Newsgroups: alt.sex.motss Path: clarkson!ub!zaphod.mps.ohio-state.edu!wupost!uunet!mcsun!fuug!anon Message-ID: 1993May2.082920.27248@fuug.fi Sender: anon@fuug.fi (The Anon Administrator) Reply-To: an20556@anon.penet.fi Organization: Anonymous contact service X-Anonymously-To: alt.sex.motss Lines: 160
Netsex 1
"Am I the only Queer Brit, or Brit Queer on this fucking bulletin board? If not, mail me or x me - Chip Gobbler" (and a pretty asterix border for a vt100 emulation).
That was the message that starts this story - I had to reply didn't I, which meant that my nick, by p'ing me, would give my home address and telephone number ('cause I'd registered properly, being in favour so such social responsibility).
The next time I logged on there was a mail message waiting for me ....TARA!
I'm at a University about 20 miles south west of London, his email address indicated he was at the nearest one nearby - about twenty miles away. This was the closest I'd even found a contact - hundreds in every state of the US you can imagine, but someone in the next town. And he knew my address and home phone number. His message was warm and friendly (but they always are aren't they) except that he gave a DOB - always the really difficult one. Is he lying, do you lie? Age is so important, for reasons never quite clear, and I'm a lot older than him!
Still, reply truthfully, always the only useful rule - stops problems arising later. But all I know of him is his email address. Still, there is some security here. Post myself a message including his email address, so if anything happens to me, they'll be able to check my recent posts and pick up the link.
Now the break of nettiquette - do I send him a message saying he knows my address and phone so it is up to him? Or do I go to bed, with the door off the latch? It is a very slim chance, isn't it?
So go to bed with the door off the latch. There are choices - leave it on the latch, he'll have to ring the doorbell, but the outside lights will be off after midnight.and I can answer the door naked but in the dark..He can phone, but that is like picking someone up in a pub. 0898 numbers don't work like this? Nor do Capital Gay's numbered messages according to all the ones I've ever read.
So go to bed naked and leave the door off the latch!
As you come down the front stairs, through the garden you need to know that mine is the front basement flat - my address in the mail server doesn;t say that - how will I communicate it? He must know he can't ring doorbells indicscriminately, so will he hunt around and try and press before going any further - that sounds fine! To send a message saying the spare key is under the clematis florida would be absurd.
When you enter the lobby, in the dark, the toilet is on your right, a storage area beyond that - the entrance to the main room is ahead. That can be found in the dark by trial
I can't go to sleep - my pulse is racing with exitement - I know it is silly - the chances of him coming are tiny. the idea wouldn't even have occurred to him. Just drop in on someone you have xd on an bbs! Absurd! But the idea still makes the pulse race. it could happen. To such an end the door is off the latch.
It must be about 1am when I hear the outer door creak! My heart jumps. This could of course just be a burglar! But lie there still. I hear the front door open. Heart pumps. The door to the room opens. I think I've stopped breathing. I can hear the feeling around the wall. The room is dark - only one curtain drawn giving some light. I see him move into the lighter shadow I'm lying on the farther side of the bed - somewhat towards him. How can I keep my breathing deep and steady? This is my fantasy - I had no idea it would actually happen! (At this point, if being set to music, Strauss would take over and chords would double and redouble in more than forty colours and a choir would rise!)
But my pulse and my heart are the only symphony and I can hardly breath. I see him - can't tell much - see him take off his jacket, put it carefully on the chair, then standing and holding the arm of the chair, he takes off one boot and then the other, one sock, then the other, pulls his shirt over his head, puts it on the jacket, then stands upright. The light from the window shines on his skin and he is looking towards the bed. Now I know more about him than he knows about me - and I like what I see.
Then looking towards the light of the window he undoes the buckle of his belt, undoes a row of buttons, pulls his trousers (jeans I think) down, off one foot, then the other, and folds them on top of his shirt and jacket. And stands there. In white y- fronts. Those I can see. Just like David's! (That memory is still with me - will never go - the third man I had sex with - when I was about nineteen and he about sixteen.)
He lifted the edge of the duvet cover and got into bed. I wonder what he is thinking? I wonder what his heart and pulse and breath are doing? Already I can feel the warmth of his body next to mine. But keep the breathing steady. My shaking must be travelling through the matress. What will he do?
He lies there - flat on his back, rigid, not moving, staring at the ceiling. How has he ever managed to work up the courage to get this far? Am I encouraging rape? But I had left the door unlocked and he would have had to ring a number of bells to get the right one. I remember Harry - we'd made an arrangement like this, but I'd lost courage at the last moment and sat outside in the car, afraid his parents would find us, or that he'd been forced to tell them. I wonder still if he lay there that night, pulse and heart and breath racing while I didn't come in the unlocked door?
But this email signature was lying next to me and I felt a finger. Did I move, or did he? But fingers touched. He can't know I want him here. He must fear I'll wake and scream, wake the neighbours. But he also knows the door was open.
The second man I ever had sex with - in the Scout tent. Just fingers touching like this, and I couldn't breath and I couldn't move. A complete stranger in a scout tent. I hadn't seen him, or any of the others when I'd arrived, unrolled my sleeping bag and got into it. The moving or stretching I'd felt a finger touch mine. Had I touched it or it touched me? I don't know, but I froze. One quiver from me, and he'll know I'm queer, or realise it is a finger and move away. That moment! Two people touch and it becomes possible to change the world. To do something that all family and school and church say cannot be done - so cannot that it is not even ever talked about. And my finger freezes. I don't want to break the touch - even if it is nothing and without meaning for I give it meaning. But if I move and wake him it will break - unconscious he'll move away, or conscious, I'm a queer.
How long did we lie like that in the tent with ten other people? My arm was stretch above my head, aching, but I couldn't move it. Then a finger moved. Was it mine? Was it his? But I didn't draw away and he didn't draw away. And in that moment the world changed. I realised that there someone else out there like me - that this desire was shared and I breathed out with a pulserace of joy and exhilaration and excitement I think I have never captured since. And I was about eleven and this was the second time!
Now in the bed our fingers are touching. I think it is up to me - the responsibility is mine, so I move and grasp his hand, and in that moment again the world changes. Such can be trust and adventure and uncertainty and the overthowing of all existing social relations. I follow up his arm and across his chest and he moves to me and we embrace - hold one another tight. My beard rubs against his cheek then my finger follows its curves, down his neck, down his chest, pressing together. To the top of his y-fronts.
The rest is the pumping and grinding that forms the meat of American porn videos so we'll spare the detail until peace and quiet and rest descended, for then there was still a choice. he could leave. For to not wait til light would save him confronting what he had done, and who with. Or he could fall asleep and in the morning we would both have to be polite, and I'd make coffee, and we'd make smalltalk, and then heavens alone knows what. Propsects too dreadful to conceive. I could ask him to leave - that might be easiest all round - but no - cowardly - we'll face the dawn.
Having written this, I'm now going to email it to the sender of the message - I wonder whether he'll take up the suggestion? Shall I leave the door on the latch when I go to bed?
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