A certain sense of loss, pt.1 (M24, M18, long)
New York, New York. The city so good, it’s said, that they named it twice. I was there last year, for a week, with a couple of old school mates.
I expected nothing from the the boys’ trip other than the usual: seeing a respectable number of landmarks before drinking enough to hospitalise a horse.
I like to fit in one or two hookups along the way… with the others reacting both in good-natured mock disgust, and very real envy. Don’t get me wrong – none of them are monks – but, compared to chasing after women, fucking gay guys is like shooting fish in a barrel.
True to form, we saw a few landmarks and on our last full day took a boat tour.
Wondering what it would have been like to be a penniless Old World immigrant first catching sight of that copper woman holding a torch, I snapped out of my reverie – remembering that I hadn’t got laid and that we were flying out the next evening. I opened Grindr and squinted at the sun-cream smeared screen of my phone. The game was afoot.
I was very impressed by the Big Apple’s contribution to Yellow Facebook. Every other tile raised an eyebrow. I concluded that the Apex Gay is a New Yorker in their late 20s with washboard abs and their employer’s logo on a fleece vest. I’m pretty good at knowing my place, so I let them be, and looked around for my type: a twink with tan skin and low standards.
Quite quickly I was messaged by someone who matched that description. They were discreet with a profile that gave little away, but the photos he sent me were good – and he didn’t text like a time-waster or a murderer.
Sheepishly telling my friends that I might miss that evening’s sunset on the roof terrace, I endured some bitching and moaning and headed back early to our apartment to wash off New York in July – before searching around for the condoms hiding somewhere in my suitcase. Before leaving I knocked down a blue pill with a tall glass of the weapons-grade margarita we’d been inhaling for the past 4 days. (You could have used it as bleach, and it visibly evaporated when out of the fridge)
I took the L Train to Union Square and emerged from the Transit Authority’s impersonation of purgatory into the back of a violently air-conditioned Uber. If you told me that that was the best physical sensation I’d have that night I’d have been happy with my lot. It has its perks, but the heat and smell of New York isn’t for me.
I got out by the entrance of a non-descript hotel and walked through the lobby. I can’t be alone in thinking that there’s something exciting about hooking-up in at someone else’s hotel. A feeling that you shouldn’t really be there, that you need to studiously maintain the facial expression of someone who has a room-key, and walk like you know the place better than the longest-serving porter.
He texted me the number of his room, I checked myself in the lift’s mirror, and experienced that familiar combination of a pounding heartbeat, head rush, and butterfly-stomach. Somehow this shit never gets old.
Counting the numbers I walk down the corridor and turn a corner. Only a few yards away a door was ajar and behind which an Asian twink was peeking out. Taking longer than I should to put two and two together, I smile and nod in his direction and he opens the door further and I walk in.
‘Hey…’ ‘Hey.’
A cute, but not effeminate face with strong features. He’s shorter than me, but only by an inch or two. Wet brown eyes, soft black hair. I have a type and he was it. Without thinking, and almost before the door had closed, I gently pushed him up against the wall on our left and made out with him. Quickly, it became natural; always a good sign. As our bodies melted into each other, the hand that wasn’t running though his hair told me that the unassuming twink was, in fact, a twunk who was harder than I was, even after Pfizer’s finest and a week without hole.
My sub side taking the lead, I get on my knees and look up at him, pulling down the grey gym shorts – having to yank them down given what was holding them up. About 6in and thick, surrounded by neat, short black hair.
Fucking hell he’s hot.
I take his shorts off from under his feet, and give him the best head I can. I’m not bad and I’m not great. I don’t mind doing it but it’s not the main event. Here though, well… I was hungry. He immediately moans and breathes these short little pants, placing his hand on my head but resting it there as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. I gently lick his balls which makes him gasp and shiver, which in turn makes me go down on him again like he’s my last meal. There’s already a ton of pre-cum as a reward for my efforts.
Soon my knees are sore, and there’s so much more left to do. Really, I just want to stand up and look at him properly, look at those puppy-dog eyes, kiss him.
So I do, but soon we break off from one another, stand a little apart, and catch our breath. We laugh softly and look away in gentle embarrassment at how worked up we’ve become. I lean in very slowly and kiss him on his lips, then lightly French kiss him once more, my hands resting on his hips, his hard dick pressed up against me. Then, stroking the side of his neck and face, I whisper in his left ear: ‘You’re beautiful, and I want to fuck you.’
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/11ihv7d/mm_a_certain_sense_of_loss_pt1_long