“Great!”
And with that, we settled into enjoying our chocolate drinks.
I was half-way through mine, when I brought up what I had been thinking about.
“You know,” I said. “I was thinking about what you said, why you’re up here I mean, and I have to say I have a lot of sympathy for your situation.”
Matt looked at me guardedly but said nothing.
“On the other hand, I think there is a bright side to it.”
His eyebrows rose and he snorted, but still said nothing.
“I mean, it’s about choosing a path in one’s life.”
He appeared to consider this.
“Choosing a path?” he said at last, and snorted again. “I’ve always felt it was someone else who did that for me.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I know it feels like that, much of the time for most people. But everyone has some choices. Like coming up here; you chose that, right?”
Matt nodded. “To get away from people…and the…urge.”
I nodded, I could both see and hear the pain he was feeling around this.
“It’s difficult,” I said, “for those of us who don’t fit into the normal categories.”
He sat up at that. “Us?”
I looked at him. “Well, I’m gay…okay?”
“Oh!” He looked me over, and then shrugged. “I—well, no offense, but I kinda suspected.”
I suppressed my slight irritation and continued. “Anyway, society’s reactions sometimes constrain the options of those who are not part of the normal group. But that’s not all I mean. I mean, choosing a life path, well…it’s more difficult just because there are no roadmaps.”
Matt looked uncomfortable. Perhaps, I thought, at my putting him and myself in one basket. I waited for him to speak, which he did. “What you mean, roadmaps?”
“Well,” I said, “speaking for myself, being gay—it’s not easy. No, not what you think. I mean—there are no…or rather, few—models.”
Matt shook his head, confused.
“Role models, I guess I mean. You know, people you want to be like, who provide examples of how to live. In the gay community, almost by definition, there aren’t many of those. Though, I suppose it’s better than it has been…in the past, I mean, when people hid it just to survive.”
“Models,” Matt murmured, playing with his beard thoughtfully and looking at the ceiling. “How to live.”
At last he looked at me. “I guess I had the same problem.”
“How so?”
“Well, this…thing I have.”
“Being a…sexaholic?”
“Yeah.”
I frowned and shook my head. “You know, that’s not a great term.”
“Why?”
“Well, I think it’s inaccurate. I mean, the analogy with alcohol. The term for it, as far as I know, is ‘Sexual Addiction.’”
Matt appeared to consider. He snorted. “Sounds like the difference between ‘homosexual’ and ‘gay.’ Just technical or not.”
I nodded. “But it’s also called…I’ve been trying to remember and I just did: hypersexuality.”
“Big difference!”
“Actually, there is a difference. ‘Sexual Addiction’ implies an unhealthy dependency, whereas ‘hypersexuality’—it just means an extra strong sexual urge. It doesn’t necessarily pathologize the condition.” I shrugged.
“Pathologize,” Matt repeated. “That means…what? Made into a pathology, a sickness?”
“That’s right. More importantly, it’s pejorative, judgmental.”
“Well,” Matt said, speaking slowly, “it’s not a good thing, right?”
“You tell me.”
“Well, it’s fucked up my life, for one thing.”
I nodded. There was no getting around that. I didn’t mention the other thing I remembered about it, from that lecture on abnormal sexualities, years ago—the minority view, that hypersexuality was reviled simply because of a society that disliked “exceptional sexual behavior.” That term had stuck in my head at the time, for it seemed to make the condition a cousin of my own “exceptional” sexuality: being gay.
“Okay,” I said at last. “But my point is, the trouble you’ve experienced, it’s not just from your…nature, but from the interaction of that nature with society’s norms.”
Matt stared at me, frowning.
“Norms, like telling me that I feared emotional closeness, or that it might be a kind of obsessive-compulsive disorder, or that I was ‘acting out my entitlement as a male’? You mean that?”
He was breathing heavily now, angry and wounded. I felt my heart twist, and nodded. I feared the wound, that he had internalized the societal judgment. It seemed to me that he had.
“Anyway,” I continued hesitantly, “speaking for myself, my challenge was to discover a path, a way to life, as the person I wanted to be…within the constraints of my own nature: being gay, that is.”
Matt frowned.
“Being gay isn’t considered wrong today.”
I laughed, and his face turned red.
“You think not? You’re kidding yourself. It’s not horrible, but it’s there. And you never know when you’re going to encounter it: hostility to you simply for being what you can’t help.”
He was looking at me, his face, perhaps for the first time showing something besides pain and withdrawal. Was it? Yes, I thought it was: sympathy, concern.
“Sorry,” he said.
I nodded. “Thanks. And I’m sorry for your…situation.”
Matt nodded. “Say!” he said after another pause. “You seem to know a lot about stuff like this. You a—whatchamacallit? Psychiatrist?”
“I think you mean psychologist.”
“Yeah. One of those.”
I shook my head. “I took it in university, but I never became a practicing psychologist.”
He nodded and didn’t ask the question I had dreaded, what I had become. He seemed to take the tale of someone not becoming something they studied for as a matter of course. That hurt a little: the guy must be used to failure by now. What was he? Thirty-five or something?
“Still,” he said. “Do you think you could, you know, give me some…whatever?”
“Advice?
“Yeah. Though I was thinking of…treatment.”
I laughed. “Well, I did learn enough psychology to know that most therapy or treatment as you call it is just being a good listener, creating a safe space for a person to be more themselves, and then give some good advice.”
“Yeah,” Matt said, looking encouraged. “Yeah, that would be good. I could…pay—”
I waved that aside. “No. That won’t be necessary. I’m not accredited, and besides,” I gestured toward the window with the snow blowing past, “we both have lots of time on our hands.”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “What about something to eat?”
I laughed. “Sounds like a great idea!”
* * * *
I was sitting in the lounge area, reading, when Matt came in. He stood a few feet away, with the air of a man with something to say. I looked up at him questioning, and saw that he was blushing fiercely. I cocked an eyebrow.
“I…thought of a way I could…pay you.”
“Really.”
He nodded and looked at me, raised his eyebrows.
“What?”
He looked down at himself, then back at me, and shrugged. “Well, you can suck me off, if you want.”
The affectation of scorn riled me slightly, but it also made me want to laugh. Incredibly, behind the façade I thought I detected the wariness he had always shown. I had the impression he was actually a bit frightened, and that puzzled me.
We regarded each other in silence for a while, and finally I decided that I would play along with this game. I had the sense that he was in very strong need of sexual release, and it was only that that was making him override his caution or fear or whatever it was. And that made me feel compassion for
the guy—and it got me going a bit: a horny male is something I generally find rather fetching.
I half smiled and shook my head.
“You think that kind of attitude will work?”
There was a flicker of doubt, but then he raised his head haughtily and opened his mouth. Nothing came out, however. Instead his blush deepened. He looked confused and a bit trapped, which made me feel sorrier for him.
I gave a mock frown. “Well?” I said. “Has it worked for you—in the past? I mean, with gay men?”
He appeared to struggle with himself. It was evident to me that he had had encounters with gay men before. He was just ashamed to admit it.
“Come on, Matt!” I said, wanting to goad him out of his helpless state. “I’m not the enemy here. Please! Just be honest. I have no intention of bullying you or anything like that.”
He looked at me, searching my face. Then he seemed to come to a conclusion, and he nodded, sagging slightly at the same time. I thought with dismay I had punctured his alpha buck stance. Then he reached down and felt himself. I breathed a sigh of relief. Now I knew where he was at. Despite his embarrassment, he really wanted to get off.
I struggled between my options here. I mean, it would be a “good deed,” and, frankly, I was curious, and also somewhat turned on. I’m not the puritanical type; I don’t believe that keeping things “clean” is always the best thing, either in therapy or indeed in a friendship. Men have their physical needs, and Matt’s definitely was bothering him at the moment.
I sighed and got to my feet. Walking up to him so that we were standing face to face, I said, looking him straight in the eyes, “Would you like me to…take care of you?”
His eyes took on that hunted look again, and there seemed to be some sort of struggle over this, but finally gave a tense nod. I smiled and nodded in turn.
“Okay,” I said. I paused, and added, “Maybe I will. But Matt, first—first you have to say the magic word.”
He gave a curious, twisted smile, perhaps my use of the cliché. After a little hesitation, he seemed to give a mental shrug.
“P-please, would you—”
I put my fingers over his mouth, touching his rather full lips.
“No. That’s enough.”
And, so saying, I sank down onto my knees, in front of the bulge in his sweat pants. I leaned forward, pushing my nose against the flesh that was pressing forward, first to one side and then the other.
The bulge got bigger. The reaction was so fast that I almost laughed in surprise. But I didn’t, partly because it would have embarrassed him, and partly because I felt in response a rush of arousal on my own part. Opening my mouth, I took the bulbous tip, encased as it was in gray flannel, between my lips. He gave a grunt at that. I squeezed my lips together, and felt a further swelling in response, and another grunt.
Then, reaching up with my hands, I pulled down his sweatpants at either side, but slowly. The fabric slid over his flesh, and the burgeoning cock popped out, swaying hypnotically and, I must admit, majestically. The man was hung.
After a period of sheer visual appreciation, I smiled and leaned forward, opening my mouth. I took the large, swollen head between my lips, savoring its smooth, satiny warmth. Pushing myself forward, I took into my mouth several inches of his shaft, while I ran my tongue along the underside of the head.
He groaned again at this, and I pushed my lips further down, along the shaft, taking more of the cock into my mouth, inch by inch until it was pressing against the back of my throat, which made him groan again, more urgently this time.
In fact, there was something so almost desperate about the sound that I found it more disturbing than arousing. Not only did it suggest borderline actual suffering, but it seemed to indicate a closeness to orgasm.
I hesitated in my attentions, at which he pulled his cock back, until the tip was pulling at my lips, and then thrust forward again, giving a long, low groan. He sounded really close, but I decided it wasn’t my decision, so I simply went at the dick with my most earnest attention, sucking, and laving with my tongue.
The result was that the whole cock stiffened, and, before I could apply any pressure at the base to stop it, he came. It was quite violent. He thrust forward savagely. I expected to feel his hand to pressing against the back of my head, but curiously he never touched me. But the shaft pulsed between my lips and my mouth was filled with thick cum. I shuddered with pleasure at the sensation, but wasn’t close to cumming myself. But that, of course, wasn’t the purpose of this.
When he finished, he didn’t move, and I finally sat back, pulling myself off his still-hard cock. Then I stood up and looked at the man. His eyes were still closed, a slight smile on his lips. He looked, I thought, almost blissful.
This, I thought, is what he wants and needs. It did look kind of like an addict’s euphoria, and that troubled me. But I left him in that state, and went to take a shower; I felt an irrational need to clean myself off, and perhaps to feel the comforting warmth of the water around me.
At one point during my shower I felt I was being watched. I turned around and thought I saw his disappearing leg, but wasn’t sure. I shook my head, trying to dismiss an odd feeling. Had he come into the shower room to take a gander?
If he had, I wasn’t quite sure how to take that.
Chapter 5: More Revelations
The experience didn’t make things easier between us. I felt a little uneasy, like I had prostituted myself—for there hadn’t been a real sense of connection, and he hadn’t given anything back, beyond the usual tablespoonful of seed.
Besides, he now seemed more reserved than ever, though he still continued to stare at me in that odd, fixated way. I almost lost my temper over this, but not quite. Instead I decided to get him a bit drunk in the hopes of finding out what it was all about. People tend to talk about what’s on their mind when inebriated.
* * * *
I discovered him sitting at the table in the kitchen.
“How about a drink?” I suggested. I filled two shot glasses. He took one and lifted it to his lips.
“Wait!” I said. “A toast!”
He blinked. “To what?”
I considered. “To…companionship.”
He was a little discomfited by this, but finally nodded. We tapped glasses.
“To companionship!” we both cried, and downed the vodka.
It burned down my throat, leaving a cold sensation in my mouth as the residue evaporated. I shook myself and laughed.
“That’s better!”
I saw that Matt’s glass was still half full.
“No, no!” I said. “You’re supposed to down it in a single gulp. Didn’t you see me?”
He nodded, looking cautious. I made a “tossing it off” motion. He gave a slight shrug and imitated this. Then he shuddered.
“Better?” I said, grinning.
He shook his head rapidly, eyes closed, and then finally, looked back at me, a slight smile on his lips.
“Good stuff!” I poured us a second glass each. “What to toast to now? You choose.”
He considered, looking at his glass. “I don’t know,” he said, and brought the glass to his lips.
“What about,” I said, hesitating until he was sipping, “to honesty?”
He choked and sprayed vodka over me, spilling what was left in his glass over himself. Rising, he began to apologize.
“Don’t worry!” I said. I went to the bathroom and got a towel. Wiping myself off as I returned, I flung the towel at him. “Here!”
He wiped himself off, while giving me odd looks.
“Sorry!” I told him. “My little joke.”
Finishing with the towel, he regarded me suspiciously. “Joke? About what?”
I shrugged and grimaced. “Well, I just…well, you don’t seem to be very forthcoming.”
He mouthed the last word ruminatively. “But that’s not…” He didn’t finish the statement.
“No,” I agreed. “It isn’t
, but it’s a bit…well…unfriendly?” I suggested.
“Is it? Maybe I’m just a private person.”
“Are you?”
We regarded each other tensely, but neither spoke. I poured us a third drink each.
“Toast?” he said. “You choose.”
I considered. I could think only of one thing right at that moment. “To all things luscious.”
He stared at me, then gave an uneasy giggle. He also turned slightly red. But he didn’t ask questions. Instead, he held his glass out. We clinked, and drank, and I was pleased to see that he did down his in a single gulp this time.
“Good!” I said. “You’re getting it. But you’re also a drink behind me. Here.” I poured him another glass, but he just looked at me, evidently puzzled. “I drank the second refill,” I said. “You spat yours out.” I motioned for him to drink. He regarded me for a little, then tossed off the drink.
“That’s better,” I said. “Now, let’s play a game.”
He smiled at that, and chuckled slightly, so I knew the alcohol was working. “What kind of game?” he said.
“It’s called: ‘Why the fuck did I come up north…the details?’”
He considered this and giggled quietly. I filled both our glasses.
“To what?”
“To…drinking games.”
We drank off our glasses. Then he put his glass down and looked at me.
“Who goes first?”
“My game,” I said. “So…I go first, okay?”
He nodded.
“I came north,” I said, considering my words, “because I wanted to see the scenery.”
Matt stared at me, blinked several times. “You…you’re kidding!”
I shook my head. “Naw. I already told you. I love Arctic paintings, like…Harris, and…McCarthy.”
“Huh.”
I looked at Matt. “So? What ‘bout you?”
He lowered his head at this. “‘s a long story,” he said.
I laughed. “Hey! ‘m not in any hurry.”
He raised his head, seemed to overshoot, and then brought it down so that he was looking straight at me, slightly owlishly. He frowned and rubbed his belly. “What ‘bout—s’mething t’ eat?”
I nodded. “Fair ‘nough. Let’s. Mmm. What?”
Matt and Jens Page 3