Melbourne is fucking hot at the moment. When it's hot I feel like swimming, going down to Torquay where the waves are big and just letting the water wash all over me and cool me down. It feels like washing away my sins. I love Torquay, because I can pretend that all my problems are back in the big city.
Last night I think they said it was the hottest night on record in Melbourne - 30 degrees Celsius. I wish I didn't have to work, but I had a client. I knew I would hate him when I watched him from the balcony from my city waterfront apartment. He had a baby seat in the back of his car. He probably had a wife as well as the bub.
He was good looking. A lot of my clients are good looking. It's not that they couldn't get it for free if they only went to a gay bar once in a while. But the good looking ones are closeted, usually from European conservative backgrounds (too often Roman Catholic), often married. I hate those sorts of guys. I dunno - maybe it's cos I know I can't have them because they're committed to living their sham marriages as God intended. It makes me so angry how religion has turned the world ugly - those crazy suicide bombers in Iraq who don't give a shit about anything else except their nonsence Islamo-fascist cause, the ex-Hitler Youth Pope who maintains that gay is evil, our PM John Howard who just doesn't think gay people are good enough to deserve the right to marry. But I digress...
Anyway, this guy I had last night was just so damned good looking. He would have been about 30. Piercing blue eyes, and you know I love blue eyes! And a bod like an angel from those Renaissance paintings that I love. He wasn't nervous at all, which was unusual for a first time client. There wasn't much talk, as he was kissing me. He smelt of Joop aftershave. I tried to stifle my sneezing cos Joop makes me sneeze, but also, in a strange way it makes me unbelievably horny (You can stop a sneeze by pushing the tip of your tongue against the roof of your mouth). I noticed the wedding ring as I unbuckled his belt and pulled the belt straight out of his pants. As he was doing me (and I hate being done!), I noticed he was pulling out. In the corner of my eye I caught him trying to take the condom off (this happens a lot). I said no fucking way! I made him put the condom back on, and, as he was going in I asked (because I was pissed off): "So does your wife know you're here?"
"Course not," he said, his mind elsewhere.
"How do you know she isn't sleeping around behind your back?"
"Cos," there was irritation in his voice, "She trusts me. And besides, she wouldn't ..."
"But you would. And she trusts you. What does that tell you about the trust you place in your marriage?"
He wasn't going to take the bait. His thrusts were getting harder, and I could tell, angrier. I wished he'd just get it over with. And he did. Eventually. I wanted to smack his fucking brains out. When it was over he paid his money, and left, for which I was thankful. Sometimes I hate doing this shit, especially if I have to bottom.
You have to watch them all the time because they often try and take the condoms off. I know it feels better without a condom but you must use them, because in Sydney I read that 1 in 10 gay guys is HIV positive. I assume it must be similar in Melbourne, because there are a lot of guys here willing to bareback. I don't like to be a condom Nazi. Insisting gays always wear condoms does seem like just another way for society to oppress gays - tell them they can't enjoy flesh to flesh sex. But straight people can, and must, have bareback sex if they're to have kids (and having kids is something the government is encouraging in this age where we're breeding like Pandas). But you must wear condoms. Even though straight people don't have to. Even though it doesn't feel like it's quite as much fun. Even though it makes some guys go floppy. Even though it diminishes the pleasures of penetrative sex, to the point that - for some men - it isn't even fun at all. You must wear condoms because it is the only way you will have a long, happy future where you can travel the world, and grow old with that someone special.
There was a close call once, where I did have bareback sex, and it was stupid. I met this guy at the Powerhouse, which is a gay bar on Mission Street in San Francisco. Not the classiest of joints either, I might add. In the haze of too much alcohol and, perhaps, some crystal meth that I was offered, I found myself dancing with a latino guy. As I know all to well, a bit of pashing in a club like this, leads to some pretty heavy petting in the backroom, which - in this case - led to more heavy petting in the back seat of his car. I didn't feel comfortable because there are too many homeless people swarming around, especially in the area around Mission and Market Streets, so we ended up going home to his place in the Castro (a neighbourhood which is the epicentre of the gay universe - 80% of the people who live there are gay). Back at his place on an old sofa with foam exploding from it, he was on top of me, ripping my shirt off, then my jeans, then my jock strap (I love wearing jock straps!), until I was naked. I asked him if he had a condom, and his reply was "I have lube!" Then he assured me he had been tested recently, and was clean, and that this would be so much hotter than a condom, and who the hell are those straight people anyway who try and force you to wear a condom, and that it's more romantic without a condom (like, this whole scenario was just so romantic anyway!). Before I had even given him permission, he was in me. It was so quick. Afterwards, he just sat on that couch and he started to cry (some gay men cry really easily, but I'm usually hard as nails. I didn't even cry at my grandma's funeral). I asked what was wrong and he said he was HIV+, and he's really really sorry. I felt a rage rushing through me, but also total panic. I wanted to bash him in the face but I couldn't, I just sat there and blinked. I remember, sometime later as the sun was coming up I was back in my hotel room, ringing an emergency number in the Bay Area Reporter (the local gay rag), to enquire about PEP - the post-exposure drugs. Within a few hours, I was at a doctor's surgery, the type that specialises in "gay medicine". PEP isn't just a pill you take and it's over with. It's a hard-core drug regimen that you must stay on for weeks, the same stuff you'd be taking if you had full blown AIDS. I was constantly vomiting when I was on it. I lost a lot of weight. I began to fear that the drugs would make my face waste, and cause me to grow a lump of fat on my back. It didn't. But it scared the hell out of me. My subsequent HIV tests were negative. Thank God.
And I mean, Thank God!!
Always wear condoms, you guys.
xTrent
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