He could have been close to sixty. But there’s something about eagerness, and about that kind of surrendering, that kind of craving, that can make the standards one holds irrelevant. The right kind of enthusiasm is turn-on enough. I’d only just arrived, had gone straight up to the dry sauna, sat down on the ledge, and there he was, walking into the wooden shack and staring at me. As if he’d been sent to find me, to hand something over. His touch was lighter than I usually like, a kind of gentleness that is too tentative, too weak, though when he put his mouth to my cock, my fears and resistance disappeared. He knew his job, and this was exactly what I’d wanted.
A fat guy sat down next to me, unfurled his white towel, took his cock out and started jerking off. He looked Turkish, stocky; he let me touch him, but he wasn’t into reciprocity. That was fine by me. I was feeling so at one with everything, generous, flowing, that I wanted us all to be making out together, all of us just taking what he wanted, for everything to be about yes. I often feel like this when everyone is slotting into position, when we all seems to be doing what we’re meant to be doing, when there is no resistance, no judgement, no one being picky.
The guy sucking my cock was from New York – I found that out later. He was slim and smooth, his skin slightly loose, but not too loose, and his nipples were sensitive. He groaned – it was more like a controlled yelp, a kind of glee, but not in a Glee kind of way. It had something to do with surrendering. I like men who surrender. I like men who just go for what they want, who are driven by their hunger. I leaned over while he was sucking my cock and stroked his back, my hand sliding across his skin, down towards his crack, his arsehole willing to open for me. There were two young guys sitting on the ledge watching us, so I parted his arsecheeks for them to see my finger going in and out of his hole. I wanted then to watch what I was doing.
And I whispered into his ear. I whispered things like open it for me, make it soft, make your hole soft so I can get inside you. Then I told him to suck the fat guy’s dick. So he did. He did it for a while and then he stopped. He stopped and the fat guy got up and left. No thank you, no pat on the back, no sign or gesture of gratitude, not towards me for telling the guy to suck his cock – and I know he enjoyed that blow-job – and no thank-you to the New Yorker who was so generous in his giving of head.
“Jeez,” I said, lifting up my hands, palms out. “Just walks away. No nod, no praise. Nothing.”
The New Yorker smiled. The old skinny guy, that’s what I want to call him. The surrenderer. We exchanged some words, and kept going for a bit. I didn’t want to kiss. Sometimes I like being the guy who doesn’t kiss. It’s kind of butch. And it feels good not to do something I don’t want to do. Having to kiss old guys who I don’t want to kiss is something I did too much of in my teens and twenties. Way too much. But I liked stroking him, feeling his smooth lean body, and I liked whispering at him.
At some point he said, “It’s getting too hot in here.”
“It is,” I said. “Even for those of us who are doing all the work.”
Meaning him. Meaning the eagerness with which he’d been sucking cock.
I said, “Time for a cold shower.”
He went to shower soon after that, and I followed. We said stuff to each other, but I don’t remember what, me under cold water, him under the warm, though I did tell him he’d feel better if he had a cold shower. So he did.
“Feel good?” I said. “Makes you feel more of a man!”
“Not really,” he said, looking down at his cock, which was smaller than it had been.
Later, about an hour later, we would meet up again. I would see him in the upstairs area and I would suggest going to the darkroom at the back so that people could watch me fuck him.
But before that, in the interim, I met Dario. Dario was more than ten years younger than me, in his mid twenties. Tall and slim and smooth with longish hair and a fat cock. He was Brazilian. I say all this in the past tense but I probably shouldn’t. We’ve swapped numbers. We might see each other again. I’d like to see him again. He’s agreed to wear a dress for me, agreed that I can fuck his arse like a cunt and call him my woman. He called me handsome, said he loved my hairy chest and loved that I was a bit taller than him and that my cock was bigger than his.
“Not really,” I said. “They’re the same size.”
He held his cock against mine.
There are days at the sauna when the world is in synch. When everyone is nice to you. When you go from man to man and they are all beautiful, all kind, all willing. It’s like you were meant to be there, in this place at this point in time, and nowhere else in the world would provide you with such overwhelming joy. Glee. The Rover has London on Mars. Gold medals are being won not far from here. I am with a beautiful man. I am desired by him and by others. It’s all good.
Dario and I were in a small cubicle by then, making out. We were into each other. He’s beautiful. He has the kind of body I like. We agreed that we’d rather fuck on a bed. And although he didn’t like the idea of me taking pictures of him – I want to take pictures of you! – he didn’t mind the idea of me writing about him. It’s dangerous to write about people. It’s a way of killing them. And here I am, sooner than expected, removing him from my life.
Dario the Hairdresser. Can he be saved?
I’m not sure what it is. Is he too young? Did he not surrender enough? Did he not love me enough, not like the old guy did, opening up to me, surrendering there in the darkroom with his back to me and before you know it I’m sliding into him, easing my cock – easily, so easily! – into his hole that just opens up and is soft and welcoming and his whole body is telling me that it’s delighting in this moment, in this sensation, this pleasure of my cock inside him, his hole soft and loose and warm.
Our audience watched. I like an audience. They gathered round. One guy stood next to us, leaning against the wall we were fucking against, and just watched. Watched and played with his cock and every now and again made a sound when I whispered into the New Yorker’s ear – his name was Patrick – when I said things like my baby, open up for me, so softly, I whispered. My god, I do love an audience. Only one of them joined in, a tall Chinese businessman with a lovely thick cock and that silky smooth skin – yes, like silk tussore – that I love so much. I was ready for him to fuck me, too, and I think if things had been different – like if he was more persistent and I was less into fucking Patrick – we would have got a daisy chain going.
And when I saw Dario again later I asked him if he’d seen me fucking, if he’d been in the backroom while I was fucking the guy. Yes, he had seen me, he had seen me fucking.
“I wanted you to,” I said. “I wanted you to see.”