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
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,
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
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 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 prospectand 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.
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 stillwould I love
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
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.
my good boy . . . I heard him say as I drifted off to sleep.
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
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 firstname.lastname@example.org.
Have a nice day.
BENT: A Journal of CripGay