Losing my V to K
(at least one of my V’s anyway)
I suppose that in the gay world of wild sexual roulette we all have a number of V’s to lose. This is not the story of losing my ‘Big V’ (interpret as you will), but it is the story of my first ever adult sexual encounter with a member of the same sex. Believe it or not, I was 19 and ab. so. lutely desperate to get my hands on a cock other than my own.
His name was “K” and we met on an online chat room at a time advanced enough in technology for people to have the internet at home, but not enough for anyone to have a means of getting digital profile photos. At the time, digital cameras were nearly as expensive as computers… and as such uncommon. Even if we’d had the means of getting digital portraits taken, dial up speeds would have prevented us from any successful photo swapping… this suited me perfectly as I was heavily closeted and not ready to publicly associate my online stats with my face.
K’s house was decorated like that of a 86 year old spinster, minus the cats (but oddly, not the cat smell). Just barely masking the smell of must and stale cat urine, was the lingering scent of lemon furniture polish which I assumed he applied with fervor to all his ornate, over-sized and out of date wooden furniture. Every surface was covered with little ornaments andsilver pewter photo frames all neatly laid out in place on neatly crocheted doilies. It seemed as though every piece of furniture was some kind of display case or curio cabinet, with even more knicknacks and trinkets locked inside for safe keeping.
I had no real expectations of either him or the house - I was just desperate to have any kind of sexual experience and I suppose, deep down, I knew meeting this lonely middle aged man would be the easiest way to ensure the safety of my closeted anonymity without risking any kind of rejection and/or feelings on inadequacy. As confused and scared as I was, I was at least 100% confident that I was not punching above my weight and was therefore not risking being turned down on sight.
His name was “K” and we met on an online chat room at a time advanced enough in technology for people to have the internet at home, but not enough for anyone to have a means of getting digital profile photos. At the time, digital cameras were nearly as expensive as computers… and as such uncommon. Even if we’d had the means of getting digital portraits taken, dial up speeds would have prevented us from any successful photo swapping… this suited me perfectly as I was heavily closeted and not ready to publicly associate my online stats with my face.
K’s house was decorated like that of a 86 year old spinster, minus the cats (but oddly, not the cat smell). Just barely masking the smell of must and stale cat urine, was the lingering scent of lemon furniture polish which I assumed he applied with fervor to all his ornate, over-sized and out of date wooden furniture. Every surface was covered with little ornaments and
I had no real expectations of either him or the house - I was just desperate to have any kind of sexual experience and I suppose, deep down, I knew meeting this lonely middle aged man would be the easiest way to ensure the safety of my closeted anonymity without risking any kind of rejection and/or feelings on inadequacy. As confused and scared as I was, I was at least 100% confident that I was not punching above my weight and was therefore not risking being turned down on sight.
Despite having no real expectations, I remember feeling slightly disappointed on arrival.
Most of what I remember is a blur, except that I do remember walking through the house of misfit knickknacks and into a bedroom with decor resembling what one would expect from a mid-range respite care home, and being invited to lay across a bedspread which in my memory was both floral and paisley. For a second, the elderly femininity of the place made me wonder if he was a married man, and yet I also knew with great certainty that women rarely visited this home. There was a photo of a semi-dapper looking young man in the kind of silver frame you give to someone at a christening or Quinceanera. I could not decide if it was a shot of him in his glory days, or perhaps a photo of his son? Style and fashioned indicated it was most likely taken in the mid-nineties… which of course led me to two realisations in quick succession; firsly, that he had a son my age, and as a consequence of that fact he was old enough to be my father.
Things progressed very quickly after I was invited into the bedroom, either due to my desperation to finally assert my adult sexual independence or (and much more likely) due to the fact that I wanted to get this moment over with as quickly as possible.
We had traded the basic details already online, height, age, weight, size, etc… but I was quickly learning that how something appears in writing is not necessarily how it appears in form. On my way there I had forced myself to come to grips with the adjectives I knew I was facing; mid-forties, stocky, grey hair, glasses, hairy. For some reason I prepared myself fully to face every descriptive word with the exception of the last. My initial excitement over hooking up with a hairy guy had me imagining my first time being with a burly, hunky, rough trade type man with a beautiful chest of hair which would provide a sexy contrast to my hairless twink-esque body. I had not envisioned a pudgy curvaceous man with a belly covered in hair with a colour and texture I can best liken to that of a silverback gorilla. My lack of experience meant that I was completely unaware just how long body hair could get: even more confusing was the alarming rate at which he appeared to be shedding it. I didn’t know it at the time, but I would be coughing it up for weeks.
Although one hopes one’s first sexual experience will be something worth remembering and savouring for years to come, I was (and still remain) thankful that mine was quick. I would like to be able to boast that I lasted a respectable length of time, but it was all a blur and I honestly have no idea if I was there for five or forty-five minutes.
I do clearly remember the following;
1. I overzealously went down on his member, completely overestimating its size so that I did a full face-plant into his soft belly and got a bush-full of wispy silver pubic hair in the nose and eyes.
2. I came quickly (and first).
3. I immediately apologised for coming.
4. He told me not to feel bad and that the main rule of gay sex was “come first or not at all” (what a great way to introduce me to the world of man to man relations).
Finally, lying in his bed dripping with both shame and cum, I became aware that I had absolutely no exit strategy… I was so caught up with my determination to get through and get the act over with, I hadn’t even contemplated what would proceed main event. In that moment of confusion and overpowering disgust with myself, it hadn’t even occurred to me that I might need to return the favour and finish him off.
There was an awkward pause, and which point we had the following conversation;
K: Do you want to play some more?
Me: Umm…. maybe?
K: Well you can stay as long as you want if you’re in the mood.
Me: Okay.
*terribly long awkward pause- during which I’m looking at the photo of him/his son and trying to work out the backstory*
K: Do you have the “guilties”?
Me: Yes.
K: Do you want to go home?
Me: Yes.
Yes, that’s right. The only thing worse than him asking me if I had “the guilties” is that I understood exactly what he meant and said yes.
I gathered my things and got myself out of his house as quickly as possible.
I went home feeling both ashamed and accomplished. Convincing myself that I had been through the worst, I somehow felt more confident that it would all be downhill from here. Aside from the complete awkwardness, creepiness and the fact that I’d spend the next few hours picking grey pubic hair out of my teeth, all in all I felt like I’d turned a milestone and had an experience which would ultimately be the cornerstone (albeit a strange one) in building my sexual confidence as a gay man.