Choke On It! My Hookup with the Bodybuilder Goes Wrong

Plains, April 2017

I've always found Sunday nights boring, depressing, and generally downers. There's nothing going on, nothing to do but watch Fox animation, and now I don't even have live tv anymore.  So I've gotten into the habit of getting a hookup. Every afternoon I go on Grindr, Scruff, and Hornet for a couple of hours to try to arrange something for the evening.

I'm a twink magnet, so usually it's just a matter of deciding between offers.

But classes ended on Thursday.  A long procession of cars have been coming into the city all weekend, as parents come to retrieve their kids.  Apartments and dorms are packed up and vacant.

Last night there was a toga party next door, and this morning they all scattered, too.

Sunday afternoon I went on Grindr, as usual, and found nothing within a five mile radius but guys in their 30s and 40s, who always ignore me

What the heck.  I started the hookup interviews.


1. Dan.  In his 30s, smooth muscular physique, weird tattoo, nothing too crazy on his profile.

He used to work in a candy factory, but he had to take the worms out of the nuts and use them anyway.  Then he worked at a pizza place, but it was using dog food instead of sausage, so he called the Health Department on them.  Now he was working at a restaurant near the campus, but his coworkers kept peeing in the soup.

Weird conversation, but he had a physique, so ok.  I invited him over at 7:00.

I always invite two, in case one is a no-show.

2. Lonny.  In his 40s, bearded, hairy chest, ran a straight bar in a small town about 30 miles away.  His profile picture showed his wife and baby son.

A lengthy hookup interview, including questions about our penis sizes and favorite sexual positions, and an detailed description of exactly what we would do, moment by moment. "Ok, first you walk into the apartment. We sit down and chat for awhile.  I give you a soda.  Then we make out on the couch.  We go into the bedroom...."

He agreed.  I invited him over at 8:00.

I went to the gym, came home, had dinner, cleaned the apartment, and waited for Dan.  And waited.  And waited.

No show.

Time for Lonny.

No show.

Two no-shows?  This was getting depressing.  Was I a leper?

Next, I did the unthinkable.  I put an ad on Craigslist.

If you've never tried Craigslist, don't.  Hustlers, downlow married men, "sissies" who want to blow you while wearing a dress, guys who are drunk or high,

3. Austin

Slim, smooth, helmet-hair, dorky expression, said he was 18.  I said I would have to card him when he got here.

He agreed.  "I'll be there in five, ten minutes."

Five, ten minutes, fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes came and went.  No Austin.

4. Bob Jones.  That's what the Craigslist email said, but you can put in any name you want into the system, and some guys use pseudonyms.

He gave me only his stats: 36 years old, 6'3, 250, muscular, 8", want a blow job.  

6'3 and 250 pounds?  I'm 6'1 and only 210.  He must be a bodybuilder, I thought.

And Sunday night is depressing anyway, and I was stinging from three no-shows in a row, so I said "Ok" and emailed him the directions with no other interview questions.

Don't try this at home.

15 minutes later, Bob Jones was knocking on the door.  Through the peephole, I saw he was very tall and very buffed.  But he also had long hair and a long beard, two turn-offs, and he was wearing a dirty t-shirt and dirty jeans.

What the heck?  I thought.  At least he showed up, and a penis is a penis.

He walked in the door and, without saying "hello," grabbed me and shoved his tongue down my throat, a very wet, sloppy kiss, his teeth scraping against my tongue.  He had been eating onions!

I came up for air.  "Hi, I'm Boomer.  Would you like to sit down in the living room or..."

He pushed my hand down onto his crotch.  He was already aroused.  "Let's just go into the bedroom, boy."

Boy? I'm old enough to be your Daddy!

We went into the bedroom.  As we were undressing, Bob told me that he used to be a Marine.  He shot a lot of Iraqi soldiers during the war, but now he just shot deer and rabbits.

Crazy thing to say.  But a penis is a penis...

He lay down on the bed, face up.  I started kissing his chest, but he pushed me down to his crotch, where his cock was standing at attention.

Enormous cut Mortadella!  This was going on my Sausage List!

I started with his balls and worked my way up the shaft.  But the moment I got my mouth around his cock head, he pushed my head down onto it -- hard.

With the big ones, you can bob up and down, but you can't stay down.  It cuts off your air supply.

I tried to raise my head.  He held it there.  "Choke on it, boy!" he exclaimed.

Then he let me up.  Gasping for air, I began licking his balls, then worked up to his cock again.

He pushed my head down again.  "Choke on it!  That's what you want, isn't it?"

This time he kept my head down so long, I started to panic.  What was going on?  Was Bob Jones planning to suffocate me with his cock?

Finally he let me up.  I gasped and sputtered.  There were tears in my eyes.  I grabbed the bottom part of the shaft and started masturbating him while sucking the head.

Could I just stop and tell him to leave?  But what if he got angry?  He was bigger than me, more buffed, and an ex-Marine, probably.  I couldn't best him in a fight.

If the guy has no weapon, you're never in any real danger with his cock in your mouth and your hand on his balls.  But I really didn't want to deal with the fallout of clamping down.

It took him forever.  10, 15, 20 minutes.  I grew accustomed to the routine: masturbating him while licking the head, then bobbing up and down, then his hand pushing me down to "choke on it."  I asked "do you like it fast or slow?", "do you want me to work on your nipples?", "do you like it like this?", trying to get him to speed up.  But he always said "You're doing just fine."

My jaw was sore.

I wanted him out of there!  What if he got violent?

Finally, at one of the "Choke on it!", he spurted down my throat.  I barely felt it.

He got up, dressed while talking about his fishing trip, how his boat was rocking in the rain, and how he'd never got married.  Then he pushed his tongue down my throat for another wet, sloppy kiss, and he was gone.

To his credit, he never said anything demeaning or homophobic.

And he did have a Mortadella.

Still, I keep thinking that I was lucky.  The evening could have turned out another way.

See also: My Hookup from Hell.