J. Douglas George


All my life, I've never been the type to pick someone up.

I've never gone home with a guy I met at a party, or picked up in a bar. I've never been on a blind date. If you want to get technical about it, I've never really even asked anyone out on a date. Oh, don't get me wrong, I'd like to tell you that I've done those things, but the truth is, I never have.

Cruising just isn't my style. OK, let's be honest here . . . I'm among friends, right? As a man with a visible disability, the singles scene doesn't work for me. When I manage to make my way into a bar, everyone there seems to notice my crippled body and immediately removes me from the pool of potential mates. Actually, that's a polite way of putting it. Let's not beat around the bush. Guys generally look right through me while scanning the room for potential dates.

That said, it's no surprise that my dating successes are due to The Conversion. It works like this: I meet someone, we become friends, if the chemistry is there, we may become lovers . . . after many nights spent hanging out and wallowing in the built-up sexual tension. All of the serious relationships in my life are a result of The Conversion. Sure, it's great for the heart, since a lot of rejection is headed off at the pass, but it isn't so great when I count the friends I've lost when the sexual relationship goes awry. It's not that their numbers are great, it's just that the voids they have left are large, and can never be filled by anyone else.

Lately, my romantic life has been uninteresting. One evening, with all my friends out gallivanting, I was home and lonely. I began perusing some online personals. OK, I'll admit it, I'm a big personals junkie. I always read them. I'm never looking to answer any, mind you. I just feel like they make good, sleazy reading. I logged on to an Internet personals site and started reading the ads. I'm not sure why, but I've always had a thing for older guys. Middle-aged men, with their graying hair, wise old eyes and their soft potbellies have always turned me on. I'm sure Freud could have a field day with that, but frankly, I don't give a fuck. I'm past the stage in my life where I wonder why I like what I like. I just chalk it up to a lifetime of dealing with my own non-standard-issue body that makes me appreciate these guys.

I'm not looking for a father. I have one of those. It's just something about middle-aged men, with their weathered faces and road-tested physiques, that gets me going. So what if they don't fit into any of the clothes at Armani Exchange. Sometimes a cashmere sweater looks better in a ball on the floor anyway. If I want a stick figure, I'll draw one. Give me a man with some meat on his bones, and something behind those eyes other than an afternoon of working out at Gold's. Clicking away at the online personals ("Gym toned GWM seeks buff bottom…"), one of the ads made me stop and take notice: "Fifty-ish man, musician, seeks younger…"

Reading the rest of the ad, my head began swimming. I imagined myself curled up on the couch while the ideal man I'd just invented serenaded me. He also made sure that my wine glass stayed full. He would periodically pause his playing, scrunching his face at something that wasn't coming together quite right. Or maybe he'd stop to ask me about books, or tell me a humorous anecdote about something that happened earlier that day, or maybe he'd ask to hear the latest from my in-progress novel. He'd offer small critiques, but mostly just look at me admiringly, eyes crinkling around the edges, and praise my well-honed vocabulary and overall brilliance.

The ad was wordy, a little dorky even. And I loved it. He talked of music and wine and good food. Conversation and cuddling and romance. Amid a sea of "8.5-inch uncut manmeat" and "hot, hungry holes ready for action" I had found an oasis of intellectual calm. Now before you go off thinking I'm a saint, above all the pleasures of the flesh, let me make something clear. I like sex as much as the next guy. In fact, probably more. You might not be able to tell by looking at me, but given the right set of circumstances, I can be a demon in the sack. Still, if you want to really get me all hot and bothered, talk to me. Use words like obsequious and sartorial and mellifluous. Teach me about philosophy, whisper some poetry in my ear (it better not be Walt Whitman. Sure, he was a great poet, but that's like sending red roses on Valentine's day, or taking me to dinner and then a movie).

If you want to impress me, you've got to be creative—
canned-ham Hallmark sentiments aren't gonna do it. Read me Bukowski and Ginsberg and Crane, tell me about the show on the Discovery Channel about the construction of the New York subway, or the dream you had about drinking bourbon with Elton John, dressed in matching white suits and fedoras. These are the ways to get me into bed, not bullshit braggadocio about your eight-and-a-half inches. Besides, what good does 8.5 do if you only last a minute and a half anyway? All that blood is better off feeding your brain. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: big brains win over big dicks every time.

I hit reply . . . and answered my first personals ad. I told him I liked his ad, and that I thought we had a lot of the same things in common. I mentioned that I wasn't looking for a quickie, that I'd rather get to know him and take it from there. I gave him my Instant Messenger nickname, and wished him a good night. I clicked the SEND button, and immediately freaked out.

I had never done anything like this before. Once the panic subsided, all I felt was good. And hopeful. I hadn't ever anticipated answering an ad. I used to think of personals (and the people who used them) as being kind of seedy. Still, the real world has proven to be a disappointment to me in that arena, so what the hell? At least over the Internet, my disability wouldn't be an immediate disqualifier. Still, I had to wonder if disclosure via e-mail would be any better.


A few hours later, my computer dinged. He was sending me a message!

HI! he said
Hi I replied
How are you? He typed
OK, You? I responded
Thanks for answering my ad He Said
Sure I replied

OK, so we didn't get off to a great start, conversationally. What the fuck do you say to someone you've never met, someone you can't even see? After five minutes of awkward chitchat, he asked me what I did for a living. It was then that I knew he was different. He didn't ask about my cock, or if I was top or bottom, or if I wanted to party tonight. He asked me what I did for a living.

We talked about work, and books and what kinds of movies we liked. Half an hour later, he asked for my stats. I gave him the rundown, age, height, weight, body-type, hair color, eye color. At the end, I hesitatingly added "HIV negative." I didn't want to seem like I was hunting for sex. "52/5'10"/165/grey/green/negative," he replied. Then, a pause, and . . . 9"

N I N E I N C H E S ?! My mind reeled at the prospect—and I immediately got a raging hard-on. Are you REALLY 9? I typed Yes. He replied. I reminded him that I wasn't looking for a quickie, and was really more interested in becoming friends first. I know He said. We spent the next two hours chatting, about work, film, food and just about everything except sex. I was very up front about my disability and he said he didn't mind. He told me about a blind friend of his at the university, and about playing the cello. About 1:30 in the morning he wished me sweet dreams and logged off. A perfect gentleman. I went to bed. Happy.

Over the next several days, we spent hours chatting. He told me about his day job, and about playing the cello. We talked about movies, computers, baseball, cooking. I explained my disability to him, and he told me about the partner he broke up with two years ago. We talked about everything. He'd ask me how my day went at work, and told me about his plans for the weekend. It seemed weird, but after a few weeks of these nightly chats, I began to think of him as my friend. We had still never met. We also never talked about sex.

One Saturday afternoon, I got a message from him: Would you like to come over? I typed Sure, hesitating, looking at the word before I hit the send button. It wasn't that I didn't want to meet him. I had spent many nights fantasizing about what our meeting would be like. Invariably in my fantasy he'd be handsome and rugged and gentle; I'd be witty and engaging, and I wouldn't trip on the carpet Then, overcome by passion, he'd throw me down on the couch, lustily unbutton my shirt, kiss my chest and work his way down from there.

I was scared. In the masturbatory fantasies that I'd cooked up, everything was perfect. The lights were low, conversation was deep, the wine was expensive, the sex was endless and explosive. Could real life EVER measure up? When I got to his building, I hesitated, then screwed up my courage and punched his number into the intercom. Hello? He answered. I made it I replied. Good He said. Next thing I know, I'm standing outside his door and I'm knocking. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck . . . fuck. He answered the door and we saw each other for the first time.


Hello He said, ushering me in.

I sat down on the couch, nervous. He sat on another couch, perpendicular. Then, he got up. Can I get you something to drink? He asked. Water, orange juice, some tea? I don't drink alcohol, so I can't offer you anything harder. Well, so much for that bottomless wineglass fantasy, I thought. Feeling the chalky dry-mouth brought on by the worst case of nerves I've ever had, I asked for a glass of water. He returned from the kitchen, carrying two glasses of water. He fastidiously set each on a coaster atop the small wooden table next to the sofa. Having rarely used a coaster in my life, I giggled at his fussiness. It seemed oddly . . . cute.

We sat talking for the next two-and-a-half hours. The conversation was decidedly non-sexual and he kept a gentlemanly distance over on his couch. Once, as we simultaneously reached for our water glasses, our hands brushed against one another. He blushed, and seemed genuinely embarrassed. Still, as it became clearer that we enjoyed one another's company, I began to get antsy about what else we might enjoy together.

His voice was low and scratchy and mesmerizing. I also couldn't help but steal glances at the bulge in his black corduroy trousers. Once, he caught me scamming on the package and gave me a little wink. Finally, I crossed the line. I asked him why he liked younger men. He looked at me and asked why I liked older ones. We both laughed and called it a draw. He asked me if I felt comfortable and if I wanted to sit next to him. It was an awkward gesture and it made me laugh. It seemed so . . . so . . . third grade. I sat down next to him. He put his arm around me for an instant, then immediately retracted it. Don't laugh at me He said It's been a long time since I've done this. Then he smiled, and I melted.

He tentatively put his arm around me again. I shifted slightly, moving infinitesimally closer to him as a sign of approval. He leaned his head on my shoulder and we sat like that for several minutes, silent, listening to each other breathe. I turned toward him, and placed my hand on his chest. He seemed to like that, and pulled me a little closer. I slowly ran my hand over his firm chest. I moved down, and rested my hand on his belly, over his navel. I felt the muscles in his stomach tighten as he tried to suck in his small gut. Relax I said. I began rubbing his belly and he started to stroke the back of my neck with the hand that had been resting on my shoulder. He relaxed. I relaxed.

Then, I reached under his red T-shirt, and ran my hands through the thick hair on his chest. His breathing became a little more pronounced, and as I rubbed his chest, his nipples stiffened. I asked him to take off the shirt, which he did. He unbuttoned my shirt, slowly, staring me in the eye all the while. When he got to the last button, which was over my lap, he gave my cock a squeeze through my jeans. He slipped the shirt off, and in doing so, ran his large hands slowly down the length of my arms. He leaned over and kissed me lightly, right in the center of my chest. Slowly, he worked his way down, kissing my chest, sliding off the couch and onto the floor as he got lower and lower. He kneeled on the floor in front of me and pulled me forward to the edge of the couch. He leaned down and kissed my belly while he started unbuckling my belt. As soon as I heard the clink of the belt-buckle, the fabric-metal pop as he unbuttoned my jeans, I got rock hard. He eased his hands into the waistband of my jeans and squeezed my ass. In one smooth, slow move, he pulled my jeans and underwear down to my ankles.

As he did this, he continued staring me in the eye. Are you OK? He asked. Yes I replied. He placed his hands on my knees, and spread my legs apart a bit. He looked up at me again, smiled, and leaning forward, took my dick into his mouth. He continued staring up at me, looking at once vulnerable and powerful. He held the head of my cock there for a moment, looking up at me with those green eyes. Then, he wrapped his left hand around the base of my dick and began slowly bobbing forward and back, teasing the head with his tongue. My instinct was to throw my head back and relax, but instead I watched him. As he settled into a slow rhythm he tilted his head to the right a bit, with an idyllic expression on his face, eyes closed. It was hard to tell, but it looked like he was smiling.

He opened his eyes again, and stared me down. As he sucked and licked and stroked me, he continued to look me dead in the eye. He quickly established himself in my book as a compassionate lover; as he played with my cock, he found what I liked and returned to those spots repeatedly. Stamina has long been one of my best assets, something that more than a few partners have expressed their appreciation of. As Philip knelt there before me, however, my stamina was beaten into submission by his superior talents. After only a few minutes, I felt myself getting dangerously close to climax. I was close enough that I knew if I relaxed a bit more, I could let him take control of my body, and just enjoy the orgasm. The thought of this delicious pleasure that I was being treated to coming to an end was the only thing that kept me from grabbing him by the back of the head and pumping deep into his throat.

He stopped. He got up and sat down next to me, pulling my head down on to his bare, hairy chest. I was breathing heavily. Shhhhh . . . He whispered, as he stroked my hair. Relax, I'll take care of you. He stood again, and gently set my head down on the couch. I leaned forward a bit, and began to open my eyes, to see what he was doing. He was looking down at me, straight in the eyes. No He said. Lie back, close your eyes, relax . . .I felt him untying my shoes, and slipping them off slowly. He pulled off my socks, and then gingerly picked up each of my feet and pulled my legs out of my jeans. I was utterly naked, the ecstasy of sex still coursing through my veins, my energy level almost totally sapped. He fiddled around for a few minutes, then I felt him sit back down. I opened my eyes and saw that he had taken my clothes and folded them, placing them in a neat pile on the armchair across the room. He put his head on my shoulder.

Again, I tried to move. No . . . he cooed, Just lie back, and let Daddy take care of you. I turned and looked him in the eyes, his face a few inches from mine. We stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. Are you OK? He asked. Uh, yeah, I just never . . . is that why you like younger guys. You like to play Daddy? Does that scare you? He asked. No…I trust you. I, uhhh, it's just new to me, I replied. I told him that I had never gotten into any sort of role-playing before. I also told him that I was afraid I would laugh, cynic that I am, and ruin his fantasy. He explained to me that his Daddy fantasies were only part of the reason that he was attracted to me, and that I didn't have to play if I didn't want to. He asked if I would mind if he got more aggressive (I didn't mind) and assured me that we could stop at any time. I stared at him, for a long time. He sat there quietly, while I stared him down.

On one hand, I was intrigued, but on the other hand, I was sure I would fuck the whole thing up. I've never been much of an actor, and just the thought of calling someone "Daddy" made me want to laugh. A small part of me was scared, too. Not of him, but of the unknown. I'd never done anything like this before. Would I hate it, or scarier still—would I love it?

He just sat there, holding my hand, rubbing my palm with his thumb as I processed all of this. After several minutes, I turned to him. OK I said. Good He said, shoving me back down on the couch. Then, be a good boy, and keep your mouth shut until Daddy tells you to open it. He said those words, and something in my brain clicked. The endorphins started to rush, I felt flushed and tingly, and Daddy returned his attentions to my cock. He had found my breaking point and was careful to make sure that I didn't come. Over the next hour, he repeatedly brought me to the verge of orgasm, then backed down. After a few repetitions of this, I heard myself crying out, begging him to let me come, make me come. I've never begged anyone for anything, sex included, yet here I was, begging, whimpering, pleading with this man to bring me to orgasm. Through his actions, he staunchly refused. And I was loving it.

He stood up, and stared me up and down. He reached out both hands. I grabbed them, and he pulled me to a standing position, wrapping both arms around me, clutching me to his chest. I wobbled on legs that weren't yet fit to stand on.

Can you stand up? He whispered.
Ugghh . . . I gurgled.

Good, then get down there like a good boy and help Daddy out of these clothes
He said, gently lowering me to the floor.

I untied his shoes and took off his socks. Looking up, I saw him looking down at me, beaming. I rose to my knees, and reached my hands up toward his belt. That's it . . . He cooed, running his hands through my hair, and resting them on my shoulders. I unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. Stepping out of the pants, he stood there above me in plaid flannel boxers. I hesitated for a moment, then I pulled the shorts down, exposing his half-hard penis.

Nine inches indeed. It was huge, frighteningly so. I reached to grab it, and he grabbed me by the wrist. No. He said. Do you want to suck Daddy's cock? I nodded, slightly. Do you want to suck Daddy's cock? He repeated. Again, I nodded, with a little more conviction this time. Do? You? Want? To? Suck? Daddy's? cock? He asked, enunciating each word slowly and distinctly. Yes, Daddy I whispered, feeling very small and timid.

He grabbed his dick, held it right in front of my face, and slapped it against my cheek. Something I did must have told him I liked that, because he did it several more times, each time a little harder than the last. I could feel him getting harder with every slap. I opened my mouth to say something, and he stuffed his dick into my throat. I gagged as the head of his cock hit the back of my throat. He grabbed me by the hair, and forced me to swallow more. Relax He said. Daddy's a big boy, I'll teach you how to take it all. Just relax, breathe, and trust your Daddy.

He pulled himself out, and lay down on the floor. I lay down next to him. He put his arm under my neck and with his other hand began stroking my cock. Slowly at first, but he worked his way up to a furious pace. I was writhing on the floor, panting, moaning, and begging Daddy to let me come. Again, he stopped just short of my orgasm. He slowed down for a few minutes, then speeded up again. You want to come? He asked, breathing heavily through gritted teeth. Yes, please Daddy I pleaded. He leaned over and licked my ear. Then come for Daddy He growled into my ear. And I did. I came with a scream. With enough force that a gob of semen landed with a wet smack on my Daddy's chin.

That's my good boy . . . I heard him say as I drifted off to sleep.


I woke up maybe half an hour later.

Somehow, a pillow had ended up under my head, and a large blanket was covering me. I put on my boxers and followed the noises I heard to the kitchen. Philip stood at the stove, laboring over what looked like homemade spaghetti sauce. He turned, and smiled at me. I hope you're hungry He said. We ate at the small table in his kitchen, mostly silently. How was that? He asked. Amazing I replied. I finished my pasta, and started to get up to put my plate in the sink. No Philip said, putting down his fork. He picked up my plate, took it to the sink, and sat back down across from me. He picked up his fork, and resumed eating. Are you up for more? He asked. Would you like me to be? I replied. Yes. We spent the rest of that night playing together.

As things progressed, we both got more involved in our roles. He became aggressive, and I let go of more control. It was amazing. He was gentle and demanding, rough and sweet all at once. And not once did I feel unsafe. He was right, all I had to do was relax, and trust my Daddy. He took care of me, and no matter what, put my pleasure ahead of his own.

We got together several more times after that first meeting. Sometimes, we'd just walk down to the diner on the corner and have omelets and pancakes for dinner. We'd talk about work and life, then we'd part ways with a friendly kiss on the cheek. Other times, we'd skip the meal all together and stay inside. Either way, he took care of me. I'd like to think I took care of him, too. I never expected that I would be able to get into the role-playing games we played, much less learn to enjoy it, relish it, but I began to look forward to the time we spent together. When I was with my Daddy, all I wanted was to be a good Boy.

Friends of mine asked if he made me call him Daddy, and I explained that no one made me do anything. He was Daddy because I wanted him to be. The experience was not demeaning or demoralizing. Far from it. Philip taught me how good it feels to be taken care of, and that being powerful isn't always about being in control. This is a lesson I was glad to learn, something that I think will serve me well outside of the bedroom as well.

He also taught me a few other things, but those, Dear Reader, are another story.

©2001 J. Douglas George


J. Douglas George is a disabled writer living in California. Love letters and hate mail can be sent to Have a nice day.




BENT: A Journal of CripGay Voices/March 2001