(Warning: sex between men, described in vivid detail, so entirely unsuitable for kids and the sexually modest.)
Earlier in the day I described in my 1/5/21 posting “Superbowl Sunday” — a report from the San Jose gay baths on Superbowl Sunday 1996 — there was a brief interlude in which a group of buddies turned up to get off together (well, in each other’s presence) before the game. The event was a form of male bonding for the guys, and also (since they were guys) a form of friendly competition, about who could get hard first and who would come first. (Apparently, such celebrations are, or at least were, not uncommon before big football games. Since I was, and am, both a sports idiot and also signally un-straight, it was all a surprise to me.)
For these services, some buddies apparently went to a whorehouse together, but others discovered that the gay baths — where the cocksuckers are, as one said to me, a lot cheaper and have the additional advantage of being entirely free of feminine influence.
Such an occasion is, crucially, stipulated to be just about the sex, man. Somebody gets you off, but you have no other relationship of any kind with them — certainly not affection, nor any “strings” of any kind (especially to a female partner or parent). It’s a boys’ club thing, an escape from the demands of family life and respectable behavior. (The guys at the gay baths talked openly about their pleasure at being free of their women for this adventure together.)
So four or five of these guys turned up (somewhat liquored up, bourbon I think), paid for a room and spread the word that they had hard cocks that needed to be sucked. I was in a sexually amiable, I’ll give anything a try, state (it was still early in the day), so I signed on, picked a guy whose cock was seriously hard and leaking precum, so he was already well along on the trip, got down on my knees and applied myself to giving him a prime quality blow job.
He was kind of paunchy, and the liquor smell was a turn-off, but his dick was a nice size, and anyway he was so far gone towards shooting that I hardly had to work at it before he filled my mouth with his cum — which was, alas, rather bitter (so it probably was bourbon he’d been drinking).
Even so, having his cock in my mouth had gotten my own cock hard, and I was jacking myself vigorously. So I stood up, showing my very advanced hard-on to Bitter Cum Boy. I didn’t really expect him to suck me off, but I had some hope that he might give me a few strokes with his hand to get me off — some gesture of mutuality, also something to remove the curse of his unpleasant cum.
Instead: he looked at me contemptuously, saying:
I know you can’t help it, you were born that way, but I’m no fag.
With that, he was out the door, along with the rest of his buddies. They’d breezed in and out in under ten minutes, all of them having been ministered to by cocksuckers who happened to have been hanging out at the baths when they arrived. (It was a very high-traffic day.)
Several things to explore here. But first, the resolution to my urgent hard-on.
Getting me off. So there I was, on my feet with hard-on in hand, panting. One of my fellow cocksuckers (who looked like a teenage boy, though no actual teenager was supposed to be able to get into the baths) appeared in front on me, sporting a splash of cum on his face and fixing me with a huge smile. He got down on his knees, delicately took my cock in his mouth, and then deliberately stretched out the blow job over a long lazy time, glancing up into my eyes frequently, stroking my balls, pinching my tits, occasionally withdrawing from my dick to bury his face in my pubic hair to take in the smell of my sex sweat, sliding a spit-wet finger into my asshole. A whole library of sexual skills. When I shot my load into his mouth, he held it there for a while, to savor the taste.
I thanked him for this amazing performance. He replied, gravely, that he liked to please men and that I looked like I needed pleasing. And then he too got up and left the room, leaving me to puzzle over the mystery of his identities. We never got to exchange names, even sex names (my sex name was Alex).
I went back to my own room, to take a brief nap, until the game started and the baths cleared out some, leaving mostly men seriously cruising for sex. That’s when I hooked up with “Mark Ericson” (from the previous posting), who was reeled in by my muscular hairy ass, which I was in fact offering for sex.
The social organization of men in modern America. Consider the band of buddies who came to the gay baths for their pre-Superbowl event. I’ve been thinking about, and beginning to write about, a type of social group in modern American culture: small- to mid-sized groups of affilated males, sometimes formally constituted, sometimes informally, that serve to organize significant aspects of the social life of men: gangs, sports teams, male social clubs, informal friendship groups (like that band of buddies), etc.
My thinking is still in its early stages, but a few things are notable at the outset.
One is that each such group enforces sets of norms of behavior and belief within that group. Members of the pre-Superbowl band all engaged in the same sexual routine and equally subscribed to a set of beliefs about the role of women in their world.
Another is that, like all social groups, these depend crucially on distinguishing in-group from out-group. There are, in effect, membership criteria, which may be explicit or tacit. And then procedures for gaining (or losing) membership: invitations, tests or trials, contestations, interviews, and the like
And, finally, these groups are (unsurprisingly) closely tied to cultural notions of masculinity.
A side issue in all of this is what to call these bands or groups of men. An e-mail note from sociology professor Nancy Whittier at Smith College, tells me, about the term band, that it “connotes a smaller and more cohesive group that consistently interacts; this usage is most common in anthropology.” — but, she notes, there’s no standard term for the concept I have in mind, so if I want to use male band, it’s open to me. (Nancy had more substantive suggestions about relevant literature, which I hope to post about soon.)
That’s my current favorite, and I have managed to suppress the image of male bands breaking out their instruments and starting to sing.
However, I am rather hastily cutting off this posting (and putting off to another day discussion of “you can’t help it, you were born that way”) in order to view breaking news of the chaos at the U.S. Capitol.
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