by Townes South (c) 2001

Bob (not his real name) wanted something out of our relationship that I just couldn’t give. Ok, maybe “relationship” is too strong a word for what we had, but it was definitely worth putting out some extra effort. (Heh heh -- I said “putting out.”)

Bob is one of the most talented bottoms I’ve ever had. He’s perfectly suited to my type: short, smooth, muscular body, flowing blonde hair, full lips, intoxicating raspy voice, and blue eyes deep enough to swim in.

Those eyes were mesmerizing. Of all the boys I’ve played with, by far he had the most expressive face when he was in the throes of passion. He looked like one of the figures on Rodin’s “Gates of Hell” contorted in ecstatic agony. I would have done anything to keep seeing that face over and over again.

I say I would have done anything, but what he wanted was more than I could. It’s funny too, because generally speaking, I love an audience.

Bob wanted me to pee in his mouth.

Now, I’m totally not into the brown hanky thing -- but here we’re just talking yellow hanky, and left pocket at that.  I don’t get off on pee, but I know it’s basically sterile, and I’ve heard there are even some Yogis in India who drink their own every day -- for their health!  I can’t say I really understand why someone else would get off on pee, but I say to each his own. I have a smidgeon of concern that some guys want it to satisfy a craving for being humiliated -- the idea of which grosses me out even more than the smelly yellow liquid -- but for those guys who can convince me that it’s just about being totally free with your body and its products, I say more power to you. And, in principle, I’m willing to try to help out.

I tried -- really I tried! I even drank five glasses of water before he came over. Then we had a nice long passionate fuck, during which I got to watch him screw up his face again. Heaven. And finally, the moment of truth:

See, I can only pee when there’s no one around for two blocks in any direction, and the Muzak is playing a stereophonic rendition of Niagara Falls relaxation tapes. That show-hard game that some guys play at public urinals is a big turn-on for my head, but an even faster turn-off for my pee-valve. The thing is, I get hard. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with that -- I like getting hard, and like I said, especially for an audience. But dammit, I just can’t pee when I’m hard.

And here I am, lying in bed, naked, with the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen, and he’s got my dick in his mouth, and he’s waiting impatiently -- eagerly -- he’s literally dripping with anticipation. And I’m dripping with, well, nothing.  Problem is, I’m boned like a canned ham. At this point, I figure I’ll probably stay hard for another two or three hours, even if a dump truck full of rotting nun corpses were to back up and empty out onto the bed. Beep, beep, beep. So Bob never got his taste of my pee.

A week later, I get a call from the County Health STD clinic. I go in every three to six months to get checked out just in the spirit of good citizenship, even though I’d never had anything more alarming than crabs. This time, however, it appears that I have gonorrhea. The symptoms I experience are just a slight tickling sensation at the tip of my penis and a whitish liquid discharge just a bit thicker than precum that stains my underwear. The nurse tells me he knows it’s gross -- and yes it can get bad if I don’t take care of it, but we’ll treat it and it’ll be gone after a single pill and I’ll be cleared to fuck again in just three days.  And won’t I be good enough to call my recent sex partners and suggest they get treated too?

Well Bob was the only partner I had the incubation period -- Ok, so I had a slow week! Gimme a break! It’s about quality, not quantity! I had his number programmed into my cellphone. I called him. I told him I had gonorrhea, that I’d probably gotten it from him (but there was no way to be sure), and if I hadn’t gotten it from him, I had surely given it to him; but either way, he would need to be treated. He was extremely polite, considering that he had been packing for a long-anticipated weeklong trip to Ft Lauderdale to fuck his brains out. He said he would go to a minor emergency walk-in clinic so he could start treatment within that very night. I kind of cornered him into promising to call me when he got back from Florida. Lust conquers all, you know.

Problem is, there’s one symptom of gonorrhea that they don’t tell you about in Sex Ed. You see, it seems to damage that part of the brain that stores the phone number of your last sexual partner.