to my bed. First was his need for additional income, then, his bisexuality and his choice to "model" to supplement his income, then, his decision to place an ad in the classifieds at the time that he did, then, my happening to read his classified ad just when I did, my sexual tastes that attracted me to his ad instead of another one, and my not hanging up the phone when I heard a woman's voice. In addition, there was both of us showing up for the date, and our being attracted enough to each other to go through with it. All those coincidences made me wonder if some "higher power" was guiding our destinies, if we were, in some cosmic sense, "made for each other."
"No! Stop that shit!" I reprimanded myself. "It was that kind of crazy thinking that got you into trouble with Todd."
As I frigged his foreskin for him with my hand, getting his baton d'amour ready for another bout d'amour I whispered, "Make love to me, Jorge." With this order, I was returning quickly to my role as the purchaser of his services, presuming that my money gave me the right, like royalty, to command his performance. "Make love to me, you macho Latino Rican stud. Make love to me like you made love to your wife on your honeymoon. Make love to me like you made love to her when you gave her the kid."
Jorge responded appropriately. Now that he knew that I liked to kiss, he did not hesitate. My face had been level with his shoulder. He slide down on the bed, leaned over me, and kissed me firmly on the lips. As he kissed me, he slid his arms under mine and held my head firmly, forcefully, in his hands so that I could not have avoided his embrace, even if I had wanted to, which, of course, I didn't. By holding me that way, he was expressing mastery or dominance over me, saying to me with his actions, as Simon Legree said in the old-time Uncle Tom's Cabin melodramas, as he twirled his spiked moustache, "Do not try to escape me clutches, me proud beauty!"
This delightful feeling of dominance was bolstered by the fact that he slid over on me, crushing me scrumptiously under the full weight of his body, locking me under him like a captive bride, forced to submit to the sexual whims of her libidinous husband on their wedding night. In this position, as if he were trying to show me how good sex with him could really be, his tongue darted into my mouth like a horny serpent looking for something to rape. Once there, it rushed around boldly as if it were urgently seeking a victim, dashing in and out of my mouth, between my lips, as if it couldn't decide where hunting would be most fruitful, anticipating, with its in-and-out motion, the copulatory action of his hip-driven pinga in and out of my passion pit.
At the same time his mouth played its love games with my senses, his hips rolled his pinga across my belly like Julia Child rolling out a crust for a sexual gourmet's meat pie, a motion that engorged an essential ingredient for that pie, his love-salami, as if he were squeezing the bulb of an inflatable dildo.
As his mighty meat was preparing itself for its essential role in our concupiscent recipe, he seemed to know intuitively, like a skillful courtesan, what to do to arouse his "client" erotically. As if he had been given a treasure map that revealed all of my erogenous zones, identified by erogenous zone number, he seemed to know exactly what would excite me. He seemed to know that like Martin in Laugh In, if he blew in my ear, I'd follow him anywhere.
To get to that erogenous zone, numbered 5a, labeled Left Ear on his treasure map, his hands brought my ear to his mouth by turning my head under his lips. As he did this, his tongue, on its way to my ear, left a sticky-moist track across my cheek, like the precoital fluid of a horny snail. Once at Left Ear, he laved the shell then triple-tapped a waltz clog over the hole like Fred Astaire puttin' on his top hat. That tongue, tickling the tiny hairs in my ear, sent passionate shivers of erotic energy racing up and down my body that drove me madly to a salacious frenzy of uncontrollable desire for him.
His titillating tongue did not remain there very long. That tongue and his macho moustache, like the bristles of a brush, traced a track of erotic stimulation down my neck, focused my attention to the site of his erotic activity like a spotlight in a darkened theater on a star performer. Slowly the spotlight moved down my neck, down my chest toward the next erogenous zone, Left Tit, number 4b on his treasure map, that was already waiting in the wings, breathlessly trembling in anxious anticipation, eagerly expecting the arrival of the spotlight so it could have its turn to perform gloriously with the star.
Left Tit was awaiting the arrival of his lips, like a virgin bride awaiting the first caress of her bridegroom's lips on her virginal nipples. It did not have long to wait. Jorge's mouth enveloped it, tongued it, sucked it, and gently bit it until it stood up stiff as a tiny Lilliputian pecker, that was as audaciously cocky as a flea climbing up an elephant's ass with rape in mind. It was ready and willing to valiantly service and satisfy the Gullivarian mouth, much bigger than it was, that was trying to devour it. Left Tit stood up to Jorge's oral abuse, stiff and hard and cocky as if it were a native witch doctor, who had taken yohimbine to keep his phallus erect, for hours, during a pagan fecundity festival.
The tickling spotlight of erotic attention abandoned Left Tit and moved across the erotically arid desert of Chest, leaving its moist snail's trail behind it, to Right Tit, numbered 4a on the treasure map, where, to avoid jealousy, Jorge lavished as much attention to it as he had given Left Tit, making Right Tit stand up as stiff as Left Tit. At the same time, so that Left Tit would not feel neglected, Jorge pinched and gently rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, pulling on it as if he were trying to bring it to climax, to make it shoot its Lilliputian wad all over his hand.
The spotlight of erotic attention started moving again, from Right Tit, down my belly toward the volcanic crater marked Belly Button, number 6 on my erogenous zone map. Again, his tongue left the moist track, like the path of destruction following a tornado, as evidence that the storm of erotic activity had passed there. Now it was Belly Button's turn to wait breathlessly for the arrival of the spotlight, with butterflies in the pit of its stomach, like the inhabitants of a Caribbean Island awaiting the arrival of a predicted hurricane. It was Belly Button's turn to endure the intense excitement of stage fright in anticipation of its turn in the spotlight with the star. It was its turn to bear the breathlessness, the rapid heartbeat, and the anticipatory anxiety as it awaited its turn to perform.
It did not have long to wait. The storm of erotic activity enveloped it and it was subjected to buffeting and pelting, the hurricane passing over the crater of the volcano, as lightning flashes of erotic energy ignited forest fires on the ground beneath. It weathered the storm, heaving up and down as if it were struck by an earth quake at the same time as the hurricane, until the storm of erotic activity passed over it to shower Erogenous Zone Number 1, the Dingus Peninsula, lying right along side of it, with erotic energy. Dingus Peninsula leaped joyfully several times, like an impatient child at Christmas, about to receive its presents, in eager anticipation of the erotic attention it was about to receive.
"AAAAHHHH," I sighed involuntarily as Jorge's satin smooth mouth enveloped my nine-inch, unclipped love-meat like a warm velvet fog rolling in from the sea, enveloping everything lovingly in its soft-moist caress. Slowly, ever so slowly, punishing me exquisitely for my impatience, his mouth moved sluggishly down the shaft until my whole sex stalk was buried in his head to the love jungle at its root.
Not satisfied with this amazing performance, and responding to the subconscious wish to punish him a little for making me wait so long, I grabbed his kinky Rican-haired head so that he could not retreat, and pulled him down farther on my lust lance as I hunched my hips hostilely, thrusting Rodney even deeper into his cunt-throat, testing him, making him accept discomfort for my pleasure. He did not shirk his duty. He accepted every inch I had to give him, and made me feel good doing it. He took all the punishment my thrusting hips could dish out, and seemed to ask for more. He won the gold metal in the ride-the-bucking-bronco contest. He graduated Magna Cum Loudly from the circus performer's school of sword swallowing. When it came to cocksucking, I rated him definitely a ten.
In comparison to the poor blow jobs I have gotten from some "gays," I was amazed at Jorge's proficiency. It was remarkable because "gays" are supposed to be homosexual. They are supposed to get their kicks out of sexually satisfying another man. Yet, here was a macho man sucking dick better than most queens I knew. To master the art, he must have been willing to study cocksucking as I had, at Morehead University under some of the best teachers in the world, such as my biker friends. Then he must have been willing to practice long hours to develop the necessary skills, because he was superb.
In addition, he must have been able to reject society's bullshit masculinity rules because, here was a macho man who was so masculinely self assured that he could suck dick unashamedly. Here was a macho man who valued pleasing his sex partners so much that he was willing to master the art of skillful cocksucking.
After experiencing Jorge's proficiency, I now think that cocksucking performance is all a matter of attitude, and that attitude is independent of sexual orientation. Some of the worst blow jobs I ever got were from fellow "gays" because their attitudes sucked instead of their mouths. I think that some queens are poor cocksuckers because they are selfish egomaniacs. They take erotic stimulation from their sexpartners and are unable or unwilling to give satisfaction in return.
Even though they were supposedly homosexual, they either never bothered to learn to suck cock properly or they were unwilling to put forth the effort. Either they didn't learn how to keep their teeth out of the way, when they sucked cock, or they didn't care how the blow job felt to their partner. Either they never learned how to deep throat a big cock, or satisfying their partner wasn't worth the effort. They didn't learn to keep a steady rhythm to bring their partner to climax or, once they were satisfied, they didn't care if their partner was satisfied. In any case, a poor blow job resulted from a poor attitude.
Some of the worst blow jobs I ever got were from some of the prettiest queens. Perhaps they thought, conceitedly, that their beauty permitted them to take mercilessly from their sexpartner, without giving a good performance in return. Perhaps they felt, erroneously, that their beauty was payment enough for the privilege of having sex with them. Maybe they thought that their prissy concern about not messing up their makeup, or not liking the taste of cum, made them look femininely "pretty" and would be endearing to their sexpartner. Well, let me assure them that it does not endear them to me because I don't find egotistical attitudes sexually exciting. It just makes me want to shake some sense into their vacuous, addle-brained heads, and tell them, "Get with it, girl! Learn to suck cock!"
In some cases, poor cocksucking resulted from some fantasy that took priority and repressed the attitudes necessary to give their sexpartners cocksucking satisfaction. Maybe those dizzy queens who are poor cocksuckers thought that the incompetent enthusiasm of an inept beginner would be a sexual turn-on for their victim. To those woozy-brained floozies I say, "Get serious!" The most impassioned enthusiasm, that leaves my cock feeling as painfully shredded as if I got a blow job from a shark, is no substitute for skill!
Some of us might be attracted to fresh-faced beauty and supposedly virginal innocence; but, for me those virtues are not worth the pain and aggravation of dealing with the immature personality that goes along with them. Its a consistently reliable, experienced performance that wears well with me in the long run. Give me Jorge's cool proficiency over amateurish, albeit enthusiastic incompetence any day.
"Whoops! I've got to stop thinking of Jorge that way, as if I were considering him as a candidate lover," I thought. "I've got to stop checking off benefits and features as if I were comparison shopping for a new car. Its that kind of thinking that got me into trouble with Todd."
Jorge now turned his attention to Anus, Erogenous Zone Number 2. He lifted my legs onto his arms and buried his face in the cheeks of my ass like a gopher digging for a grub. He spread the cheeks of my passion pit with his fingers as if he were separating his wife's labia looking for my clitoris. "Sorry, Jorge. There is no clit in this man's pussy-ass," I thought. "You'll have to amuse your tongue in some other way than with clit play."
He did. He buried his face in my ass and tongued my pleasure pit as if it were an olive and he was trying to get the pimento stuffing out with his tongue. He raped my rectum with his tongue and his fingers until I was as loose as the Lincoln Tunnel and he could have driven a Peterbilt tractor with twin-tandem trailers into me.
When he had me loose as a goose and twice as juicy, he swung my legs up on his shoulders, aimed love's arrow for the bull's eye, and leaned into me. "Oh, my God!" I gasped from the shock and deep-felt pain as he thrust his hips at me, burying his love-lance in me to the hilt, overwhelming me suddenly, like a blitz kreig invasion of my viscera by his panzer division, overcoming my defenses and giving my innards little time to adjust to his stiff military-strict control of my lowlands. There was no arguing with the iron-fisted reign of terror his invasion had won over my freedom of movements. Like control by a repressionistic dictator, I felt that any rebellious movements on my part would be crushed by the reality of pain, dictated by the animate object that had invaded my body, threatening me with grave bodily harm if I did not submit to its will.
In addition, his precipitous invasion of my body, was an overture that set the tone for his fucking. For some reason, perhaps because he resented the fact that I had peeled off his persona-grata mask, and had exposed his wanton passions, when I bit his cock and spurred him into sucking mine, he now seemed to be punishing me physically. His merciless plunge into me was the first evidence of this change of attitude. Either that, or now he was more familiar with me, his true hostility was being revealed by his actions. In any event, I knew from that first belligerent attack, that this was going to be a challenging fuck -- and, at first, I loved it.
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