Sex Histories	Sex Histories Archive

California-- Back in the party days, before the virus came, I frequented bath houses, back rooms, glory hole clubs, johns, and parks. I had one short but profitable stint selling my favors under the guise of a "massage." All of this between the ages of 18-30 during those last hectic, halcyon days before AIDS.

I had a job at one of the neighborhood baths outside San Francisco. The desk worker was supposed to give discount passes to all customers as they checked out. These were redeemable on Tuesdays, the week's slow night. As a result, the place was pretty hot most Tuesday nights-- but since it was a work day next day action died down shortly after midnight.

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I came on the desk one Tuesday at 11 P.M. and started my shift with the usual heavy load of check-outs that would hit as soon as the clock struck midnight. I then settled in for quiet time until morning.

Around 3 A.M. I was really bored and decided to see if anyone was still awake and active since no one had passed by my desk for quite awhile. I gave the building the once over and, sure enough, no doors were open, no one was in the lounge, not a creature was stirring.

I had not been back to the desk ten minutes when a young, well-built blond walked by in his towel. He looked at me once and then disappeared down a dark hall.

Now, I knew no one else was up and I just couldn't let him prowl around all alone, so I left the desk again and went looking for him. He wasn't in any of the public areas but as I passed down the rows of rooms, there was one door open. What was waiting in that room has remained one of my all-time favorite memories.

There in the dim light was the blond who had somehow found the time to shed his towel and put on white, calf-length sport socks, an athletic undershirt, and a jock strap. He was lying face down on the bed.

I was wearing my favorite work outfit-- white athletic undershirt and a pair of shorts made out of knit undershirt fabric. The shorts would cling to my body and show off the length of my cock. At the slightest rush of blood the head of my dick would peek out of the leg opening.

Standing in that doorway, looking at that inviting sight in the pale light, made my dick stand straight up.

He didn't turn around, or even move. Without a word I went in and lay down on top of him. I began by kissing his ears and neck and I heard him breathing harder. When I started to bite his shoulder he whimpered and thrust his ass up to grind against my crotch. I backed away and he got to his knees-- still with his head down, still without turning around.

I dove right in and began eating that ass and pulling at the jock strap. Eating his smooth white ass, grabbing and tugging at his well-filled jock, hearing his little cries that told me he was enjoying it all as much as I was-- all these stimuli worked together and I really attacked his ass, leaving it dripping with my saliva.

Then he reached back and handed me a tube of lube.

I had not dropped my shorts during any of this, but I didn't have to. My dick was hot and hard as it could get and all 8 inches were poking out of the loose leg opening.

I spread the gel on my dick and it slid into his hole like a hot knife into butter.

Somewhere mixed in with his thrusts, my pumping, and his cries, I managed to rip his undershirt up his back from bottom to neck. With the sound of the ripping cloth, I felt his asshole muscles tighten, and he shot into his jock.

A half minute later I came too. Just as I was emptying an all-star load into this guy the bell rang at the desk, calling me back to earth and work. Shit.

I disengaged myself and quickly left, trying to cover my still hard cock while I took care of business at the desk.

I went back to his room afterwards, but the door was closed.

The scene was over, but it left me with a life-long memory.

I have a few more memories I could send along. My problem is, I don't have anything of a style. I've always written the way I talk. Words like "man-meat" aren't natural to me. I'd like the reader to feel a little of what I felt.

Editor's Note: That's the kind of writing I want-- writing the way you talk. ­B. McD.

Author Profile:  Boyd McDonald

Born in 1925 in South Dakota, Boyd McDonald entered Harvard as a high-school dropout after serving in the army in World War II. Jobs with Time, IBM, and several Wall Street firms preceded Boyd's career as a chronicler of gay sex. He was the founder and editor of Straight to Hell (alternatively the Manhattan Review of Cocksucking), and later published a number of anthologies of true sex histories. Boyd died in September 1993, two months after completing his final book, Scum.