Thoughts on Watersports
Maybe I'm still reeling from Chris Daughtry's absence from American Idol this week. (Oh, for the record, I still hate Katharine McPhee).
Whatever the reason, I just feel like telling a story of years gone by. This one involves urine, piss, water, Viagra, prostitution, and, well, bad things.
So there was a period in my life just after college when the new job, the new apartment, the new everything-- didn't really work. I ended up looking for alternative sources of income. In fact, I played to my strengths, and thought I'd see if I could make some money off of what I was good at. Of course, thanks to things like Craigslist and the dirty old men of Manhattan, I was able to make ends meet for a little while longer. (Truth be told, I was able to buy everyone on my Christmas list great presents to feed my shopping addiction as well, but I digress. Sexual addiction feeding shopping addiction-- is that the Circle of Life or what?). I ended up meeting a man we'll call Lumpy (he looked a little like what I would imagine an animatronic serving of mashed potatoes would resemble).
Lumpy lived just up the street from me on the Upper East Side, except he lived on Park Ave. and not First Ave., but I digress. From the first time I went to see him, I knew something was off. I'd walk by and wonder if the doorman knew I was just one of the "boys." I'd always count money in the elevator on the way down because I just felt it was rude to do it in front of Lumpy. Finally, I'd always wonder if the IRS would ever catch me for depositing unaccounted for income into my bank account (for those of you out there wondering, and I know you are, I went for like $160-$240 per event. Total, I think I made about $1600 before I finally decided that no amount of money was worth that kind of self-degradation.)
So anyway, Lumpy was one of the guys I saw the most. I probably went there 6-8 times in total. I even helped him put us his Christmas tree that year. Lumpy's story goes like this: He came over from England, met a woman in LA, fell in love, then moved to NYC and raised his family. His wife and he are business partners and may or may not have actually been divorced. Whatever the real story, Lumpy still had some weird fetishes. He was definitely a bottom. He owned this like toilet seat cover that you could sit on so he could rim you easier. Pretty gross if you ask me. But what made it particularly sick was that after each session he'd carve a notch into the little seat cover with my initials "HS". Gross.
I remember the first time Lumpy asked me to pee in his mouth. I was shocked. Appalled. A little turned on. I didn't have to pee either. But, I figured that even though I would never drink someone's piss myself, why deny him his pleasure? And Lumpy figured if I drank 3 glasses of water, I'd be good to go. (Incidentally, have you ever noticed that whenever you go to a stranger's house to hook up, they always offer you a drink first? It really is amazing how polite guys are eve when they know they'[re going to be cumming in your face in about 20 minutes-- if you're lucky!) If it makes you happy... BUT PISSING IN SOMEONE'S MOUTH IS REALLY HARD! Well, it's hard not to get hard. I mean, your dick is in his mouth and all, so it's hard to convince your dick that it's not getting a blowjob and is supposed to pony up as if it's back at a urinal. When it finally happens, he's all, "Don't go too fast." Well, it's so difficult to control the stream sometime.
I'll definitely be writing more about Lumpy and my time spent as a less-than-admirable man of the night.
Essentially-- it's gross. But sometimes you have to live by the mantra: Whatever floats your boat, just don't sink mine! (translation, I'll piss in your mouth, just don't piss in mine.)