It landed up being one of those night where we all had the same name. Mike, Miguel, Mikko, and then there was the Japanese guy, Seiji. One after the other, and all so willing. It was one of those nights at the sauna after which I cycled home thinking: Thank you, God, for men. Thank you for the way they kiss, for the sounds they make when they are happy, soft letting-go sounds from the backs of their throats. Thank you for the way they choke when they’re on their knees and I’m inside them. Thank you, God, for the way they say: I want you inside me. Thank you God for the insides of men. The way they open up, and for hairy holes and smooth holes. The smoother the better, shaved or natural. Thank you, God, for holes. Thank you, God, for the men who offer up their orifices for me to explore, their nostrils and ears and other obvious ones. Thank you, God, for men’s necks and how soft they are when I lick them, when I nibble on them, bite into them. Thank you, God, for men who like to say things like: I want you to drink my blood. Thank you God for men who know the difference between a fantasy and a crossing of lines. Thank you for the softness of men, those soft places that are so beautifully in contrast to the hard places, the firmness of belly, chest, cock. The softness of the tongue, the lips, the buttocks you hold onto. Thank you for men who cling, who like to hold onto me, men who suckle and suck and whimper. Thank you for Miguel who was there for his first time ever and for making sure – God did – that I was there, too, to be there when Miguel was there and after cruising each other for a while and me not being so sure a) whether he was interested or b) whether I was interested, we finally went into a cubicle and thank God that we did.
As if you had sent them to me, God. Miguel, Mikko, and the Japanese guy, Seiji. And I almost forgot the young man who works as a cleaner in the sauna, Brazilian, I think, from what I could make out from the few words he said when we went into a cubicle and had sex in the dark, his flashlight blinking on and off. He was happy for me to slide my cock against his arsehole, happy for me to slide the head of it in, would have been happy if I’d kept going, but I stopped, even the head was too much. And every man that you sent me, God, only the finest, sweet God, only the finest you sent my way, all of them willing to open up, their chests broad and their backs long, and their skin so smooth and warm. As if you knew what I wanted last night. Last night you knew what I wanted.
The important thing, God, is that they were mine and they gave themselves to me, the way the body opens up, its mouth, the hole between its buttocks, there before me as the white towel is removed, and even when I say to Miguel what a lovely hole and he says I’ve never seen it, but thank you, and I say I haven’t seen it either, because I haven’t looked closely, not the way I had with Seiji’s in its smooth perfection so unblemished so untouched, but, I say to Miguel, I have felt it, rubbed my cock against it and my hand and fingers, the tips of which I slapped lightly against the opening of his hole, coarse and sweet and desirable.
I am interested in the dark secrets of the mind, too.
120% good, Seiji says. That good? I say. Yes, he says.
The smooth body is so utterly bare. And he is supple, too. Flexible, the way his legs go right back, and he pulls them back even further. And his mouth quivers as if he’s praying, God, saying things to you, prayers of gratitude for these things he is being given, which you have sent me to give him.
Men’s breasts, Lord. Thank you for them.
The last one was Mikko. God, let me tell you (pretend you weren’t there, pretend you don’t know), I’ll tell you how we cruised each other for a long time until he eventually followed me into a cubicle. Let me tell you how smooth he was, and muscular, and that he had a thin gold chain around his neck. He had a solid Eastern European kind of face, so Russian, which is what he turned out to be, a face that has seen much, and is hard, salt of the earth kind of face, the face of a Cossack. The face of an oligarch in his mid-30s. If you’ve seen Vladimir Putin (a curse on his head) with his top off, he looked a bit like that.
In a cubicle, there is always that moment when it becomes clear who’s going to get fucked. The Russian didn’t look like the kind of guy who gets fucked. When you think of Vladimir Putin, you do not think of him on his back with his legs in the air, opening his arsehole wider and wider, a lovely smooth arsehole that is soft and welcoming even with three fingers inside it, even before you apply lube. That is not how you’d imagine Vladimir Putin. But the Russian was hungry for more. The Russian’s lovely smooth pink fleshy arsehole was ravenous for more and more.
Let me tell you what we did when we got into the cubicle, how we kissed, but not much, and played with each other’s nipples, and how I eventually pushed him onto the waist-high banquet kind of thing so that our cocks were rubbing together and when I felt for his arsehole that was already quite loose, he lay back to offer his hole to me.
Mikko the Russian liked the pain of it.
Miguel was into hugging, the kind of hugging you sometimes get with big men who like to hold and be held by men as big as them. There’s appreciation and relief in that hug; relief that, yes, there’s someone big enough to hold me.
The Russian did not hug. The only thing he opened was his arsehole. His mouth – not so much. He kissed, but if we were to compare his mouth to his arsehole, the arsehole was the orifice that was soft, wet, fleshy and welcoming.