Pre-Cruising: 1976 – 1979, The Early Years
Memory #2: A smelly men’s room
As best as I can remember, my first real public cruising experience was in a public restroom in Koenigstein, West Germany, in 1976. I was waiting for the train to downtown Frankfurt, and my mom had dropped me off much too early. The station in town was entirely outdoors, just two sides flanking two parallel sets of tracks with silly Bavarian style rain shelters. I puttered around pretending I could actually read all the posted bills and typed notices and decided I should take a piss before the long ride.
If anyone reading this has ever been in any European public restroom back in those days, you must surely remember that smell you never smelled in the US! The sharp acrid stench of old urine and rot is so overwhelming that you involuntarily squint and gag. You don’t want to waste time and spend one extra second inside those places. You do your business and run. Also, there were never any working sinks or soap.
So, I’m pissing away in a steel trough the width of one entire wall, just finishing up when I detect movement, behind me to my left. The room was silent, and I thought I was alone, but from one of the stalls the door opened. A tall older man emerged who looked like he could have been homeless. But there were no homeless people at that place and time. Verboten!
It was late fall and cold. He wore a full-length coat that was tattered and threadbare. As I scanned his clothing below the open coat, I saw he had his fully erect cock sticking out through his open fly! I was stunned for a moment by the size; it was the largest and first erect uncircumcised penis I had ever seen up to that point in my life. He was now smiling at me as I stared, and he began pumping his generous sheath of thin elastic foreskin up and down his thick shaft. I couldn’t help it, I probably should have run, but I smiled. I was so impressed with his giant complicated member that I smiled like a little kid, broadcasting approval and maybe envy.
He lurched forward at me, and I froze. I had my back up to the urinal trough, I had nowhere to go! I was frightened for a moment, and I did embrace the reality that I could get raped by that monster cock, and the possibility of stitches and police and drama that could all ruin my day. But the older man quickly descended to his knees reaching for my zipper.
He pulled out my hard and only slightly penis from my jeans and underwear, and chuckled. I thought he was laughing at how small I was! But then he whispered “Americanischer?” This was the first of many times that my penis would out me as a foreigner! The man drank in my naked purple swollen cockhead, out in the open with no skin covering it at all. He kissed it, and then plunged his mouth down over it, taking my entire length into his mouth. He slurped all the way up and down my shaft, taking me into the back of his throat each time. He would squeeze down tightly with his lips and suck during the outstrokes right up until his lips were just under the head of my cock. He was very very good.
He made these deep baritone moans that made me crazy horny. It was like he was insanely thirsty for cock, and he was gratefully thanking me for a taste. I probably didn’t last even half a minute. I squirted my adolescent blast of hormone fueled cum without giving him any warning. - I had a lot to learn yet. - He gagged, coughed, and then chuckled at his own gagging, and then gagged some more. Now we were both chuckling as he gulped down every drop I squirted.
As a teenager, you cum and go; you cum and you feel exhausted, vulnerable, and in my case usually guilty and ashamed. I had my dick back in my pants and zipped up before he’d even gotten to his feet. I ran for the door and escaped into the now-sweet smell of rotting leaves in the Taunus Mountain autumn. I was back up on the city-bound side of the station platform before I looked back at the restroom. I could see the men’s room door from the platform. It never opened. He never left. I imagined that he was the village troll who sucked off men and boys, all day long, breathing in that impossible stench. And in German culture I could imagine that no one ever said a word about it.
Memory #3: Stranger on a train
Anther “pre-cruising” experience occurred a year later, when I was working at my brother’s auto repair shop in Chicago. Now this event was brief and tame compared to my day at Dr. Mueller’s, but I mention it because I learned some things about cruising that morning. Maybe that’s why it still haunts my memory?
I took an early commuter train from the suburbs, every Saturday morning. This train was always nearly empty, and in the smoking car where I sat, it was even emptier. That morning there was only one other person in my car, an old man downstairs sleeping so deeply he was snoring. Two stops after mine, an older guy got on the train somewhere behind my car, and came into the smoking car from behind. He looked around the near empty car and eyed me upstairs. He intentionally came upstairs to the upper deck and sat right across from me, smiling, clearly wanting to make conversation. When I say “older,” he was probably only late 20’s.
He immediately introduced himself with an extended hand. I’m sure I forgot his name before sunset on Saturday. I could feel his loneliness radiating from his entire being, and I felt sorry for him and his awkward conversational skills. He asked questions about where I lived, where I was going, my brother’s auto shop, etc. He wanted me to ask him all the same questions, obviously!
Politely I asked him all the same questions, but when I asked where he was going in the city that day, that’s when he got cagey. He said the name of a place, very quietly, a place I didn’t know. He was searching my face for a reaction. I asked him what it was. He told me it was a “bathhouse.” I know I said something naïve like, “Those places still exist? Like in the old movies?” I meant James Bond movies, and he knew it.
Then he leaned in close and said we needed to keep our voices down [there was still only one other person in our car, sound asleep]. He explained that bathhouses were really places where men went to have sex. With other men. He must have misread my facial reaction, because he immediately became almost apologetic. He fumbled through a desperate explanation of how he “never had any luck with the ladies.” He was ugly. And he was creepy. And he radiated loneliness as a result. At that point in my life, I was mature enough to empathize with his tragedy.
I had to say something to calm him at this point, but all I could muster was “That’s OK! There’s nothing wrong with that.” I did not tell him that I was a globetrotting bisexual with nearly 8 years of hands-on field experience in the homosexual arts! I think maybe I kept up a small wall with him only because he was so damn ugly.
He leaned back and looked around, seeing only the sleeping man, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small bottle of RUSH. For those of you who remember these were still the days of Amel Nitrate, not the grossly inferior Butal Nitrate which replaced it. Now I had tried a copious list of drugs by this time in my life, but not Amel Nitrate. He leaned forward with his head down, closing the gap between us. He unscrewed the lid on the small plastic bottle. He held the top of the open bottle under one nostril and closed the other nostril with an index finger. He inhaled deeply, greedily, holding the breath in his lungs like he was smoking pot.
He leaned back into his seat looking straight up at the ceiling and exhaled. Then he looked back down at me, his eyes were glazed and sort of absent. “Wanna hit?” he asked me. Now first off, my general rule has always been “I’ll try anything…twice!” And I knew this guy was never “cool.” I knew I was cooler at my age than this guy was at 20-something. But I felt bad for him. His loneliness felt like a disease and part of me was afraid of catching it. But most of me knew that wasn’t possible, and this poor guy needed a little attention.
I took the bottle from his hand and repeated exactly what he had done. Wow! I was shocked by the instant intensity of this drug! I didn’t know that the overwhelming warm electric pulse taking over my entire body, would evaporate in minutes. I was a little frightened that this would last all morning, which would make me screwed at work!
“How long does it last?” I had the sense to ask him.
He said apologetically, “It fades in a few minutes. It doesn’t least that long. How do you feel?” he asked looking right into my eyes, thirsty as hell.
I said, “Good! It feels really good!”
When he said, “How does it feel?” he reached forward to my crotch, and gently massaged the growing lump of penis under my black mechanic’s pants. I had already figured that this was probably where he was going, so I wasn’t surprised. But a new part of me wanted to play coy and innocent. It was like for the first time, I was the superior predator, and I wanted to leverage any advantage. I had tortured myself for a full year, thinking about how I could have played up my youth and apparent innocence back at Dr. Mueller’s. I regretted not using that currency more to my advantage. So, I went full-on manipulator, seductress, and role played a part like an actor.
“Mmmmmm,” I moaned quietly when he touched me, smiling right at him. “I’ve never done…anything before,” I pretend to stammer. “I mean with a guy.” I was staring right at him when I closed my eyes and sighed, wiggling my ass in my seat on the train. Short of unzipping my pants, I couldn’t have given him any clearer consent
I began rubbing my dick frantically and, I opened my eyes to see his crazy-horny face. I looked down and saw he had an impressive sized hardon bulging through his jeans, and across his abdomen on a diagonal. I made sure he saw me smiling at it. I whispered to him, “The conductor doesn’t come back around to this car until Clybourn. I ride the train every Saturday. We could go down to the restroom to…if you wanna…do stuff?”
His eyes opened wide like an emoji for “Excited!” We both crept as quiet as cat burglars down the cramped metal stairs, to the lower level of the smoking car. We passed the sleeping man in silence and entered the restroom. The restrooms on the big diesel commuter trains were twice the size of aircraft bathrooms, but they stank! I closed and locked the door as slowly as possible, to avoid the metal-on-metal sound of the deadbolt sliding. We both stood upright staring at each other for a moment, during which time I really didn’t know what was about to happen. My instinct of course was to drop to my knees and whip out his cock and suck him dry. But that would blow my cover.
Thankfully he dropped to his knees, and quickly unbuttoned and unzipped my pants, tugging them down along with my briefs to about mid-thigh. My hard dick sprang out like a jack-in-the-box, making him smile.
He held my penis, staring at it longingly and whispered, “It’s so pretty.”
That was the first but not last time someone called my penis “pretty.” I was overjoyed! I wanted my penis to be “pretty.” Wouldn’t that make it less threatening to squeamish girls? By this point I knew a lot about horny adolescent girls, including the fact that many were afraid of the penis. Many saw them only as ugly, or at least off putting. In their defense, those same girls also saw their own genitalia as equally ugly. I think it was all about their sensibilities, and how they were treated about their sexual preferences or attractions.
In any event, this man was smitten with mine and didn’t wait another second to taste it. He took it into his mouth in slow motion, first taking in the top half and wetting it, massaging it. He closed his eyes, but I could tell he was putting on a show for me to watch. Then he began taking more length, now into the top of his throat. He began bobbing his head up and down on my shaft, then tightening up his lips just below the head, jacking me off with his tightly pursed lips. Hey! I thought it was my move! He was very good at sucking cock, because gay or bi, he adored the penis just like me.
Back in character I whispered, “Oh! Oh! I never felt anything as good! Mmmmfff…”
He pulled his mouth off my cock and hissed, “Is this your first blowjob?”
“Yes!” I hissed back, a lie so big I didn’t think I was capable of it. Man, that felt so empowering. I should have been cracking up at the ridiculousness of my own lie. I was already the whore of Babylon, relatively speaking, pretending to be a virgin. But the power of that deception turned me on something fierce. I had to do this again. While I was young. And hey, wasn’t I giving him a fantasy? He probably told a dozen men that day at the bathhouse, about the young virgin boy he deflowered in a smelly restroom on a train that morning.
I felt it coming, the inevitable swelling inside me. This time I gave warning, I didn’t want him gagging and choking in a public restroom on the train. We’d be busted for sure. “I’m gonna!” I whispered. “I’m gonna do it! I’m going to squirt my jelly!”
I could feel him snicker with my cock in the very back of his mouth. Was “jelly” too corny a word to use? He seemed to buy it. I exploded several squirts right into his throat, which he was ready for, and let drain right down silently. I was jerking and spasming while the last strings and droplets of cum spurted but he’d pulled his head back and jerked off the last drops onto his flattened outstretched tongue. He wanted to show off how he loved cum, collecting the little pearls on his gob before he lewdly brought them into his mouth, tasting and savoring my sticky liquid, smacking his lips and moaning as he swallowed down the last.
I thought he would do more, but he quickly scrambled with my pants, pulling them back up for me and struggling to fasten them. I asked, “Will you teach me to do that to you now?”
He made this sound, like a muted growl of a cat in heat. But he quickly replied, “No! Not right now. We gotta get outta here. If I get caught? With you?” He assumed I understood the rest, but I really didn’t yet. He was on his feet and hugging me. Then he kissed me, his searching tongue so different from a girl’s tongue, rubbing hard across mine. “C’mon, let’s get back upstairs.”
We talked for the rest of the ride, and he explained the landscape of gay cruising, at least as much as he knew about it. He told me about the adult bookstores and the peepshow arcades. He explained about booths with [little] gloryholes. He told me about porn theatres, and public washrooms and parks and forest preserves at night. He made sure to reiterate that you didn’t have to be gay, just a male looking for sex. He warned me that at my age I’d have to stick with non-commercial cruising places, like restrooms and parks. He told me I should try the 7th floor restroom at the State Street Marshall Fields. He warned me that I shouldn’t try the men’s room at Montrose Harbor; he said I’d get raped for sure!
He gave me his phone number on a scrap of paper, without his name on it, which I never called. I think listening to his plan for Saturday at the bathhouse was the last nail in the coffin of my interest in him. He planned to spend the whole day and night at the bathhouse just offering his mouth and ass to anyone who would fuck him. He really was so sad and pathetic, and made himself so much worse the way he wallowed in his low self-esteem. But I asked and he answered 100 questions. He explained how the whole cruising world worked. I learned so much that day; I’ve always been grateful to him in my memory.
Memory #4: P & P, before it was called that
The last of my “pre-adult” cruising experience turned out to be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, although I’ve been told that events like this one have been happening around the world and through the ages. To call it “P & P,” or “Party-and-Play,” is much too simple a description. However, if I had to cram it into an existing category of anonymous gay sex practices, that would be the closest box it could fit into.
In 1979 I spent most of my time in Evanston, Illinois. One of my siblings lived there. I had a girlfriend who lived there. I was also in a band who had their own apartment there, where I lived part-time. I also made a very close friend who lived there, nicknamed “Peanut.” Peanut was the most beautiful bisexual—90% gay—Black ballet dancer you can imagine! Women would stop and stare at him. Some men too. He attended the Giordano Dance School and lived in a single dorm room north of Noyes Street. We had copious amounts of the most wonderful and selfish sex in that dorm room! He was my first Black man, and my only male lover during that period of time.
Looking back now I remember that Peanut was constantly being invited into elite clubs or situations, because he was so stunningly beautiful. He was offered some gigs for big bucks, mainly putting on strip shows for very wealthy women and much older men! Of course, there was always sex-for-tips at the private strip shows he performed. He told me that at one party more than a dozen women each gave him $50, just for the privilege of sucking his cock. He wouldn’t talk about the sex at men’s parties.
Eventually he was invited into a private party club that hosted anonymous sex-and-drug parties once a month. Peanut was on the host’s payroll, just to keep the average looks up high. There were only a dozen or so young men who were paid to attend these parties, and they switched up the roster by each attending every other party.
The dozen hired guns were also tasked with finding new blood to attend parties. Not prostitution like themselves, just new young, pretty guests who would show up and keep the youth and energy flowing. He never told me about this party club until it was my turn to be invited to attend.
As it turned out I knew the host, at least casually. I was a regular customer in his store in Evanston. No one ever attended one of these parties whom the host hadn’t met. Peanut read me the riot act about secrecy! Everyone was absolutely sworn to secrecy, never to mention the event or the identity of the host. That wasn’t a problem in those days, especially for what turned out to be a large group of mature, wealthy, and closeted bisexual men!
Peanut explained that through this recommendation I had been invited to a Saturday night party at a very large home on Ridge Road. The drill was that you paid a $10 cover once you were inside the rear door of the house. You were then given your choice of mood elevator: one Quaalude, or one capsule of MDMA, or two tablets of Dexedrine, or one rolled-up sticky black ball of opium. All of these were “sex drugs” in one way or another. They all made you horny, or without modesty.
Our host was precariously well known in Evanston. He was a charming and hip older gentleman who owned one of the coolest little retail boutique stores in town. Any minimal description of the place would give it away to all boomers and expose the host. But it was a universally beloved store, along with his shockingly younger girlfriend and store co-manager, who later became his wife. She was breathtakingly beautiful and was the only female at these parties. She managed drinks and towels but never participated in any sex. This was a men-and-boys-only party. The host and his fiancée loved watching men fuck! That was all there was to it, I was told. Nothing complicated. But there were a lot of things Peanut didn’t tell me.
There must have been close to 100 older men there—40s through 60s—most of them wearing masks or half-masks, like some kind of fantasy orgy. But none of us “youngsters” were told we could hide our identities. I was quickly understanding that this party was kind of an exploitation event—feeding drugged, horny young men to a bunch of rich, elite closet cases! I guess normal people would have been shocked. Offended. Insulted. Even scared.
Oh God—not me! This made me so outrageously horny I couldn’t contain it! I wanted to be used and objectified by powerful old men! I wanted to be ogled and drooled over—and the Quaalude I took was not even close to kicking in.
I was told to arrive at exactly 8:30 p.m.—which I did—but most of the captains of industry were already there, getting loose, and half of them had shed all their clothing, walking casually around the house buck naked in a mask. This party was obviously for them—but there really were all ages at the party. There was a small army of younger men - underage high school boys like me - and plenty of pretty college-age men. I’m sure there must have been a few Northwestern students there—but I recognized several dancers from Giordano’s, from Peanut’s dorm. They looked even more deliciously sculpted when naked!
I accepted a red plastic party cup of white wine—white, red, or beer, like a college party—and strolled around the main floor of the giant, elegant home. I can’t tell you anything about how it was furnished—that too would give away the host’s identity! I was drawn toward a very large, casual family room, where a 16mm projector was broadcasting porn on a large white wall.
This was the darkest hardcore gay porn of the 1970s I’d ever seen. These were pre-VHS days—and porn hadn’t even been legal in the U.S. for very long. But this was rough sex! Lots of leather and bondage, my first introduction to fisting. There were some first-timers and gangbang rape reels that looked so authentic I was sure they were rape snuff. I was years from learning the term “snuff” at 18, but it looked real!
I chose a Quaalude on Peanut’s advice—and I’m glad I did—because they disappeared only a few years later. There has never been anything else like a Quaalude! One lude could turn a spinster librarian into a whore in around 40 minutes. I’m sure even a straight man would be sucking cocks at this party on just one pill.
I had not yet discovered that I was pathologically exhibitionistic. I kept my clothes on for now comfortable in my naïve belief that I was only a voyeur. I walked around sipping my wine and socializing, trying to flirt with the older Daddies in their masks. Who were they? Probably lawyers and CEOs and mayors and ministers! There had to be some professor from Northwestern—God, that made me crazy horny too. Maybe another fetish kink syndrome I’m afflicted with? By this point I knew I was not like most people.
Eventually I entered the study, or maybe they called it a library. The room was lined with built-in bookshelves, filled with old books, the kind that probably came with the house when you buy it – I was 18! –
There was a crowd in this smaller room, all sitting or standing in a wide circle. Once I’d moved closer to the perimeter, I heard the grunts and the slurping. When I finally caught a line of sight between bodies, I saw the show—two boys, one white and one black, 69ing in the center of the room on the oriental rug
The young black man was on his back, with a large polish sausage of jet-black penis getting bobbed by a white freckle-face boy/man. The sandy-haired boy crouched over the black boy like a frog. But there was a third man I didn’t even see at first—an older, masked gentleman with gray hair and a gray mustache creeping down from under his half-mask. He was on his knees behind the white boy, with a dangerously fat cock brutalizing the anus of the young freckle-face boy. At that moment I’d never seen a bigger cock, except in German porn mags.
I moved around to the other side of the circle to see the actual penetration. The sandy-haired boy yelped and squealed each time the old man with the elephant cock pushed it inside him! It looked like the distraction of the pain was causing him to make all those slurping sounds accidentally. I could now see the traumatized ring of the white boy’s anus. Every time the old man pushed inside him, the pink ring would buckle under and disappear inside his hole for a moment. Then when the man withdrew his fat monster, the boy’s swollen pink sphincter would roll outward, close to prolapsing inside out!
I was standing frozen in electrified exotic lust! Maybe the Quaalude was starting to kick in too, but I was feeling hornier than I’d ever felt. I saw at least a half dozen men at the front of the circle, jerking off their tools as they watched the threesome.
I was about to search out a better viewing point where I could whip out my dick and begin pumping it, when I saw him staring at me! I recognized him. He was a Giordano dancer from Peanut’s dorm. He’d never even glanced at me before, not that he ever let me see. He was always overtly shy, even timid. He was black and very muscular but small. He a had a tiny bit of extra weight on his physique, more like a wrestler’s body than a dancer’s body. That probably tortured him as a dancer. Or maybe he was just that good.
Thank goodness my dance spoke for us. He said, “Honey, you look yummy, but first my baby and I need to be alone for a little while. Maybe look for us later?”
I was floored with what I thought was a perfect response, and I formally offered him my hand, as if for a dance. I was trying to invite him to lead. He did. He took my hand and let me out of the library, and through the foyer, and up the stairs, and down a hallway…OK clearly, he’d been here before. We entered a rather non-descript and sparsely decorated bedroom. A room that screamed “Guest Bedroom” if there ever was one. But the bed was a queen size, and we were ready to go.
We stood staring at each other while we each began undressing ourselves. I asked him, “Shouldn’t we lock the door?”
“You’ve never been here before?” he asked.
“No,” I answered. “This is my first time.”
“They don’t lock,” he said. “None of the doors upstairs lock. People come here to watch. You OK with that?”
I nodded my head and kept going, with the door to the hallway standing wide open. We were looking at each other’s skin, and clavicles, and nipples, and belly buttons, and eventually each other’s turgid cocks. We embraced and kissed again, now feeling our chests and penises grinding against each other’s, skin rubbing skin.
I don’t know if he felt the same kind of fantastic attraction that I felt toward him. I had glared at him in Peanut’s dorm several times but never got any visible feedback. I was crush-at-first-sight, but he always looked away. Tonight, however he did seem to feel the same frantic level of lust and horniness. But years later I would finally figure out that was the Quaaludes. They make you or allow you to do things you probably wouldn’t do without them. I only had two Quaalude-sex experiences in my life, and both times I did things I simply wouldn’t have thought of or been bold enough to do. It’s not a weakening of your inhibitions like with alcohol. Quaaludes completely erase all inhibitions and allow your actions to come straight from your subconscious, like when you’re dreaming.
Now I was staring at his beautiful cock, holding it possessively in my hands. I pushed him back up onto the bed and then pushed him onto his back. He was letting me do anything. I made it silently clear with body language that I was going to such his cock first. And I planned to go slow and make it last so long it would torture this beautiful man. This fantasy fuck! I was being so confident and aggressive. Who was this new me? Oh! Right! Hello, Mr. Quaalude!
I pushed his knees apart so abruptly that I think I scared him for a moment. But then I gently took the shaft of his “centerfold-worthy” cock and pointed it upright. I lowered my mouth over the head and latched on to him, closing my lips snugly below his fluffy circumcision collar. I flooded him wet with saliva and suckled gently, pulling up and down, gently jacking him off with my lips and the suction of my mouth.
I don’t know where my next move came from – thank you, Mr. Qualude – but I decided to “go goldfish” on him. You know how goldfish always look like they’re puckering their lips and gulping oxygen out of the water? Well, I began moving my snug lip-grip down his shaft, only ½ centimeter at a time. I was constantly squeezing and releasing my grip, gulping his cock into my mouth, but moving downward at a snail’s pace. Then every couple of centimeters I moved down, I would move back up his shaft and flood more saliva into my mouth and gulp back down to where it was still dry.
The teasing torture seemed to work! After a couple of inches, he growled, “Oh, God!!” I could feel his cock stretching and straining, overinflating with blood. He started to buck and squirm, trying to push himself further and faster into my mouth.
I got myself up on my knees higher up over his lap, so I could stretch my neck out straighter. I wanted him as far up inside me as I could take him. I began humming and moaning as I continued gulping down his shaft until I felt the tickle of pubic hair at my lips. He cried out, “God damn it, yer killin’ me!” My cock swelled and stretched like his. Mission accomplished! I was proud as a peacock and began lovingly fucking his big black beautiful tool with my mouth and throat. I slid snugly up and down his shaft, pausing for just a second with a little suction, every time my lips met his collar. He began humping and pumping, squealing, “Baby! You’re gonna make me cum!”
This was supposed to last longer than that. Apparently, he hadn’t rubbed one out in the shower before coming to the party tonight. He came so big, but so quietly. So gently. He squirted what felt like a half cup of cum into my mouth and throat. I had to purposefully swallow down several gulps to keep from choking. He felt so viral spraying so much cum inside me, but he only hissed and whispered, “Baby! Baby! That’s so good! You makin’ it feel so good!” While he quickly whined and whispered and writhed under me, he kept squirting my belly full of semen.
As he recovered still on his back and panting, I moved up face-to-face hovering over him. He palmed the back of my head and kissed me furiously. I laid down next to him on my side, my right hand groping and feeling his nipples and his tummy. I looked calmly into his eyes; I didn’t want to rush him.
Once he caught his breath he began his obliged reciprocation in the etiquette of men’s sex. He rolled me onto my back into the center of the bed where he had occupied. He didn’t tease or put on a show. He just plunged his mouth onto my cock and went about wetting and pumping me, as prodigiously as humanly possible.
This was only the second set of African American lips I’d ever kissed or felt on my penis. I’ve always wondered if other white people feel guilty and inadequate like me, when they’re with a black person. Our lips must feel so thin and hard compared to theirs. Black lips are like puffy satin pillows, the second-softest human body part I’ve ever felt.
Two older gentlemen had crept into the room in total silence. They stood off in the furthest corner of the room watching. Now they pulled out their hard cocks and began masturbating themselves, and then each other. Then a naked masked elder elite entered the room. He was much bolder. He came around to the inside space between the bed and the outside wall to watch the cock sucking up close. As close as he wanted to. That didn’t disturb or interrupt my dancer in the least. The naked half-masked man stroked his uncut cock slowly.
I couldn’t help but watch him intently. I hadn’t seen an uncut cock since Germany, so I hiked my head and chest up with my elbows jabbed into the mattress and peered down at both my dancer sucking my cock, and a mature uncircumcised cock stroking away. I had a sort of romantic obsession with mature uncut penises that still lingered fresh from Germany.
Nobody ever told me this, but eventually I pieced it together: it was my parents’ generation who launched the whole “circumcision is necessary” campaign in the United States—even though most of the men my father’s age were not circumcised. In the 1960s, I’d seen my own father, and many other men his age, in the YMCA showers and in the country club locker room. None of them were circumcised. Yet they started something that has since become almost uniquely American, carried across more than three generations. Another profound mistake from America’s so-called “Greatest Generation.”
My dancer was a solid cock sucker. He didn’t tease or do fancy flashy gimmicks, like me. He simply fucked my cock with his mouth, very very well. And those lips were like heaven. His mouth was like the softest tightest pussy that I could never get tired of fucking. And although it took me longer than him, since I was working on ejaculation #2, I did cum expediently.
I blubbered at him, “You’re gonna make me cum now!” I was still hiked up on my elbows, watching him suck me, and the much older man now loudly jerking off. “God, you’re so beautiful!” I stumbled, feeling like I could cry. I remember mumbling, “Beautiful man…beautiful man,” over and over again even after I began cumming. I could feel myself squirting a healthy second load right down his gullet, while I looked left and right, watching the strangers watching us while they masturbated. This clearly excited the hell out of me! Being watched! But I still wasn’t really aware of or acknowledging that exhibitionism was a lightning rod of sexual excitement for me.
After I finished, I didn’t want anyone from our still small audience to feel like it was now their turn to climb into bed with us. I wasn’t done with my dancer yet, one-on-one. I rolled to my side and got up on my knees, and asked “Will you lay back down for me? There’s more I want to give you.” He complied silently. He stretched out his beautiful hyper-muscled body with a cock that was more than half hard.
I crawled down between his legs and quickly swallowed his lovely member into my mouth once again. This time no flash, no gimmicks, just loving purposeful fellatio. This time I explored his scrotum and fondled his balls. His scrotum was overheated, sagging. I needed to get it out of my way, so I took his left hand and guided it to his genitals. I gently pulled his sack up and to the right across his thigh, planting his hand there, silently encouraging him to hold it there out of the way.
Almost as an explanation, I instantly began licking his little black and pink anus. I felt him shiver and he made a guttural sound that I didn’t how to interpret. I saw his hand stretching his scrotum further away from blocking his anus, so I was pretty sure he was consenting.
Now I slowly and gently mouthfucked his gorgeous glistening black shaft, stopping occasionally just to look at it. He penis looked so perfectly circumcised.
Overall, his cock was a shade of very dark brown that wasn’t quite black. The head protruded in stark contrast, somewhere between peach and pink, which showed through his thin foreskin when you pulled it up over the head. He didn’t have a threateningly large monster black cock! He was only a little larger than me, well above average, but not what anyone would call huge. His “reasonable size” had everything to do with my plans.
As I fellated his pretty penis, I pulled my mouth off him several times, turning my head to the right, and feeding mouthfuls of saliva into the well of my four fingers. I shoveled mouthfuls of saliva down my dancer’s little hole, lubricating his sphincter generously, and slicking down a wide diameter around my target. My fingers were so sloppy wet and slippery that I broke from tradition and began by inserting 2 fingers into his anus instead of just one. He sighed, feeling no distress, so I pushed my two digits, deep inside him, the fatter base of my fingers stretching his sphincter slightly. He gasped and whined just a little.
With my fingers in his rectum as far as they could go, I began feeling along the top of his tunnel for the lump of his prostate. There it was only a couple of inches deep. I began finger fucking his ass with my two digits, rubbing hard against that little bump on every stroke, in and out. While I ass fucked him and massaged his prostate, I kept moving my mouth up and down his steel hard cock. Now he started moaning loudly.
“You gonna fuck me, baby? That what you doin?” he begged.
“I want to…” I whispered, taking my mouth off his cock for a moment. “I want to fuck you, and I want you to fuck me too!”
He stammered, “Just…just go-slow baby, please?”
I wasn’t about to go any slower than I had to at that point, but I knew what he was asking. I probably knew better than he did, how to stretch and relax a sphincter. I’d been trained very young!
In hindsight I realized how high on a Quaalude I was at the time. My memories of sucking cock, and kissing, and fucking, they took place visually in my memory as if me and my dancer were all alone. Nothing going on in the room around us mattered. I wasn’t really conscious of the other people in the room, except for the moments when he or I spoke, or we changed positions. When he asked me if I was going to fuck him, I remember looking around the room and seeing new watchers in our audience, new faces, and new masks. Everyone was rubbing their cocks, some slowly stroking and jacking off like teenagers. I felt a shudder of pure thrill role through my body. Men staring at us and masturbating was electrifying to me!
I made sure my third finger was well lubricated with saliva, and then bundled my three fingers together into a “training-teepee.” That what the man who trained me called it. I inserted the bundle of fingers into his anus while I sucked his cock more deliberately to distract him. Past the first knuckle, three fingers are still smaller in diameter than two fingers pushed all the way in. But right around the second knuckles the diameter widens and new stretching begins again. As I began pushing the lump of those second knuckles into his tight little rubber band, I sucked his cock harder and faster.
“Oh!...Baby!...It stings!” he fumbled. “It stings…a little…but you do it so nice!” That’s when you hold your fingers in place with only a little pressure pushing inward, and you let the sphincter do the rest. I kept pleasuring his cock while I felt the tight rubber band around my fingers slowly relax, and centimeter by centimeter, my tee-pee moved inside my dancer’s rectum. I moaned and hummed, bobbed furiously up and down his shaft. Then I felt his tight hole give in, and my fingers moved all the way inside him, buried to the hilt, with no squawking or complaint.
I rose up pulling my mouth off his cock, and up on my knees. I grabbed a pillow from the top of the bed. I rolled his torso up lifting his butt up off the mattress and stuffed the pillow under his ass. I pushed his legs wider apart and reminded him with his own left hand to keep his jewels out of the way. Then I squatted on my knees right up to his ass cheeks, spread open like a whore for sale. I lubed up my cock as fast as I could, with all the saliva I had. With my right hand I placed the big swollen purple head of my cock right up against his little black-red-pink anus. His hole was still visibly gaped open at least half an inch, like an invitation. I pushed up against him firmly and waited. In only a few seconds his sphincter gave way, and the head of my cock was swallowed up into his dancer’s hole!
He exhaled loudly, hissing a little, but only sharing a mild measure of discomfort. I, on the other hand, squealed like a girl! In pure pleasure! That feeling when your cock breaks through that tight circular barrier, and then that ring grips you like a collar all the way down your shaft?! There’s nothing else like it in the world! I watched the whole show [along with several others] starring my creamy white cock slowly sinking all the way inside my dancer’s chocolate ass. I pushed and wiggled and squirmed in my last centimeter of cock, and said, “Ahhhhhh!”
I leaned forward putting my hands behind his knees, rocking him backwards. This pulled his ass up slightly off the mattress, and I began pumping him deep. I knowingly choreographed this position hoping to make contact between my cock and his prostrate…and it worked instantly!
He whimpered and babbled, “What you doin to me? Oh fuck, baby! That feels so good. What? What’r you doing to me?!!” Apparently, he’d never been fucked this way before, and I felt like Superman, which only made me pound his tight little hole harder and faster.
Our audience had grown by several men again. Most of the men in the room were naked now, probably having already engaged in sex somewhere else in the house. All of them were jerking off. I even saw our hosts peeking in the door from the hallway, smiling. Our most aggressive watcher was still with us, the masked naked elder standing in the narrow path on the inside length of the bed. He was getting ready to cum, which he announced magisterially.
“I’ll take it!” my dancer barked to our elder statesman. He craned his head to the left and opened his mouth in invitation. The elder’s cock and balls were well over the side of the mattress as he leaned into his target, but the two men didn’t quite connect. The old guy couldn’t scramble his knees up onto the end in time, and he ended up blasting gobs of cum all over my dancer’s face! That’s the first time I ever saw pearly white cum on black skin.
That put me right over the edge, and I came my third cum for the day, deep inside my dancer’s body. Nobody in the room didn’t know I was cumming. Between the “accidental” facial, and my howling and whining, at least two more men in our audience squirted strings of cum almost immediately after. One of them filled up the palm of his left hand with pearl jelly, while the other squirted carelessly all over the polished hardwood floor.
I asked the crowd for a tissue, and someone produced a washcloth. – These were folded, stacked in every room – I said to the spent elder man still standing next to us, “You wanna see my cum?” Suddenly there was a minor rush toward the bed. Everyone wanted to see my cock pull out of the dancer’s butthole. I leaned back to give everyone a good look, my arms behind me, and I pulled out slowly. This whole audience thing had kept me hard as a rock, so when I pulled out of his tight sphincter angling upwards, my cock literally “popped” up and out of his anus. - I mean “popped” like when you make a finger-pop inside your cheek! - My cock sprang upwards and bounced in place a few times, and both the “pop” and the spring-loaded bouncing caused a wave of laughter in the room. But the laughter clashed with gasps at the glugs of semen that poured out from the dancer’s gaped anus, and down onto the sheets. There were muted applause and accolades, but I had one more desire to fulfill before this room turned into an orgy, or I lost control of the bed.
I frantically lubed up his still semi-hard cock again, sucking and bobbing on his as fast as I could! I was also siphoning off mouthfuls of saliva into my own right hand and smearing the slippery liquid over my own anus. It wasn’t difficult for everyone in the room to figure out what I was going to do next. I had the dancer pinned down with my legs over his thighs.
“Just one last thing I want to do with you, and then I’ll share you,” I told him quietly, but everyone heard. Cocks were being stroked hard again almost immediately.
“You can do anything you want to me,” he whimpered.
I walked on my knees forward until my ass hovered over his stiffened tool. I took his shaft in my wet right hand and planted the head of his cock square against my own anus. I pushed down; I didn’t need relaxing. I’d prepared myself before coming to the party, which always included stretching with a thick sconce candle, my personal dildo.
I felt his swollen head pop through my sphincter’s modest resistance, and my body instantly began sinking down his length. I heard the dancer’s sighs and moans before I realized I was sinking on his cock. The Quaalude may have also acted as a thorough pain blocker.
“I’m inside you, baby!” he bellowed. He sounded so excited, it made me crazy. I sat upright and began rhythmically fucking his cock, riding up and down, using my knees as the hinge. The men were trying to cluster behind us now to get a better view of his shaft pumping into my hole, but there wasn’t enough room.
I tried to make it hot and act like a whore. I rose up high on his shaft and then plunged down with all my weight, making my dancer moan. Once I went up too high and his cock fell out of me, slapping down audibly on this belly. There was laughter again.
But I had one more goal. My hidden agenda was not only to fuck him until he came inside me, but I also wanted him to make me cum again! You might think that would be impossible, or would take forever, but not so. I’d been massaging my own prostate with candles for years. I’d learned all the angles that worked for me. Whether a candle in one hand, or sitting atop a man’s penis, I could angle the direct contact to my prostate gland, and produce an ejaculation even without what you would consider a full proper orgasm.
I’d done this hundreds of times with candles. I knew if I leaned back far enough and humped up and down his length fast and hard, his cock would rub my gland hard enough to produce enough semen to make another sex spectacle! I wanted more than anything to make Mr. Dancer want to fuck me again and again, so I was hell bent on impressing him. Mr. Quaalude was also helping by bulldozing all boundaries and inhibitions, of which I had few.
I leaned back as I humped up and down his shaft, until I felt it; the angle where the head of his cock rubbed right across my gland. I knew I was pulling back on my dancer’s cock pretty hard, pulling it down against its natural direction at the base. I knew this might be uncomfortable for him, but I wouldn’t take long to manufacture another ejaculation this way, even so soon after my cumming. Most people don’t realize that you can make a man ejaculate, entirely against his will, simply by massaging his prostate vigorously. It isn’t really an orgasm, but it still feels nice.
Once I found that angle I started humping like a whore and acting like a porn star. “Oh God! You’re fucking my hole! You’re really fucking my hole! Fuck! Fuck!”
I could see and hear the action in the room all around us ramping back up again. There was lots of jacking off, but there was now cock sucking too, and one couple bent over together fucking, but still watching us. There was one man bent over the dresser being finger fucked, showing off another prostate massage, I assumed.
That all did it for me, just enough visual, audio and even olfactory stimulation to coax a prostate ejaculation pretty quickly. I shouted, “You’re gonna make me cum! You’re making me…I’m…cumming!!” I humped up and down until my thighs burned and my knees ached, but then it came. My cock was straight out in front of me, pointing slightly upwards. Without any hands touching my organ, the squirts started streaming from the head of my cock! The first squirt hit my dance right in the chest, and several watchers cheered. Obviously, some didn’t think it was possible, they were doe eyed with their mouths open. Only a couple more large squirts erupted, one landing on a nipple, and the last shot up all the way to his neck!
Finally, I could lean forward and take the strain off my dancer’s tool. Our audience was still cheering accolades. My new lover began pumping his hips below me, pounding my ass like a jackhammer. His tummy was slapping me so hard it sounded like a spanking. Now he began blubbering, “I’m gonna cum, baby! I’m gonna cum again! I gonna…gonna…”
Then he squealed as he lifted his hips and ass up off the mattress, grinding his cock into me as deep as he could push. He held me tight, shuddering, spasming. I leaned forward, careful not to mess up the dollops of my own cum that decorated his chest, and when it was clear he’d finished squirting, and the watchers were all watching, I scootched forward quickly. The dancer’s cock fell to his belly with a smack, and then I painted a trail of slightly dirty cum, from his belly button up to his chest, with a slight drizzle that continued leaking out for another 10 or 20 seconds. I rolled off him and laid next to him, smiling at him as we displayed the artwork of our semen painting on his chest.
None of these over-the-top acts of live pornography would have ever even occurred without the Quaalude. Again, I didn’t connect all those dots until years after ludes disappeared. I was a hyper-experienced for my age, but I was still only 18. Suddenly I was performing sex for an audience? Long live the memory of methaqualone!
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