Hardwood

I dance. 

I have danced to country-western music since I was a kid. I learned first when my mom and dad took lessons; I remember them coming home from classes when I was probably seven, Dad in a pearl-snap shirt and Mom with her hair bouffed up pretty. Mom taught me what they learned, twirling around the living room carpet. Yeah, big surprise: I'm gay. 

I learned all over again, when I was in high school - before the first real boy-girl dance, when we would be allowed to dance touching friends and strangers (but only boys touching girls, of course, this was a very conservative suburb north of Houston, Texas... and, pretty much only white-boys-touching-white-girls, brown-boys-touching-brown-girls. There weren't many people with any kind of melanin in our school, and they were very strongly separated. Weird-like-me kids ended up most of the time in the bucket with the miscellaneous.) I couldn't, like, JAM dance like the cool kids... I couldn't just let go and flow with music and shake my groove thing... but I learned that I could do a pretty decent job with practiced, rhythmic, "real" dancing. Two-step. Waltz. Jitterbug. Even the weird ones like Schottische and Cotton Eyed Joe. I had a little cadre of friends who went to a class, and we learned to do things like jitterbug flips. It was awesome. Death drops. Flip kicks. We were FANCY. I mean... people have bought me drinks. I get on other people's cell phone videos. I'm not trying to say I think I'm the best on the floor - I'm probably in the top ten these days, but some songs, I'm putting on the main show at the RoundUp for at least some of the audience. 

And I love the fact that... the RoundUp is the BEST bar in the world for the dancing that I do. There is no universe in which I'm among the best country-Western dancing dudes. I've seen them. I respect both their artistry and their athleticism. They come to the RoundUp sometimes; I know some of them. BUT. The thing is... some of the time, like for the couple who was there from Minnesota tonight, and thought this was the most awesome thing they've ever seen, and OMG, their friends won't believe it when they see their Facebook post... I was the hot cowboy dancer who did all those spins, and then talked to them. I was the best dancer on the stage, for them, for that night. I was playing the role of Platonic Cowboy. My joy in my dancing, and the beauty of my partner as he whipped around through pivot-spins like his feet had ball bearings, was so contagious, the one guy kept putting his hand on his open mouth. And I would pull up in front of them and show shit off, because it's just fun to do tricks for an appreciative audience. And, I need to remember that I need to nourish the Dancer, as well as the Horny Stoner, the Writer, the Teacher, and all the rest of the crew in my head. There is a combination of two, actually... there's the Dancer, who feels the rhythm in his body and moves to the music, and there's the Showman, who lives in the moment of displaying art and creation for others, who eats adulation and revels in applause. 

Then, when I got to college, I started doing Renaissance and Medieval dance, then Folk dance, then some classes in Ballroom... I never went hard-core into any of them in particular, but I was part of a small ensemble that danced for events in Renaissance costume, and I had a regular partner, and dance was a big part of my life. I started going out to the gay bars as soon as it was legal; even before I could go inside, I would stroll down the Houston gayborhood streets after going to Renaissance dance practice, my doublet and hose and hat with its tall feather and my partner in her long swishing skirts, looking like refugees from a Shakespeare play. The guys coming in and out of the gay bars would gawk at us, and I would gawk back - their costumes of leather harnesses, cowboy hats, boots, tight jeans, whatever costume fitted each bar we walked by, fascinated and terrified me. We promenaded like we were in the Ren Faire parade; "Any lady on the left; isn't a lady" - my right hand held up, palm downward, so that her left lay atop it like a resting butterfly, practically making courtesies to the crowd as we walked. Then, once I turned 21, she and I would go out and dance the nights away at the Brazos River Bottom, whirling and whipping and twisting and stomping until we were both lathered in sweat. She could Death Drop; she could Flip Kick. She could paddle-spin until her circle skirts, which she sewed herself just for dancing, flew out like a saw-blade, clearing a swath through the dance floor as I ruffled it with my hands. I learned to pack a spare shirt, so that I could change halfway through; they were both crusty with salt stains by morning. I danced a LOT. Usually three nights a week. 

So, dancing, and in particular the culture of gay two-step bars, informs a lot of my sex life. There's a difference in the way guys flirt and cruise in these places; it is both more frankly physical, and more mannered and polite, than a more cruisy bar like the Eagle. You can dance, and have an intensely sexual dance, with a partner - and the song ends, you break, go your own way, adjusting your hard cock in your jeans sometimes, and you're not expected to follow through. You asked for a dance; you got a dance. Now, of course, you can certainly negotiate more... but there is this delicious respect for enjoying a hot sexy dance for its own sake, that I love. There's also an entire culture of the guys who dance; the way you watch a dancer to see not only how he dances, but whether he leads, follows, or does both; whether he dances with multiple guys; whether he does different speeds of dance. Just like a guy will give the "gay glance," when he sees a hot stranger, scanning up and down to see if his intended target is cute and well hung and fit... I'm usually looking for brains and boots. Does he have rhythm, and enough brains to count to four? Is he properly equipped to dance? These days, a lot of the dance regulars forego the boots, which makes it more confusing, but still, you can tell who's here to dance and who's here to fuck around. I'm looking at the way a guy stands. The way he balances. Whether he moves parts of his body with the music. If he nods his head or mouths the lyrics to the music. If his feet tap, or his hips twitch. In short, I'm watching to see if he's dancing while he's standing still. Most dancers do. 

I was excited when I heard Eli has been taking dance lessons. He's a hottie. He's got this aw-gee-shucks sexy energy that I've always enjoyed; he packs a gun, he drives a truck, and he's got a hot furry muscular body covered in slightly silvering blond curls. We have some unrequited sexual tension. That is, I've wanted to fuck him, and he's wanted me to fuck him, but it hasn't been the right thing to do yet, and we're both smart nice guys, and we haven't done the wrong thing. I haven't really sought him out, in terms of planning to meet him out some specific night, but when I run into him on the side of the dance floor when I walk in, I'm glad to see him. I tell him I've read his Facebook post about going to class, and I ask him if he wants to dance to the song that's starting; it's a little quick, though, and so we wait for a slower one. Then, we recalibrate a little... because I thought he was on his fifth or sixth night of classes, and he has just done the first - and I start working through basics. Hold me here. Press your arm like this; see, feel how this balances you? It gives me control of your center of balance. Remember, the hula hoop is round; I'm going to try to crush it, you try to stop me. Lead starts on his left foot; follow starts on his right foot. I should be able to make an empty place in the dance, into which you pretty much can't do anything BUT to fall... like, I should draw you into the place I want you to be. The music is in four; the dance is in six. You can do the dance in three. You use either three quarters of a measure, or a measure and a half. I'm tapping him on the shoulders; I'm pressing his hips with my hands, I'm shoving his feet around with the toes of my boots. I've learned over the years to communicate a huge amount of dance information to somebody new... it doesn't all stick, but the thing is, the second or the third time, you remember the first time. When I make the hula hoop round again, you remember. When I tap your shoulder on one side, your hip on the other, to remind you which foot is the one we're stepping on now... you feel that, and you lean into it. When I call your right, left, right-left, doing it backward from what my own feet are doing because it's natural enough for me that I don't even think about the fact that I'm switching any more... you remember what I told you, and you say it aloud because that helps, and you get to the point where you feel it in your chest and your hips and your shoulders and your soul. We dance another slow one... and the improvements are dramatic, the changes in balance, the responsiveness of his stance. I take him through half-timing a song... stepping through it in slow-motion, so that each step takes two beats to land. It's excruciating to do, musically... until you add the hips. And then it becomes this remarkably sexy slow grind, controlled by the underlying two-step. He says, "Oh, my God, I'm not sure where to put my hands." I tell him, he can put them wherever he wants. He leaves his left on my shoulder, but kind of curls his right toward his chest, as I'm running my left down his chest and rocking my right thigh against his cock. I don't remember the piece of music - honestly, my full attention was pretty well occupied - but it's something appropriately sticky and slow, and I work it across the entirety of the dance floor until the song ends. And I explain to Eli the way I enjoy the culture of country-western dance, and how hot I find it to be able to have this hot moment... and then go back to our friends and our drinks and then maybe dance with another hot cowboy for the next one. Or maybe something fast.

And I do.  I go back and forth - dancing these awesome belt-buckle polishers [NOTE: This is a thing, y'all. They call these slow, rock-and-grind songs "belt-buckle polishers." When older straight people, or lazy gay people, dance to them, it's kind of a gently rocking-back-and-forth hug. When hot, horny guys do it, or young sexy straight people, it's kind of like stropping your genitalia on your partner while fully clothed. It's dance floor frottage. If you do it right, it can be both erotic and aesthetic.] with Eli, and dancing fast whipping-around-the-floor dances with other partners. In between, I'm drinking neat Jameson, taking the occasional vape hit, chugging soda to keep hydrated... and making Eli's life an over-stimulated erotic hot mess. I bite his neck. Quite hard. I chew on his earlobe. I whisper into his ear, nipping it with my teeth occasionally, and explain how much I enjoyed feeling the muscles of his firm meaty ass shifting under my hands as he danced. How it made my cock hard. I take his hand, and show him just how hard. And then... I go dance another dance with a friend I haven't seen in a while, a beautiful stud I used to mop the floor with on the regular. 

This goes on, back and forth, for a couple of hours. I pull up the sleeve of my shirt, so that Eli can smell how my pits are just the right amount of rank - I showered this morning, but no deodorant, and a four mile walk in the sun at lunch, and then a shower before dancing, BUT no soap or water under my arms, so they'll be just perfectly spicy... then I take a little bit of that on my fingertips and massage it into his nostrils and his nasal cartilage. He moans. We make out, and I put my fingers into his mouth, pressing down on the back of his tongue to make him gag. I pass the breath back and forth between us until he's light headed... And then I go dance some more. It's exquisite torture for both of us. I go out on the patio for some more vape, and let him know that he should join me... and I reach into my pants, dig under the foreskin of my dick which ALSO got no soap or water in this afternoon's shower after the four mile walk... and I rub some of THAT in his nostrils. That poor boy. We go back in and hang out with his friends. He's got all these jocky hot friends, and they are taking pictures and doing shots; one of them is a dance instructor, and he praises my dancing, and asks me to dance with this cute-as-a-button girl who's with them, and after grinding on Eli for a while... I do. One of the hot friends buys Eli and me both shots, and we all make out some, which is SUPER hot, and then the music shifts.

Once the music turns from country-western to what I think of as thump-thump club music, the kind that vibrates my chest with the bass, I'm usually pretty much done and ready for the Eagle. I tell Eli, and I'm hoping that he'll meet me there. I make it as clear as possible... that the RoundUp is just not the kind of place where I feel comfortable getting my dick sucked in the bathroom (I mean... it's happened, but I wasn't, like, fully AT EASE - thank you Beau!) but the Eagle is. I pay my tab, make my goodbyes, and head out. 

I get to the Eagle, park, leave my shirt in the car, and go inside in my harness. There's a bottle of poppers hanging on a lanyard centered in the ring in the middle; I'm in a mood. I walk a lap around; I check to see who all is here that I recognize. I hug a couple of guys I know. I have some THC, although I'm done drinking for the night. I keep circulating through the bar, every few minutes prairie-dogging my head up to look and see if Eli's showed up. I don't want to have him decide that I'm busy snogging some rando and I'm ignoring him, but, at the same time... you know, randos need snogging. So I make out with a couple of different guys; I shotgun poppers with one guy, I stroke one guy's cock through his thin, thin shorts. Then, I run into a hot bear that I'd met at the Memorial Day party, on the patio. We talk a little, and we make out a little, and I stroke his cock through his undies a little. We talk about what we like... he says that pretty much what he likes is cocksuckers, and getting his cock sucked. I tell him, you know... I think I can help you with that. I'm a cocksucker; I like sucking cocks. I stand and make out with him for a while longer, stroking him through his shorts; then, we head to the restroom.

We get an empty stall. I'm a little nervous. It's a first for me. I have never had a sense that I'm better than a restroom cocksucker... I've LOVED getting my dick sucked in this exact same tiny space - the thing is, I've never felt that brave. Bottoms take a big risk. There's this dual-layered danger; you're both submitting to somebody you don't know at all in a very intimate way, and you're doing it in a very unsafe, insecure place. It's scary. I'm used to being on the other side, leading a bottom through this twisty emotional maze, helping him navigate that series of stressors. Helping him feel the stress - because feeling it, is part of why we do it. It's a thrill. But being the cocksucker, feels totally different. I'm turned on, but the thrill is totally different. 

I turn him around so that he's standing astride the toilet; I kneel in front of him and begin to play with his thick uncut cock. I'll let the video tell the rest; it's pretty self-explanatory. For once, I'm not constantly talking. My Husband would tell you this is an immense improvement. 

And then... there's glorious, golden Ian. This beautiful man - I've seen him at parties, at bars and events, for a few years. He's a classic, red-bearded, carrot-top ginger, with the kind of skin that shades to blue around the contours, and his body hair is all coppery golden curls that look like electricity is running through very fine wires. Piercing blue eyes, a handsome face, an epic Dwarven beard, a sexy, muscular body, several tattoos... I've always felt like I somehow failed to get his attention. Somehow tonight, though, we connect. We're standing in line at the bar, or actually I'm just standing here to talk with him, and he's wearing basically underwear (they have a clothes check), but I'm just feeling friendly and I don't want to push his limits, so I'm gently stroking his beard, his chest, his shoulders. I lean forward, and kiss him, and stroke his belly. We keep talking; just general small talk, I don't even remember the subject - but what it is, is a pathway, a road we can walk together to a place where we are comfortable. And we talk, and we kiss a little, and he says, "You can go lower," and I do. The thin underwear feels erotic in itself, and I run my fingers across it and play with the texture as I kiss him and nuzzle his mighty beard. The talk goes deeper - we're delving into experiences with psychedelics, his moly and DMT, my psilocybin.  After a while of this he says, "Come here," like he's just had an idea... and leads me into the same bathroom. Ah, deja-booty call!

We have to wait for a minute for a stall to open, and when it does, it's... another two guys coming out. We catch their eyes and all kind of laugh and shrug. It takes one to know one. It's a fun night, and there's no sense of shame or embarassment. We step in, and I kneel down and start going to town on his cock. I swallow. I press it against the roof of my mouth with my tongue; I rub my tongue from side to side, rolling it against my palate. I hum. I moan; I suck, and suck, and suck. I bob up and down, I twist my head sideways and rock it back and forth. I've been telling him about all the fun things I've been learning; now, I show him. We do some poppers together, and I suck some more. Then, someone knocks on the doors, one stall after the other, down the row... yeah, OK,  it's time to get out, move on, come on guys... ROTATE... and I stand up... and FUCK ME, but he kneels down. He takes my dick, and starts doing all the things I've just been doing. I laugh, and say, "Hey... we just DID rotate out... but hey, we probably need to zip up and get out of here." And then we do that. There's a crowd waiting for the stalls - I can't tell if they're waiting to piss, or waiting to suck a dick, or both. Or maybe one and then the other. It's a very flexible kind of crowd. He says, "Hey... you wanna go to my car?" "Um... sure?" and we do. He's got a nice, comfortable four-door hatch-back car; like mine and my Husband's, it looks like the rear seats will fold down so you can haul shit... and he steps in on the driver's side of the back seat. I get in on the passenger's side of the back seat. It's kind of crazy - I feel like a fucking kid, but at the same time, the cabin lights are on, and there are a few guys in the parking lot, and I'm not comfortable if we're gonna have a literal lit up spotlight audience on illegal lewd behavior. "I was in a dark car in a corner of a dark parking lot" is one thing; "The whole car was lit up and every detail was visible" is another. But the lights go off... and we return to making out. And then to sucking dick. 

He leans across and takes me to the root in his throat, and just holds me there. I have him by the skull, and as he starts to wiggle a little with the air hunger, I tell him how much I like that part - not just the submission, but the changes it makes in the guy's chemistry, and how that changes his mood and affect. He pulls off, gasping, and I do it again, and again. I put three fingers in his throat, and hold until he is writhing on my hand, then I let go and kiss him. I push him back against the seat and suck his dick, sharing a hit of poppers with him, sucking and swallowing his cock repeatedly, my face nuzzling his fiery pubes, my tongue rubbing his balls as the slobber drips down his taint and I rub it around his nutsack with my fingers. 

I sit up, and I have another turn being king. I take a big hit of poppers, and shove him all the way down onto my cock, and tell him about how poppers make me hallucinate, both visually and physically... I have a visual of something like writhing chrysanthemum blossoms exploding in front of my closed eyelids, and physically, right now I feel like the surface of my body is rippling, like a puddle of very viscous oily liquid, into which a heavy stone has been dropped... like there's this ripple going across my body centered on the connection of your throat to my cock, because your throat is spasming in this rippling motion on my cockhead, and it's making my whole body ripple out from it. 

And I tell him that one thing I've learned to do as a man of a certain age - I don't always chase orgasms. I chase peak experiences. I chase joy. I prioritize pleasure. I HAVE AN AWESOME TIME. And the thing is... if I don't get off - and tonight, I don't get off - I still, have had an awesome time. Several times. Also, sometimes for me, the choice of alcohol and/or poppers means that orgasm may be very difficult to achieve, and erections may be unreliable. And those are choices I still choose because I enjoy them in the overall balance. But this is your fair warning that the part you're hoping for (and yeah; I was hoping, too) where we both erupt in a shower of spooge, doesn't happen. 

We stroke each other's cocks, and he's stroking my foreskin back and forth over the head of my cock, and he says, "I used one of those foreskin restoration things," and goes on to tell me how he restored his foreskin using a tugging device. I say, "I did too. I wasn't actually cut when I was born... but I wasn't cut, because my foreskin was naturally really short. I stretched it and made it grow because I wanted it bigger." And so then we sit and play with each other's foreskins and talk about foreskin and how they smell and how it feels, and how different it was... because BOTH of us were grown men, before we knew what it was like to have a covered glans. How it changed our sex lives for the better. I didn't have enough skin to cover the glans before I stretched it; soft, it looked kind of like an acorn. Now... anteater. The skin stays moist, and so it's more sensitive; it's like letting the inside of your eyelid dry out. Imagine that sensation when it's really cold and windy, and you've had dry eyes all day, and they're itchy and burning because the wind has evaporated all the moisture, and you rub them and they just feel irritated and sore... now, do that every SINGLE day until you don't notice the pain any more, and it's just part of how you feel on a daily basis because your nerves just stop trying to tell you about the problem. That's circumcision. 

It gets to be two o'clock; the bar is emptying out. We pull up our respective pants, and talk for a bit more, and then go our separate ways. When he gets home, he sends me a couple of pictures of his soft, re-foreskinned cock, and one of his beautifully ginger-furred butthole, just as a bonus, and a bit of a tease. Yum. Thank you. And he says I can use them here, so y'all get to perv on them too. That's a dick with a restored foreskin. 

I love the seatbelt. This is in his car, naked. 

And, because I know some of y'all will be curious, and I'm also kind of dying to show you... this is how the tugger thing works. The website where I got it, TLC Tugger, is down now; I hope it comes back.