Friday, November 4, 2016

The Boy at the Urinal with the Kovbasa++++

Plains, November 2016

The restroom around the corner from my office is very small: two sinks, two urinals, then on the other side of a wall, another urinal and a stall.  Most guys choose the nearer urinals, but I always go to the back one, because there is more privacy.

So I assume if there's no one at the front urinals, the restroom is empty.

But one morning a couple of days after returning from Iceland, I rushed in, having to go badly, and as I rushed past the wall to the far urinal, I came face to face with the biggest penis I have ever seen.

Gigantic!  A Monster! Easily six inches soft, thick around, with a huge head.  

I was so surprised that I backed off immediately, without even seeing who it belonged to, except for a vague image: slim, medium height, dark shirt, light colored backpack.

I rushed to one of the front urinals, unzipped, and started urinating, planning to turn around when I was finished and see Monster Cock as he washed his hands.    I had to know who belonged to such an enormous Kovbasa++++++. What did he look like?  Who did he hang out with?  Was he gay or straight, or his own thing, Priapus, the God of the Penis?

But...Monster Cock bypassed the sink and walked right out the door before I had a chance to look over!

I struggled to finish and zip up, and rushed out of the restroom after him.  Five seconds had passed -- he couldn't have gotten far.

No one walking away to the left.  No one but a girl to the right.  No offices for him to duck into.  Where could he have gone?

There's a lecture hall door next to the restroom.  It leads to a stage that the faculty use, so students don't usually go in that way.  But...maybe Monster Cock did? Maybe he was a professor?

I ducked in and looked.  A class was about to start.  The professor, a woman, was turning on a Powerpoint slideshow.

He wouldn't have gone through the stage door to get to a back row -- he must be in the front.

Everyone in the first three rows was already sitting down except for one guy, still taking his laptop out of his backpack.  Not slim, actually tall and a little chunky, with a round face, dark button-down shirt, jeans.  Not especially striking, but....he must be Monster Cock!

The professor stared at me quizzically.  I had to duck out.

A check of the class schedule: It was Introduction to Psychology, a 100-level course with 120 students enrolled.  I'd never find him in the huge online course roster.  Would I?

I did!  I got his name: Brandon M___.

Next I looked on Facebook -- he was there, a friend of Todd, the nephew of my First Time, who I hooked up with last month.

Otherwise his profile was not promising.  First year student from a small town about 20 miles away.  Nondescript  interests, nondescript photos of him and his mom, dad, and brothers.  Fishing, standing in front of a car, winning some kind of prize in grade school, going to something called a Geode Fest in Nauvoo, Illinois.

Only one shirtless pic: him and a friend with girls on either side of them (he's the one on the left, not the cute one).  Must be straight.

But -- what the heck, I had already done a lot of research.  It wouldn't hurt to send Monster Cock a friend request.

To my surprise, he responded within an hour:  "Hi!  I've seen you around campus.  How do you know Todd?"

We discussed Todd briefly -- they weren't actually friends -- then my classes and Monster Cock's major.  He had declared nursing, but he might switch to psychology, or maybe geology.

"My friend Yuri is a geologist!" I told him. (Ok, atmospheric scientist, close.)  "I just got back from Iceland, where we went on a geologic expedition together." (Ok, we looked at the aurora borealis, close.)

"Wow, did you find any Heulandite?  It's very rare, mostly found in eastern Iceland, but I bought a specimen at the Dakota Rock Shop in the Black Hills."

 Maybe I should fix him up with Yuri.  "No, no Heulandit, but I'd love to take a look at your sample."

Your sample!  Nudge nudge, wink wink.

The next night we met at the gay-friendly coffee house to discuss Heulandite and Icelandic geology.  The conversation wasn't terribly interesting, but I was determined to see Monster Cock naked, and I have thirty years of experience in some of the biggest cruising capitals of the world.

I gave him my best stuff, teasing and withdrawing, accidentally showing him shirtless photos amid the photos of Iceland on my phone, posing my knee so he was sure to accidentally brush against it, throwing just the right amount of flattery, hiding tantalizing hints amid the mundane details of a sentence, flashing a sultry gaze so briefly that he thought he was imagining it.

The poor kid didn't have a chance.  He kept getting aroused, hiding it, softening, then getting aroused again.  By the time we finished our Ethiopian coffees and blueberry scones, he was all but begging me to take him up the hill to see my Gay Pride Geode, and whatever else I wanted to show him.

The moment we got into the apartment, Monster Cock grabbed and kissed me, tore off my sweater and felt down my pants.  I began groping his...

Um....

His small penis...

I didn't have time to think about it.  In an instant, we were in the bedroom, and Monster Cock was on top of me, kissing, licking, and  fondling everything he could reach, then going down on me with lighting-fast strokes.

I turned him over onto his back and entered between his legs while we were kissing.  The pressure of my penis against him made him finish almost immediately.  Then I mounted his mouth.  He gagged a little, but managed to take it all.

When I finished, we collapsed onto the bed.

"Whoa, that was intense!" Monster Cock exclaimed.

We both covered with sweat and other fluids.  I got a wet washcloth to wipe off with, and finally managed to get a good fondle of his penis.

Average size at best.


"Ready for more?" Brandon M___ asked.

"I'm always ready for more."  I scooted between his legs and went down on him.  He started to harden immediately.

Ok, he wasn't the Monster Cock from the urinal, but what's the difference?

A penis is a penis, no matter how small.

See also: A Hookup with the Nephew of My First Time










Thursday, November 3, 2016

How Many Sex Partners Should You Have?

I've never understood people who brag "I've had only five sexual partners my whole life," or "I've only had two," or even "I've only had one."  And everyone congratulates them, as if they've accomplished something magnificent.

Why is depriving yourself of beauty a good thing?

Should you also brag that you've only seen two movies in your whole life, or only five paintings?   Is never crossing the Pont Royal from the Tuilieres Garden to the Musee d'Orsay something to brag about?

But when you say you've had 50 partners, or 100, they sternly disapprove.  You're a sexual compulsive.  You have no self control.  You're a slut!

Does seeing 50 movies in a year mean that you're a movie compulsive?  Does having an ice cream sundae or a pizza once a month, 700 during your lifetime, mean that you have no self control?






I think this fear of multiple partners comes from the 19th century notion that sexual behavior is inherently dangerous, apt to lead to physical and mental deterioration and even death, so you have to be very careful, treat every partner as if he's your last.

Or from the 20th century notion that sexual behavior is an infinitely transforming experience, to be shared only with the One, the person with whom you have a permanent, lifelong romantic commitment.

Nonsense.

Sexual behavior means experiencing the beauty of another person's face, physique, and sex organs. Certainly you should do it with people you care about, but why limit it to them?  Why not experience as much beauty as you can in life?

Ok, you're thinking, but what about the risks?

When you interact with strangers, there's always a risk of theft or assault, but if you do a screening interview, have a friend on call, and keep him in your sight at all times, the victimization risk is minimal.

And if you inspect his penis before oral and insist that he wraps it before anal, the health risk is minimal.

And remember what you have to gain:

A universe of men, 18 year olds and 80 year olds, tall and short, masculine and feminine, chubby, muscular, skinny, hairy and smooth, Kielbasas and pencil nubs, facial hair, tattoos, different colors of hair and skin, different races, ethnic groups, religions, languages, an infinite variety to see, feel, touch, and taste.

 But how many partners is optimal?  How many guys should you shoot for during your lifetime?



If you come out at age 20, and are sexually active until age 80, you will have 22,630 sexually active days, or 3224 weeks, or 744 months.

One a day:  Impossible!  It takes at least an hour, maybe two, to find someone who is attractive and interested in you, another hour for the introductory interview, and a third for the sexual activity.  No one has time for that every day, with work, gym, meals, social events, and other leisure pursuits.

Besides, unless you have a large circle of friends who are constantly getting new boyfriends to "share," you'll have to find the guy from scratch every time.  Even in a gay neighborhood, the number of suitable options is limited.  If you try to find one hookup per day with no repeats, you will soon run out, or have to take whatever sleazoid or downlow guy you can get.

One a month?  Not nearly enough.  That means experiencing new masculine beauty for only 1 day out of 30, only 3% of your sexually active days on Earth.   I wouldn't dream of going for a whole month without buying a new book or seeing a new movie, and certainly not without a new experience of the masculine.


One a week?  Better, but still, it means experiencing new masculine beauty on only 14% of your sexually active days on Earth.










Two or three a week?  I think that's optimal.  New experiences of masculine beauty on 30-40% of your days.

 I suggest one new date, hookup, or sharing experience every week, and then, once a month, going to a bathhouse or sex party and getting with five guys.  That's an average of 2.5 per week, not including repeats, and easily doable, unless you are really picky or live a hundred miles from civilization.

Look for variety, not the same type every time.  If you like them young, try an old guy.  If you like them hirsute, go with smooth. Everyone is attractive in his own way.

At the end of your sexually active life you will have fond memories of 5,600 men.

It may seem like a lot if you've been raised with the "one partner forever" myth, but compare it with the number of movies you will see, or the number of paintings, with how many ice cream sundaes and pizzas you will eat, and with how many times you will cross the Pont Royal from the Tuilieres Garden to the Musee d'Orsay.

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

The Nude Photos of the Icelandic Artist in a Box

Here are the nude photos of Almar Atlason, the Icelandic art student who spent a week naked in a box in a performance open to the public and live-streamed on youtube.














How did he lie down in there?



I couldn't go for a week without exercise.  Well, I guess he got some exercise engaging in the most private of acts.










Here we get a good view of his tattoo, his belly, and his penis.




Tuesday, November 1, 2016

Tricking with Yuri's Student in Iceland

Reykjavik, October 2016

On Halloween, the second biggest holiday in the gay world, I'm sitting in the Culiacan Mexican Grill in Revkjavik, Iceland, spending $20 for a tasteless burrito.

 Back home there is an endless round of parties, dinners, parades.  You spend weeks deciding on the best costume, putting up decorations, buying candy for the trick-or-treaters (in gay neighborhoods, cute guys, not kids).

They don't celebrate Halloween here.

Why am I in Reykjavik?  And not in West Hollywood, or New York, or even back home on the Plains?



Yuri is so deeply rooted in gay culture, living in the heart of London's gay neighborhood, hanging out only with gay men, discussing masculine beauty and gigantic penises at every opportunity, that it is difficult to imagine him outside that world.  But in fact, he's a well-known atmospheric scientist who has published important research on climate change.

He has brought five of his advanced students to Iceland to see the aurora borealis, and test how they have changed due to global warming. Something about emission spectrography and astronometric oscillations.  I'm along for the ride.

 I was hesitant:  from what I recalled from my college field trip, Iceland was cold and barren, with no gay culture.

""You are joking!" Yuri scoffed.  "It's not cold, it's as nice as New York.  And Iceland is the most gay country in Europe!  Even the prime minister is gay!"

[Actually, the lesbian Prime Minister, Jóhanna Sigurdardóttir, was in office from 2009 to 2013]

Granted, it's not cold: 42 degrees Fahrenheit, about the same as on the Plains, maybe even a little warmer.  The sun rises about 45 minutes later, and sets about 45 minutes earlier, no big deal."

But there's no gay culture.  One gay bar, only open on weekends, one mixed restaurant, no bathhouses, no bookstores, no gay churches, no gay neighborhoods.  Gay people are completely assimilated.

I can't even spend the night with Yuri.  He's out to his students, but not out enough to share his hotel room with me.  After the bedroom activity, I go back to my own room, as if I am a hookup, not a close friend for nearly twenty years.

Anyway, he goes to bed at 9:00 pm, since the scientific studies take place at 3:00 am.  I went once: sitting on lawn chairs at Thingvellir National Park, drinking hot chocolate from thermos bottles and taking radiometric measurements.  Not my thing.

So I'm mostly on my own.  I've been to the National Museum, the National Gallery, the Art Museum, and the Museum of the Penis by myself.  Yuri and I have had lunch and dinner, and hung out at Kiki, the city's mixed gay bar, without picking up anyone -- it's for socializing, not for cruising.

In four days I've only met one local guy, Bjorn, and he was actually Yuri's hookup.  I was just along for the ride.

His students are cute -- five guys in their early 20s, fresh-faced science students, boisterous and energetic.  But I don't even know if they're gay, and besides, I can't cruise Yuri's students.  I'm like a chaperone.

Today I ran into two of them in the lobby of our hotel, texting on their smartphones: Jon is tall, with thick brown hair and a heavy-lidded, Mediterranean look.  Maury is a redhead, short and rather buffed, with horn-rimmed glasses that make him look middle-aged.

"Happy Halloween!" I said brightly. "Fara til rethur safninu?"  Are you going to the penis museum?

They stared, puzzled.  "Sorry, just practicing my Icelandic.  Where are you guys off to today?"

"Haukadalur," Jon said.  "The neovolcanic zone with geysirs and hot springs."

"Not as much fun as trick-or-treating, I'll bet."

Maury grinned.  "Dr. B. told us about you living together in Florida.  I'll bet you had some fun Halloweens there."

I was too nervous to say anything more.

I dump my tasteless $20 burrito and head to Hreyfing Heilsulind, a gym with day memberships.  At least I can get a decent workout in, and maybe get some sausage sightings in the steam room.

Nope.  Only a couple of older guys in the cardio room, no one in the steam room.

Kiki, the queer bar, has a Halloween display.  Rather a low key things, ghosts and Frankenstein monsters surrounded by orange crepe.  Anyway, it's closed today.

I go to Bokavarthan, Reykjavik's used bookstore, and find, of all things, a German book about cowboys.  Then a whale burger at Grillmarkathurinn, and back to the hotel to watch The Simpsons with Icelandic subtitles.   It's the annual Halloween Special.

Suddenly there's a knock on the door: Yuri and Maury, wearing devil horns and carrying plastic bags with pumpkins on them.

"Trick or treat!"  Maury yells.  "I've always wanted to say that."

"We bring you a Halloween party," Yuri says.

They brought "fun sized" Snickers bars and ghost cupcakes that they found in a bakery somewhere.  Yuri and I sit on the bed with Maury between us to watch Hocus Pocus on Netflix on his ipod.

I put my arm around Maury, feel his tight shoulders, run my hand over his earlobe.  He moves his elbow down to my crotch.  I become aroused.

Suddenly Yuri stands up.  "It's late -- I must go to bed.  But you guys stay here, finish the movie, have fun."

After Yuri leaves, Maury says "You don't really want to finish the movie, do you?"

I take the ipod from his hand.  "I know how it turns out.  Omri Katz moves to Israel and goes to work in gay porn."

Maury has a very firm, muscular physique, more buffed than you would expect, and a very thick Bratwurst+.  He's an anal top, but willing to settle for 69, with cuddling and kissing afterwards.

In the morning I go down on him again, and top him between the legs.  Then he says "Rethur safninu í dag?" Do you want to go to the penis museum today?

I stare in embarrassment.  "You knew what I was saying yesterday?"

"Yep, my Mum's Norwegian, and Icelandic is close enough to make out.   How do you think I got the nerve to come to your room for trick or treating?"

See also: Bjorn's Hookup with His Teacher; The Icelandic Penis Museum

Bjorn's Hookup with his High School Teacher

Reykjavik, October 2016

Yuri and some of his advanced students are in Iceland, researching the impact of global climate change on the aurora borealis, and I flew out for a visit.

We're at lunch at a gay restaurant called Jomfruin, about a block from the harbor, when a local guy named Bjorn asks to join us.

It's not just a gay thing: in Iceland, it's commonplace for strangers to walk up to you and ask to join your group.

Bjorn is a film studies major at the University of Iceland: in his early 20s, shorter than me and rather buffed, with nice hard biceps, thick hair cut in an old-fashioned 1950s style, and a cute East London accent (maybe he learned English from watching EastEnders). He wears glasses and is constantly attached to his smartphone.

Bjorn has been cruising Yuri rather blatantly, and ignoring me.  In the hopes of deflecting his attention or at least being invited to "share," I've been trying to wow him with celebrity dating stories (Nate Richert, Gregg Sulkin, Dylan O'Brien).  That doesn't work, so I shift to enormous penises: the Satyr, who had 12 inches.

"12 inches?  Is that all?"  Bjorn scoffs.  "I can do more than that.  My first time was with a guy who had 16 inches!"

"16 inches! That's impossible!"  I say.  "Porn star John Holmes had only 13 inches."

"I've been with many guys,"  Yuri says, acting as my wing man.  "Some of them very big -- like Boomer.  But only one time did I find a guy with 13 inches.  16, no way!"

"It was my teacher at the gymnasium," Bjorn says.  "Doktor Ulrich."

Akureyri, December 2012

Akuryri is a small town of 18,000 on the northern side of the island, with not much to do but fishing, hiking, and whale watching.

Bjorn, a 17-year old student at the Menntaskólinn (high school), didn't like outdoor activities.  He was quiet, shy, an introvert.  He studied, worked out, watched television, and looked at the cute guys on the street or at the Lystigarður, the botanical gardens.

During the summer, there were always German, Danish, and American backpackers strutting around.  Bjorn dreamed of being invited to their room, of kissing them, feeling their chests and bulges, going down on them, becoming an anal bottom for them.

Not in December, though, when there were only four hours of daylight every day, and the temperature was always below zero (25 to 35 degrees Fahrenheit).  The youth hostels were deserted.  The Lystigarður was too cold for cruising.

 Then one day his German teacher got sick and had to take a leave, and the new teacher was Doktor Ulrich, originally from Switzerland; in his 20s, taller than Bjorn, very muscular, with thick black hair, a beard, a piercing gaze, and an enormous bulge, visible even in slacks.

Bjorn watched it shifting as Doktor Ulrich walked around the class.  When he stopped by Bjorn's desk, it was at eye level.  He couldn't help staring.

Once he stopped at Doktor Ulrich's desk after class to ask about a grade.  He looked down, and saw the enormous bulge, so close that he could reach out and touch it.  He began to get aroused, and quickly hid himself behind a textbook.

"It's ok," Doktor Ulrich said, noticing him.  "Es ist nur natürlich.  It happens to everyone."  He took Bjorn's hand and pushed it against his chest.  "You are a very attractive young man."

The next day he "accidentally" ran into Doktor Ulrich on the way out of the school.

"Hi!"  he said, embarrassed.  "Um...I....my German needs help.  Could I...see you..."

They went back to Doktor Ulrich's house.  Without speaking, Doktor Ulrich took him into the bedroom and began kissing and fondling him through his pants.  Bjorn fell to his knees and unzipped him and pulled out his penis.

Gigantic, bigger than guys on the internet! Sixteen inches, and as thick as a beer can!  Bjorn opened his mouth as wide as he could, but couldn't even get around the head.

"It's ok,"  Doktor Ulrich said.  "Most guys can't handle it.  Let's try it this way."  He lay Bjorn onto the bed and tried to mount him from the top.

That didn't work, either.

Anal was out of the question.

He ended up pushing between Bjorn's legs while kissing him, then going down on Bjorn until he finished.

They didn't get together again: Bjorn was too worried about someone finding out.

Besides, the sex wasn't too great.




Reykjavik, October 2016

"So," Yuri says with a grin, "In the story you don't tell us how big you are."

Bjorn looks down at the table.   "I am very big!  10 inches.  If you don't believe me, come to my room, and I can show you."

"Both of us?" I suggest.

"Why not?  I have not been with two guys before."

Bjorn has a flat on Baldursgata, about half a mile away; three small rooms, a roommate who's in class, and a purring black cat named Kristoffer.

We go into the bedroom.  While Bjorn and Yuri are kissing, I unzip them both, and pull out Bjorn's...5 inches!

Ok, I know guys exaggerate, and I shouldn't complain, but I'm already a little jealous that Bjorn is paying more attention to Yuri than to me, and I want to burst his bubble.

"Bjorn, this isn't 10 inches, it's 5, maybe 5.5.  You're off by nearly half."

He looks up, confused.  "No...it is 10 inches, 14 centimeters.  I measured it."

"Um...14 centimeters is not 10 inches," Yuri says.  "It's about 5 inches."


Bjorn hangs his head.  "I'm never good with mathematics!"  he exclaims.  "I'm a poet, I'm not a scientist."

"That's ok, it's hard to do.  My students make mistakes all the time."

"So your German teacher was really about 9 inches," I say.  "That makes more sense.  16 inches would be past his knees."

"Maybe he was only 9 inches," Bjorn admits.

"That is anyway a very nice size," Yuri says.

"And you have a very nice size, too," I add, kneeling to go down on him.

See also: Fred and the Icelandic Photographer