I am the Very Model of a Modern Male Bisexual
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I Am The Very Model Of A Modern Male Bisexual free porn video
With apologies to Gilbert and Sullivan…
Now that I in my 50s, it’s fascinating to find internet sites like Lush Stories to share recollections with the like-minded, as the old time personal ads liked to call it. One thing I never did do in over three decades of bisexuality is actually answer one of those “hook up” ads. Never quite had the nerve. I balked once or twice, putting thoughts to paper, but couldn’t find the resolve to go through the hassle. Discreet letter boxes, coffee meets, to me it all too much like 'dating'. Past my teens, out of college and married, I preferred to hook up the old fashioned way – unexpectedly connecting in hotel bars in strange cities on business. Opportunities that don’t knock very often, but did, enough to suit me.
Once in my late-30s, I was at a conference in Raleigh, NC – I am an information technology manager with a Canadian provincial government department – and I connected with a like-minded married guy from, I think, Baton Rouge. Also in government IT. It was the tested and true 'last guys in the lounge' invitation to share a table. There’s that unspoken understanding, eye contact thing… which, when you recognize it, never fails. An invitation to a room (his, in this case) for a night cap. Always a good failsafe if it turns out your signals got crossed and it’s only a drink. That night it wasn’t. Friendly compatibility that extended through great oral sex. Twice. Anyway, over a drink in the intermission, he asked me a question I hadn’t heard since my college days, “Tell me how you got started? All the details. I’d like to know.” So I told him, surprising myself at how easy it was to carry the conversation. For nearly two hours.
It was a unique experience, opening up with a personal history in – pardon the pun, the oral tradition. Perhaps now, in this forum, I can repeat it in writing.
I am, in the great scheme, a typical bisexual man of the postwar “Baby Boom” era. A product of the 1960s and 1970s—when an interest in sex with male partners was finally legal, when casual sex became an accepted objective, and before risk involved more than basic good judgement.
Depending on whose research you accept, I am that one-in-75 of North American males whose bisexuality is a thrill-based addiction. An interest in sex with male partners for the purely physical rush. Like many get from extreme sports, an adrenaline thing. Not from the emotional side of the brain but a more primal part that connects pleasure to sensation, to experience, and seeks to repeat it. Not the more mature, reasoning part, the analytical part – but the selfish and immature part that wants 'fun'. Some get hooked on skydiving the first time they try it. Or surfing. Rock-climbing. I got hooked when I was 17 and I gave my first blowjob, the summer before my high school senior year. And I’ve been hooked ever since.
Typical too, giving head was my first sexual experience as a teenager. No surprise, I suppose.
Gay sex had been turning me on ever since I was 16. It was mostly the result of an unexpected voyeuristic encounter – summer camp, and observing unnoticed when I found three older teens masturbating together. Fact is, they nearly caught me. Doing chores in the camp’s lakeside boathouse one night, on my own, hanging sails to dry from the loft. They sneaked in, locking the door behind them. I was in the shadows taking advantage of the privacy with my uniform shorts to my ankles. Two 18 year-old junior counselors and my own cabin leader, a bit of a bully who was 17. All whispers and giggles. A tight circle, maybe 15 feet away – my eyes popped when their shorts went down and erections popped up. I’d never seen another guy with a hard on before, and there they were, putting on a performance. It startled me. Their size. Their lack of inhibitions. It was clear that this wasn’t their first time together. I could see it and hear it, the thrill they were giving and got taking turns showing off as they came. It boggled my mind. One thing I can tell you, once they sneaked away, I came harder than ever. That was something that stuck in my mind, and not just for the rest of the summer.
I was an only child, raised by my single mom, who was a successful real estate agent in Ottawa, our national capital – a very cosmopolitan but vibrant historical city. My mom was a strong-minded, independent woman who adopted me as a baby in her mid-30s. I was spoiled, we lived well and I had a very liberal, secular Jewish upbringing.
Typical, I suppose, of only children in my circumstances, I was doted on and encouraged to excel academically. Growing up in the 60s, that translates to “nerd”. As a result, I suppose, I was shy. Worked at my studies and showed promise in math. Joined the chess club. Carried a briefcase to school from junior high on, and a generation later, I would’ve spent unhappy years getting wedgies and stuffed in my locker. But back then, the early 70s, I was left to do my “nerd” thing with rest of the socially disadvantaged. Plugging away happily, getting A’s, and not much attention from girls – which, believe me, grew quickly appealing when was 16. Always have, still do, always will. A real focus of pubescent attention for a kid on his own with too much privacy, an imagination and time on my hands. Until, like I said, that summer at camp in Quebec’s Gatineau Hills. When guys crept into my fantasies.
I said my first sexual experience was giving another guy head. July 1977. I was that shy oversexed teenage virgin and he was the first guy who gave the right signals. The first guy I’d met who was even more horny than me.
His name was Eric. He was 17 too, the son of new neighbors in our downtown Ottawa condo highrise. His father was a diplomat and, with his mom, they’d just moved back to Canada after several years in the States. Washington and New York. He had one older sister, married and living in Manhattan. My mom sold them their place and we had them over for dinner as soon as they settled in. Being the only other available teen, I got “volunteered” to show him a good time. I did that, all right. And it’s just a good thing the folks never really knew how.
Eric was one of those A-list teens that I never hung out with. Tall, dark and athletic, a competitive swimmer who’d been nationally ranked. He’d gone to private prep schools and had travelled a lot. Good looking, outgoing and self-confident. I was this shy skinny blond kid with altar boy looks, academic, not very athletic. But we got along well from the start. Together all day, every day, touring around Ottawa. He attracted girls easily, but it didn’t take long and I saw even guys would get Eric’s attention. I lost sleep masturbating just thinking about him, more when I guessed I was reading him right. Wondering if something would happen between us and hoping it would.
It did. Two weeks to the day after Eric arrived. He had invited me to join him for a 5:00 am swim in our building’s rooftop pool. It was a Saturday morning, our pool opened at 6:30, but by then he had his own key to keep up his practice routine. We were getting into our trunks in the men’s locker room when I caught myself staring. Hard not to, with me on the bench and him stripping off at a locker that’s right over mine. Quickly down to his t-shirt but taking his time. His cock nearly slapped me in the face. You see well-hung guys in the change room and showers, but I’d never seen anybody like him. Hanging thick and six inches at least to a circumcised plum at the tip. I think I only stopped gawking when I realized I was getting a hard on. As you can probably guess, that was pretty much it.
I remember blushing, sitting there naked and twitching erect. He relaxed with his back to the lockers, thighs apart, facing me with his cock slowly starting to rise. He joked that that he knew when we met that I’d want it, after three years in prep school he knew guys like me. Glad that I didn’t turn out to be a cock tease. “Go ahead, you can suck it,” he said. And I didn’t have to think twice.
We all remember our firsts. Strange as it might seem, at the time my first bike ride came to mind. The apprehension and exhilaration at keeping my balance and racing away on my own. I always thought I’d enjoy sucking cock, by then I’d dreamt about it enough. Wondering what it would be like, how it would feel, and even whether I’d be any good. Planning it all in my mind. Guys do think about it, knowing what sensations will work, how to cause them and what to expect. I knelt, gripped his cock, and was surprised by how it felt to do that. The feel of an erection that wasn’t my own. Feeling it swell. Taking it into my mouth brought the first adrenaline rush. From then on, all I wanted was more.
Every sensation I got turned me on. Everything that I saw, felt, touched, and tasted. Looking up at him looking down at me. Him grinning and groaning. The intimate physical contact, him right there only inches away. His swollen cock and his balls in my hands. The warm swollen contours I could feel in my mouth, riding between my lips as I stroked and started to bob. That’s what you do, I supposed. Masturbation techniques, only using your mouth. Stroke, bob and suck. If you’re getting an image of that, picture the blond kid more eager and him even bigger. Nearly 9 inches erect. I actually measured him once, fooling around later that summer with a tape from my mom’s sewing basket. I can tell you, it was a while after Eric before I met more guys like him.
In all it took maybe 10 minutes to make Eric come. He was instructive, but not overbearing. Relaxed and guiding my head with both hands, letting me know what worked and what didn’t. I knew when he was getting close, muscles getting tight, rolling his hips, slowly starting to thrust. His cock starting to twitch. It was then he surprised me and said we could stop if I wanted. Why the hell would I? I always thought the whole point of a blowjob was coming in somebody’s mouth. Later he told me that most guys in prep school liked to watching him come in their face. Might be fun, I supposed. But at the time all I did was suck harder and Eric exploded.
When he came it was like you could feel his whole body release. Muscles tensing right up, suddenly letting to. He gripped my head tight and held it in place, stopping cold, with just the head of his cock gliding between my lips. I sucked tightly and felt every surge as long streams of semen shot straight down my through. One, then another, and again, seconds apart, diminishing to short spurts and a gush. It was all I could do to just keep up and swallow it all. Which I did, surprising us both by the time he was finally through. Which was when I sank back on my heels, caught my breath and was blushing again.
I felt awkward and a little embarrassed, kneeling there naked in front of this guy I’d just blown. It wasn’t easy to make eye contact. All kinds of thoughts filled my head. Now here I was, a cocksucker. What if I’d been too eager? Did he like it? Maybe he didn’t. Maybe I’ve ruined things. Misgivings I felt began to well up – then I looked up and saw him, eyes shut with a look of complete satisfaction. When he did look back down at me, he grinned. A look I’d always remember and appreciate. Next time, he said, he would try to last longer.
That was the beginning of a sexual relationship that went strong for the rest of the summer. All I could think of was how much I wanted to blow him again. Right from the start, that first morning. In fact, after we did have our swim, we had breakfast at my place and my mom – who really fawned over Eric – thanked him for the time he was spending with me. Getting me out and around. When she left home for work that Saturday morning, for a full day of her open houses, I was on my knees in our kitchen, sucking his cock by the time she was driving away.
That’s typical too, I discovered, later when I left home for college. Meeting guys just like me, most with the same kind of story. Most teens have awkward first encounters with friends, mostly drunken sex that they quickly regret. Some get charmed and drawn in by guys with agendas like Eric. Get taken by someone for all they can get. Getting used, and hurt, like I was a little. But a few get that chance to explore and enjoy it. Turn it in to a positive thing and go forward. That’s me.
In the six remaining weeks of that summer, sex was the first and last thing we were into whenever we spent time together. Eric just had to give me that grin. Morning swims three or four times a week. More breakfasts with mother. Before we’d go downtown, again as soon as we returned – sometimes barely making it through my front door. He refined my technique, I got really good at it. By mid-August, we spent whole days at my place, working on Eric’s orgasms. He never reciprocated, that wasn’t his thing. I’d usually masturbate while I was giving him head.
Then came September and school. Eric ended up in another class and quickly made other friends. The end to the summer thing came quickly. For a while he’d drop by after school and I’d blow him. There were the morning swims. Even with these, by the end of October, he had other friends coming by. Our friendship became strained. In his social circle, I didn’t fit in. Still the nerd. There were at least a half dozen guys giving him sexual service – guys who fucked, and I wouldn’t. We did try it once that summer. Eric pressed the point until I caved in. I stretched out bent over our kitchen island and prepped himself with olive oil. It was like being probed by a telephone pole. It was never for me.
By the end of the year, we rarely spoke. Didn’t have a sexual encounter again until March, when he called me one evening when his plans for the night fell through. My mom was out. I invited him down and sucked him in our front foyer, just inside the door. He said I still gave the best head and promised to call again, but he didn’t. At the time, I can tell you I hurt. It wasn’t a lovesick thing, nothing like that, just disappointment at feeling discarded.
That spring, I was accepted into an advanced mathematics program and McGill University in Montreal, probably Canada’s most prestigious academic university. I learned Eric would be off to some Ivy League college in the States. Cornell, I think. Anyway, into that summer we had Eric and his folks over for dinner the night before he was leaving. It was awkward. We got through it, amicably.
I got the shock of my life that night when my mom told me she knew we’d been sexual partners. She was okay with that. Pressed the point to an embarrassing extreme. She just wanted to know if I was good with the way things ended. Worse, she wanted to talk about it. Imagine the anguish. I found out she knew all along from the previous summer, barely weeks after Eric arrived. Returned home once, just after leaving to get a file she’d forgotten. Heard us. Tiptoed in and saw me on my knees in the living room, Eric’s cock down my throat. Watched long enough to see I enjoyed it. She knew from then on I was getting him off every time we got together. Her advice? There would be plenty of guys at McGill.
Now that I in my 50s, it’s fascinating to find internet sites like Lush Stories to share recollections with the like-minded, as the old time personal ads liked to call it. One thing I never did do in over three decades of bisexuality is actually answer one of those “hook up” ads. Never quite had the nerve. I balked once or twice, putting thoughts to paper, but couldn’t find the resolve to go through the hassle. Discreet letter boxes, coffee meets, to me it all too much like 'dating'. Past my teens, out of college and married, I preferred to hook up the old fashioned way – unexpectedly connecting in hotel bars in strange cities on business. Opportunities that don’t knock very often, but did, enough to suit me.
Once in my late-30s, I was at a conference in Raleigh, NC – I am an information technology manager with a Canadian provincial government department – and I connected with a like-minded married guy from, I think, Baton Rouge. Also in government IT. It was the tested and true 'last guys in the lounge' invitation to share a table. There’s that unspoken understanding, eye contact thing… which, when you recognize it, never fails. An invitation to a room (his, in this case) for a night cap. Always a good failsafe if it turns out your signals got crossed and it’s only a drink. That night it wasn’t. Friendly compatibility that extended through great oral sex. Twice. Anyway, over a drink in the intermission, he asked me a question I hadn’t heard since my college days, “Tell me how you got started? All the details. I’d like to know.” So I told him, surprising myself at how easy it was to carry the conversation. For nearly two hours.
It was a unique experience, opening up with a personal history in – pardon the pun, the oral tradition. Perhaps now, in this forum, I can repeat it in writing.
I am, in the great scheme, a typical bisexual man of the postwar “Baby Boom” era. A product of the 1960s and 1970s—when an interest in sex with male partners was finally legal, when casual sex became an accepted objective, and before risk involved more than basic good judgement.
Depending on whose research you accept, I am that one-in-75 of North American males whose bisexuality is a thrill-based addiction. An interest in sex with male partners for the purely physical rush. Like many get from extreme sports, an adrenaline thing. Not from the emotional side of the brain but a more primal part that connects pleasure to sensation, to experience, and seeks to repeat it. Not the more mature, reasoning part, the analytical part – but the selfish and immature part that wants 'fun'. Some get hooked on skydiving the first time they try it. Or surfing. Rock-climbing. I got hooked when I was 17 and I gave my first blowjob, the summer before my high school senior year. And I’ve been hooked ever since.
Typical too, giving head was my first sexual experience as a teenager. No surprise, I suppose.
Gay sex had been turning me on ever since I was 16. It was mostly the result of an unexpected voyeuristic encounter – summer camp, and observing unnoticed when I found three older teens masturbating together. Fact is, they nearly caught me. Doing chores in the camp’s lakeside boathouse one night, on my own, hanging sails to dry from the loft. They sneaked in, locking the door behind them. I was in the shadows taking advantage of the privacy with my uniform shorts to my ankles. Two 18 year-old junior counselors and my own cabin leader, a bit of a bully who was 17. All whispers and giggles. A tight circle, maybe 15 feet away – my eyes popped when their shorts went down and erections popped up. I’d never seen another guy with a hard on before, and there they were, putting on a performance. It startled me. Their size. Their lack of inhibitions. It was clear that this wasn’t their first time together. I could see it and hear it, the thrill they were giving and got taking turns showing off as they came. It boggled my mind. One thing I can tell you, once they sneaked away, I came harder than ever. That was something that stuck in my mind, and not just for the rest of the summer.
I was an only child, raised by my single mom, who was a successful real estate agent in Ottawa, our national capital – a very cosmopolitan but vibrant historical city. My mom was a strong-minded, independent woman who adopted me as a baby in her mid-30s. I was spoiled, we lived well and I had a very liberal, secular Jewish upbringing.
Typical, I suppose, of only children in my circumstances, I was doted on and encouraged to excel academically. Growing up in the 60s, that translates to “nerd”. As a result, I suppose, I was shy. Worked at my studies and showed promise in math. Joined the chess club. Carried a briefcase to school from junior high on, and a generation later, I would’ve spent unhappy years getting wedgies and stuffed in my locker. But back then, the early 70s, I was left to do my “nerd” thing with rest of the socially disadvantaged. Plugging away happily, getting A’s, and not much attention from girls – which, believe me, grew quickly appealing when was 16. Always have, still do, always will. A real focus of pubescent attention for a kid on his own with too much privacy, an imagination and time on my hands. Until, like I said, that summer at camp in Quebec’s Gatineau Hills. When guys crept into my fantasies.
I said my first sexual experience was giving another guy head. July 1977. I was that shy oversexed teenage virgin and he was the first guy who gave the right signals. The first guy I’d met who was even more horny than me.
His name was Eric. He was 17 too, the son of new neighbors in our downtown Ottawa condo highrise. His father was a diplomat and, with his mom, they’d just moved back to Canada after several years in the States. Washington and New York. He had one older sister, married and living in Manhattan. My mom sold them their place and we had them over for dinner as soon as they settled in. Being the only other available teen, I got “volunteered” to show him a good time. I did that, all right. And it’s just a good thing the folks never really knew how.
Eric was one of those A-list teens that I never hung out with. Tall, dark and athletic, a competitive swimmer who’d been nationally ranked. He’d gone to private prep schools and had travelled a lot. Good looking, outgoing and self-confident. I was this shy skinny blond kid with altar boy looks, academic, not very athletic. But we got along well from the start. Together all day, every day, touring around Ottawa. He attracted girls easily, but it didn’t take long and I saw even guys would get Eric’s attention. I lost sleep masturbating just thinking about him, more when I guessed I was reading him right. Wondering if something would happen between us and hoping it would.
It did. Two weeks to the day after Eric arrived. He had invited me to join him for a 5:00 am swim in our building’s rooftop pool. It was a Saturday morning, our pool opened at 6:30, but by then he had his own key to keep up his practice routine. We were getting into our trunks in the men’s locker room when I caught myself staring. Hard not to, with me on the bench and him stripping off at a locker that’s right over mine. Quickly down to his t-shirt but taking his time. His cock nearly slapped me in the face. You see well-hung guys in the change room and showers, but I’d never seen anybody like him. Hanging thick and six inches at least to a circumcised plum at the tip. I think I only stopped gawking when I realized I was getting a hard on. As you can probably guess, that was pretty much it.
I remember blushing, sitting there naked and twitching erect. He relaxed with his back to the lockers, thighs apart, facing me with his cock slowly starting to rise. He joked that that he knew when we met that I’d want it, after three years in prep school he knew guys like me. Glad that I didn’t turn out to be a cock tease. “Go ahead, you can suck it,” he said. And I didn’t have to think twice.
We all remember our firsts. Strange as it might seem, at the time my first bike ride came to mind. The apprehension and exhilaration at keeping my balance and racing away on my own. I always thought I’d enjoy sucking cock, by then I’d dreamt about it enough. Wondering what it would be like, how it would feel, and even whether I’d be any good. Planning it all in my mind. Guys do think about it, knowing what sensations will work, how to cause them and what to expect. I knelt, gripped his cock, and was surprised by how it felt to do that. The feel of an erection that wasn’t my own. Feeling it swell. Taking it into my mouth brought the first adrenaline rush. From then on, all I wanted was more.
Every sensation I got turned me on. Everything that I saw, felt, touched, and tasted. Looking up at him looking down at me. Him grinning and groaning. The intimate physical contact, him right there only inches away. His swollen cock and his balls in my hands. The warm swollen contours I could feel in my mouth, riding between my lips as I stroked and started to bob. That’s what you do, I supposed. Masturbation techniques, only using your mouth. Stroke, bob and suck. If you’re getting an image of that, picture the blond kid more eager and him even bigger. Nearly 9 inches erect. I actually measured him once, fooling around later that summer with a tape from my mom’s sewing basket. I can tell you, it was a while after Eric before I met more guys like him.
In all it took maybe 10 minutes to make Eric come. He was instructive, but not overbearing. Relaxed and guiding my head with both hands, letting me know what worked and what didn’t. I knew when he was getting close, muscles getting tight, rolling his hips, slowly starting to thrust. His cock starting to twitch. It was then he surprised me and said we could stop if I wanted. Why the hell would I? I always thought the whole point of a blowjob was coming in somebody’s mouth. Later he told me that most guys in prep school liked to watching him come in their face. Might be fun, I supposed. But at the time all I did was suck harder and Eric exploded.
When he came it was like you could feel his whole body release. Muscles tensing right up, suddenly letting to. He gripped my head tight and held it in place, stopping cold, with just the head of his cock gliding between my lips. I sucked tightly and felt every surge as long streams of semen shot straight down my through. One, then another, and again, seconds apart, diminishing to short spurts and a gush. It was all I could do to just keep up and swallow it all. Which I did, surprising us both by the time he was finally through. Which was when I sank back on my heels, caught my breath and was blushing again.
I felt awkward and a little embarrassed, kneeling there naked in front of this guy I’d just blown. It wasn’t easy to make eye contact. All kinds of thoughts filled my head. Now here I was, a cocksucker. What if I’d been too eager? Did he like it? Maybe he didn’t. Maybe I’ve ruined things. Misgivings I felt began to well up – then I looked up and saw him, eyes shut with a look of complete satisfaction. When he did look back down at me, he grinned. A look I’d always remember and appreciate. Next time, he said, he would try to last longer.
That was the beginning of a sexual relationship that went strong for the rest of the summer. All I could think of was how much I wanted to blow him again. Right from the start, that first morning. In fact, after we did have our swim, we had breakfast at my place and my mom – who really fawned over Eric – thanked him for the time he was spending with me. Getting me out and around. When she left home for work that Saturday morning, for a full day of her open houses, I was on my knees in our kitchen, sucking his cock by the time she was driving away.
That’s typical too, I discovered, later when I left home for college. Meeting guys just like me, most with the same kind of story. Most teens have awkward first encounters with friends, mostly drunken sex that they quickly regret. Some get charmed and drawn in by guys with agendas like Eric. Get taken by someone for all they can get. Getting used, and hurt, like I was a little. But a few get that chance to explore and enjoy it. Turn it in to a positive thing and go forward. That’s me.
In the six remaining weeks of that summer, sex was the first and last thing we were into whenever we spent time together. Eric just had to give me that grin. Morning swims three or four times a week. More breakfasts with mother. Before we’d go downtown, again as soon as we returned – sometimes barely making it through my front door. He refined my technique, I got really good at it. By mid-August, we spent whole days at my place, working on Eric’s orgasms. He never reciprocated, that wasn’t his thing. I’d usually masturbate while I was giving him head.
Then came September and school. Eric ended up in another class and quickly made other friends. The end to the summer thing came quickly. For a while he’d drop by after school and I’d blow him. There were the morning swims. Even with these, by the end of October, he had other friends coming by. Our friendship became strained. In his social circle, I didn’t fit in. Still the nerd. There were at least a half dozen guys giving him sexual service – guys who fucked, and I wouldn’t. We did try it once that summer. Eric pressed the point until I caved in. I stretched out bent over our kitchen island and prepped himself with olive oil. It was like being probed by a telephone pole. It was never for me.
By the end of the year, we rarely spoke. Didn’t have a sexual encounter again until March, when he called me one evening when his plans for the night fell through. My mom was out. I invited him down and sucked him in our front foyer, just inside the door. He said I still gave the best head and promised to call again, but he didn’t. At the time, I can tell you I hurt. It wasn’t a lovesick thing, nothing like that, just disappointment at feeling discarded.
That spring, I was accepted into an advanced mathematics program and McGill University in Montreal, probably Canada’s most prestigious academic university. I learned Eric would be off to some Ivy League college in the States. Cornell, I think. Anyway, into that summer we had Eric and his folks over for dinner the night before he was leaving. It was awkward. We got through it, amicably.
I got the shock of my life that night when my mom told me she knew we’d been sexual partners. She was okay with that. Pressed the point to an embarrassing extreme. She just wanted to know if I was good with the way things ended. Worse, she wanted to talk about it. Imagine the anguish. I found out she knew all along from the previous summer, barely weeks after Eric arrived. Returned home once, just after leaving to get a file she’d forgotten. Heard us. Tiptoed in and saw me on my knees in the living room, Eric’s cock down my throat. Watched long enough to see I enjoyed it. She knew from then on I was getting him off every time we got together. Her advice? There would be plenty of guys at McGill.
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