When I first started going to the sauna about ten years ago I met a guy from Singapore called Ong. We fucked, then we went out for dinner to one of those Vietnamese places on Kingsland Road. I thought that’s how it might always be, and that’s how I’ve tried to make it, to make sure that all the connections I have at the sauna are good connections, that there’s something real that happens. Most of the time it works like that. I saw Ong at regular intervals at the sauna over the next few years, and most of the times we landed up making out, sometimes in the more public areas, but every now and then we’d go to a cubicle and he’d climb on me like in one of those Kama Sutra positions, Clinging Vine or something; he was so light and lean, it was easy to carry him. He was easy to fuck, too. Over time his arsehole seemed to get looser and looser until there was almost no resistance when sliding in, until I felt like he didn’t care whether I had a condom on or not. The last time we met we were having sex in a cubicle and I asked him if he could smell shit; there was definitely a strong whiff of it. We looked down and realised we’d both stood in it, that someone had taken a dump and left it in the room. That put an end to that, and I’ve never seen Ong since. A South African guy I dated for a while lived near the sauna and near the Vietnamese places on Kingsland Road. He introduced me to Vietnamese Summer Rolls. That was the best thing that came out of that relationship. Some food items – like certain tunes – will remind us of lovers. Like fish and chips will always be linked, for me, to a boyfriend from Shropshire. I had sex with a guy from Sumatra, but all I remember is that it happened around the time I started drinking coffee again and one of the bags of coffee I had in my freezer at the time – because I was experimenting to find out what I liked – was from Sumatra. I enjoyed the coincidence of that.
What we remember of men from different countries are the things we do and say with them that we have never done or said with anyone before. It might be an intensity that we remember; it might be a smell, a touch, or the way they kissed, like the guy from Trinidad who kissed without moving his lips. Sometimes he moved them, but on the whole he kept his mouth open and still; after a while, I got turned on by it. Or should I say, to be more precise, that it didn’t turn me off, and that was new, too. In fact, there was nothing about Federico that turned me off. He was taller than me, and skinny and his skin was soft and brown and his cock had this strange feature of being significantly wider at the head than it was at the base, which, I discovered, was a good thing when you’re sucking it. After a few years in London, he went back to Port-of-Spain, slightly defeated, but happy to be going home. Come visit me, he said. The island’s full of tall skinny brown boys. You’ll have a field day. Meeting Federico was a coincidence, too, as we had friends in common, and had actually been at the same event not long before we started fucking. He stayed over at my place a few times. That doesn’t happen much anymore; I hardly have guys sleeping over. Len from Taiwan stayed over a few times. There was even one point were he came to live here for a few weeks. That was not a success. I loved fucking him. He was tall and lean and had a genuine 8″ cock, which looked like this monstrous thing on him. He was a greedy bottom, and controlling, but at some point I realised he letting me fuck him so that I’d let him stay in my flat. Part of me found that a turn on, but only once, only for a very short while, only briefly did I get a glimpse of what it was like to fuck someone against their will. That’s the moment I will remember most from my time with Len. What I’ll remember most from my visit to Thailand is the French guy I had sex with. I’ve had sex with many men from Thailand and the sex is always good. I love slim smooth men and it would take something pretty off-putting to spoil the sex with a Thai guy. All the Thai men I’ve had sex with have been willing, and the willingness of beautiful men is a wonderful thing. The French guy in Bangkok was not willing to get fucked, and when I didn’t want him to fuck me and he said, Well, at least can I get a blow job, and I said, no, thanks, that was the end of that. He was so perfect in his beauty. That kind of regal beauty that French men can have, not an ounce of fat, tall and lean and smooth, with smooth arses and big cocks and healthy thick hair on their head. If I allowed myself to worship a man, he would be the kind of man I’d worship. A Turkish guy I used to have phone sex with liked to be worshiped. To be admired and watched. He liked to pose in a posing pouch, for me to see his big thick Arab dick pushing against the leather of the pouch. He liked to put animal skins on. He liked to show off his hairy chest, him and his brother, two real men, big fucking hairy Arab dicks that fuck pussy and like to show the young boys how to fuck. Him and me used to drive around in his van with our dicks out showing them off to guys who we’d pick up and take home and get them to show us their fucking arseholes and their big dicks.
I’m thinking, there must be loads of guys from the USA to write about, but at the moment I can’t think of many. The first guy that comes to mind is a colonel from the US Army who was based in Germany and who’d fly to London every now and again and we’d meet up in his hotel room and I’d fuck him. He liked order and rank and being in charge of others, but he also liked to be fucked hard and slapped about. He had the dirtiest arse I’ve ever encountered. This happened many years ago, when I first moved to London and Russell Square was still a popular cruising ground.
[to be continued]