The First Step
I’m stumbling through what some would call a life. I call it an addendum to a completed contract yet realized. Lost in space and tumbling through darkness, hands out clutching at anything that might slow down the momentum but finding instead vaporized thoughts melting before my eyes unable to stitch together anything resembling reality. Day after long day sinking into the mire of pointless activity trying to come out on the other end of an endless whirling cone of oblivion. Clothed in nothing, an unrehearsed comedy playing across the mind in misdirected scenes cobbled together in a progression of meaningless acts imitating a finished play only to find the curtain being raised before an empty audience, the smiling chattering faces disappeared into nothing, a well of emptiness cloaked in the disguise of caring.
A five-dollar puppy sitting in the corner of a pet shop window soon to be rescued and swept into the morass of a two-bloke household will be named Socrates the philosopher because he’s sitting quietly and observing his siblings rough tumble in furious puppy play. Socrates will become the epicenter of my being, me the loving protector of him, his guardian. He plays joyfully pushing an empty plastic gallon milk jug against the trunk of a choke cherry tree, bouncing it over his head in the back yard of Somerset Terrace, answering whenever summoned with a wagging bushy brown tail and a golden-brown beard and deep brown eyes. He’s the pup I didn’t have to call my own growing up on Cooper Street in Atlanta, because my mother and father could not afford another mouth to feed and an imagined future of vet bills made a dog in the family a no go.
Instead, I sought out any stray dog in the neighborhood to commune with, knowing that we would never be a team, but stuck together in desperate camaraderie, lost souls on a sea of emptiness both hoping to cement a lasting relationship but understanding that the moment was the thing to be clung to and cherished.
To this day, the smell of a dog, wet or dry brings memories flooding into the consciousness of the lost minutes of a young boy and his dog becoming one bound together in a love that survives the passing of days and years. My dogs are snugly tucked away in a sacred part of my heart safe and sound protected by the boy once protected. A man or boy without the companionship of a loving four-legged fury pal is a boy or man untethered and at loose ends with life.
I struggle through the morass unprepared for any offer coming my way, stepping aside while the parade passes by, watching the elephants leave their calling card for an unapprovingly stoic public. These beasts should be kings of the world, but they are relegated to the dumb category which they are not.
We homosexuals, some good, some bad, some involved, some not, like the general population on the planet, out for self and for the brass ring waiting patiently to be snatched from its anchoring spot into the hand of whomever has the longest arm and can reach it. Once had, squandered and removed from one who might in their reasonable mind find a use for it, but its disappeared from sight. Hidden, sequestered.
The brass ring passed by out of the reach. I rode the wooden swan but my arms were not long enough. My adventures lay smothered under layers of longing unheard and unseen. You can never be someone you’re not. You can paint your face, wear the wig, but in the heavy rain of reality the paint melts and the wig is lost down the sewer of misunderstanding. You have to face the reflection in the mirror someday and come to grips with who you are and who you are not and seek to discover who you might be if the effort is unrelenting. Don’t wait for support from another, find that in yourself and push it to the fore. Educate yourself in the disciplines you seek. Build a foundation rock solid and unmovable by currents and tides. Refuse to be washed away by events out of your control. Things you can change, change them, things you have no effect upon, let them go and move on.
I’ve always been in the far reaches of my mind someone useful and productive in society but in cold reality are none of those things. If you can’t help yourself, then who can you help? In order to be a giver, you first must be one who can give. A believer in self, not selfish, but self-loving for to love others you must first love yourself.
That’s where I am today, caught between what’s real and what’s not. The real in life is a force unforgiving in its harshness, sometimes briefly friendly but can turn on a dime and slap you in the face. Life can bring you down or lift you up. It depends on your wiliness to play the game.
I don’t know if you believe in the survival of the essence of life, the soul or whatever but I’m here to tell you that I do. During one of the most horrific nightmares I’ve ever experienced during sleep, I was trapped and helpless with no way out. My dog Andy, who passed two years earlier interrupted the dream appearing life like and licked my face until I awakened. He, and all my other fur babies watch over me, this I believe with all of my heart. It wasn’t a passed-on family member who bailed me out of that nightmare, it was the dog I loved and cared for in life repaying me with love and concern.
When my family fled our old neighborhood, after black families started moving in I was broken and alone. Their prejudice was not mine. I wanted to stay. Hoke Smith High School was a fortress I could inhabit and belong. My tennis team mates were there. There was a comradery I could feel safe in. I had yet to face the real me. I had no one to confess to, no one to turn to. I was completely alone within myself, stuck in a very dark and forbidding place. I knew deep down inside that I was different from my peers, that I thought about forbidden things and had urges I could not explain, or explore.
Then one faithful Saturday afternoon at a local bus station a fortyish redheaded ticket agent asked point blank if I wanted to have a date with him after he got off of work. I was young and I said yes, not knowing exactly what he had in mind but I hoped he would let me suck his cock. He looked like a youngish father type and had a really nice smile. He took me to a seedy room he must have kept for occasions like this one. Removed my clothes, then his and drew me close and kissed my mouth. I was tall for my age and looked older than I was, but this is what turned him on.
We laid down on the bed in a sixty-nine position and I tasted my first cock and tasted cum for the first time. He came and I swallowed his heavy load and he ate mine. When I got home the first thing I did was brush my teeth and took a big slug of mouth wash to rid me of the taste of his cum. What I didn’t know then was that in time I would come to crave the taste of another man’s seed and hunt for it whenever I could.
The bus station was filled with young soldiers in uniform, some were paratroopers and wore spit shinned jump boots. This was my awaking, this was the beginning of a uniform and boot fetish that has stayed with me over the years and matured into a living fantasy which I indulge when I get the chance.
I got my urge for rope bondage watching old black and white television westerns where the good guy got knocked out and tied up by the bad guy. I identified with the bad guy with the rope, and thought it natural that the good-looking cowboy, in his tight jeans, boots and spurs should wind up the victim. And I haven’t changed my mind, No sirree!
There is no doubt many steps that lie ahead and new men to conquer, most willing at least, that’s been my experience. I’ve stalked my share of leather bars across the country and rodeos to know that a lot of young men yearn to be taken, and the older you get and mature into a dad type, the more the younger dudes seek you out. Experience counts for a lot, trust me. Don’t misunderstand me on this, I love to rope up daddies and take whatever I want from them, and it’s always hanging between their legs, mature cum is mighty tasty. And taking hot daddy ass is top of my list of things to do. Rope up the young bucks and keep ‘em handy, but take down a hot muscular coach, fireman, cop, military man, or weathered cowpoke and you have hit the jackpot! Aged beef is the best.
If you want an experience that you will always look back on with your dick in your hand, then take a chance and stumble into my web, but a word of caution, it’s damn hard to get out of once you’ve been snared.
The Beginning, Not the End
