I Fell Back in Love With Gay Men After Four Loads Were Shot on My Naked Body
I've missed gay men (and gay culture) so much.
Original illustration by Roy (@theslagroom)
I’ve always lamented not having a gay male friend group. Throughout my twenties, I craved a gaggle of eight gay men (though we’d refer to one another as “girl”) with an unhinged group chat. Every Sunday, we’d brunch at “our” spot in the West Village. The server would know us each by name, along with our specific orders, and she’d always sit us at the same booth in the back corner, away from other customers.
Sean would start us off, sharing his new fling of the week (“He’s different from the other guys. I could really see him being ‘the one.’”) We’d all eye roll, knowing that by next week, it would be a different guy (whom he’d claim was different from the other guys).
Amani would still be in last night’s lewk—a shimmering silver crop top, high-waisted leather pants, and bright red, six-inch platforms. He was coming straight from this boy’s house—a man he’d been seeing between the hours of five and eleven am for nearly six months but refused to share any details. (“We’re not dating, so there’s nothing to share. He’s just got the biggest dick I’ve ever seen and knows how to use it.”)
Carlos would be two hours late, per usual, but it wouldn’t matter. Brunch is an all-day affair, and we would all text each other on Monday morning, deliriously hungover, asking if we’re surviving work. We’d all respond, “I’m never drinking again,” but next week, we’d be drinking again.
But I never found my crew, or at least that gay crew. In part because I moved to Brooklyn in my mid-twenties and was partying with other New York transplants also in their early and late twenties.
Many of these men grew up in Bumblefuck, Montana, in a small, rural town (i.e., religious, conservative, and bigoted town). Their parents tried to beat the gay out of them—always metaphorically, sometimes literally. They didn’t have many friends, couldn’t express themselves without fear of violence, and only had clandestine hookups with married men twice their age (with kids their age).
But they made it out! They successfully fled to New York and can now express themselves freely and fuck other gay men who are their age. They have a friend group of other transplants they affectionately call their “chosen family.”
Beautiful… in theory.
The issue was that these men hadn’t worked on their trauma. They had simply removed themselves from actively homophobic places. So they were still very self-centered, sensitive to rejection, and, well, mean. Not bitchy or fierce or cunty—just mean. It was all very Velvet Rage.
I tolerated these men for a while, hoping they would become my Sunday brunch family. But in truth, I didn’t enjoy spending time with them. I was also growing tired of excusing their mean behavior. And after one life-changing large blow-up—that led me to tears and kicking out two alleged friends from my apartment on New Year's morning—I finally decided something: your trauma, past abuse, and mental illness are not an excuse to be mean. It is not a get-out-of-jail-free card, and I need you to acknowledge your shitty behavior and actively work to clean up your act. If you are not, I do not want you in my life in any meaningful way. I will not support you if you are not trying to improve yourself and become a healthier person and better friend.
After this experience, I floundered socially for about a year, mainly hanging out with my best friends from college. I loved (and still love) them deeply, but they are straight and not the brunch type.
Then I fell into a bisexual, polyamorous crew—and I finally found my people: kind, generous, and supportive people. People who also had trauma and mental illness but were actively working through it. I felt seen, accepted, loved, and genuinely supported. It was incredible.
But a part of me still wanted my brunch gays. No one in this bi crew would spend the big bucks to attend the Renaissance Tour with me. SO I MISSED IT. I missed the biggest cultural event of my lifetime because I didn’t have a gay gaggle. Devastating. I honestly cannot think of a worse tragedy in the past decade.
So when my special friend, who procures special things for me (and my best friend Seabiscuit), invited me to his long-time boyfriend’s birthday party at their home in Harlem, I was elated. Finally, my chance to connect with gays, and this man knew the gays. His Partiful invitation boasted of 100 flamboyant fags “attending” and 30 maybes, which raised the question: How fucking massive was this man’s apartment?
Alone, I schlepped to Harlem from Brooklyn with a gift for the birthday boy (a sex toy, obviously). At around 10:30 pm, I walked beneath the staircase of their brownstone, opened their apartment door, and marveled at the number of gays standing dick-to-dick shoulder-to-shoulder inside the apartment. Once I got used to the high-pitched Yasses and bright sequin crop tops reflecting the overhead lighting, it was a beautiful sight to see so many gay men smiling, laughing, flirting, and imbibing together.
I was nervous but somehow not that nervous considering I didn’t know anyone well besides the host, and even the host was a new friend, not a good Judy just yet. But the vibe was right, so I grabbed a drink and stood next to a group of gay men I found particularly attractive, though, I will say, the entire party was good-looking.
Maybe it’s that we live in NY, so we know how to groom and dress, but there was a lot of male beauty in that (relatively) little space. (This would become a problem as the night progressed, as I am like a horny werewolf. When the moon reaches its peak in the black midnight sky, my inner beast emerges. He is insatiable, uncontrollable, and spectacular at spotting other horny creatures who also want to make the beast with two backs.)
My talk with the first man, a shaggy, blond-haired twink who didn’t (need to) wear deodorant and had a thick chain with a lock hanging around his neck, put me right at home. We quickly dove into polyamory—he had male partners in SF and NY. I have Eve and a slew of other, more casual partners. It’s not that I’m hierarchical per se, but my casual partners are friends I periodically fuck, and we’re on the same page about it. (Or they have lied to both themselves and me and are secretly yearning for more.)
I felt comfortable talking to Aiden. It was a variation of the poly talks I have with my bi friends; only his perspective was gay and not bi, which led to slight changes in his approach to love. (He and his partners, male and slutty, struggled less with sexual jealousy.)
Aiden introduced me to his (NY) boyfriend, a 6’4, cheek-boned looker wearing unbuttoned overalls, exposing a tuft of chest hair and the upper two packs of six. His eyes were blue and iridescent, like a sparkling reef with bioluminescent algae.
Aiden introduced us, and I nearly forgot my name. Aiden saw the way I looked at his boyfriend, Kyle, and smiled. I’m not the first man to be tongue-tied talking to his lover.
Kyle was lucky the full moon hadn’t yet reached its zenith. Otherwise, I would have grabbed his throat and traced my tongue against his strong jawline. My other hand would have clutched his burly pecs and then ran south, over his abs, to what was surely a beautiful and sizeable piece.
I shook my head and returned to the present. I shared how great it was meeting them both, told them I would take a lap, and readjusted myself the moment I was out of their eyeline.
I introduced myself to the next gaggle, which included a man I’d later learn was in his late forties, though he looked my age. His was a compact pocket gay—a shorter version of Aquaman with long, flowing hair and muscles in places I didn’t know you could have muscles. His biceps nearly broke the sleeves of his collared shirt, and I am unsure how he fit his bubble butt into his dress pants.
Even though he was why I joined the gaggle, I found myself talking to an accomplished poet who recently published his work in a prestigious literary magazine (think The Paris Review but not The Paris Review). His wordplay was nonstop and effortless, and we spent the bulk of the conversation talking about our favorite queer authors.
While the poet spoke, I shamelessly stared at Aquaman’s ass. When I assured the poet I was listening to his words (and my responses made it clear I was), I just needed to stare. The poet replied, “Oh yeah, I get it. And this is your first time meeting him?” I nodded. “Then yeah, you have to gawk. It would be weird if you didn’t.”
Eventually, our conversation came to a natural pause, and I decided to do another lap. The moon hung at twelve in the sky, and I was hanging slightly to the left in my black skinny jeans. The werewolf in me was emerging, and I needed the sweat of other men drenching my loins.
A bearded man with eyes ablaze, clearly a fellow werewolf afflicted by the night’s moon, approached and introduced himself. “Boyslut!” he shouted. “I’ve jacked off thinking about you so many times before.”
I smiled. The only thing I love more than people jerking off to my work is telling me they jerked off to my work. He then cupped my crotch, which was nearly at full-mast from just existing in a room filled with this many beautiful men.
“Woah, you’re already—” he looked up at me with shock and delight.
“Almost,” I said and grabbed his hand, pressing him harder on my outlined penis. I looked around the room, which was no longer densely packed. Seemingly half of the men had vanished. Outside? Downstairs? To another party?
The vibe was not yet sexy, and maybe it wouldn’t turn sexy—the way I had assumed it would—the way the Partiful invitation heavily implied. Or maybe the party just needed a firestarter. Luckily, I was—am—an infamous pyromaniac. And the boyslut cupping my dick didn’t seem to care about an audience either.
He undid my buckle, unzipped my pants, and ripped off my very gay briefs down in one fell swoop. My erect cock flopped out. He squatted down, opened his mouth, and swallowed me whole. His mouth was so warm. His suck, so tight. He slobbered all over my cock and sucked me tip to base—tip to base.
We were off to the races. I ran my fingers through his thick, black hair and tugged a tuft at his nape. I pressed him further down onto my cock, hoping he would gag, but he was a pro. Not a peep out of him. No reflex. I pumped deeper and deeper into his throat.
A few people around us saw what we were doing. Most watched for a second, acknowledged the scene, and continued talking to their person. One spectator stopped and stared as he sipped his red solo cup. His hand was down his pants, and he was playing with himself. The rest were seemingly unaware that I was thrusting my hips, hoping the last half inch would trigger his gag reflex.
When he got up to breathe, though I’m not sure he needed the air, he already had lube in his hand. Serruptiously, he had pulled out silicone lube from his fanny pack while blowing me and squirted some into his palm.
His pants were now dropped just below his hairy ass, so his hole was exposed in the back, though his dick remained covered by his jock. He gripped my fat cock with a hand full of lube as he turned around. Then he slid me in.
This was not his first time getting fucked upright in a room full of people. Not only did he know his angles—so I wasn’t poking around back there—he didn’t need to bend over. So unless you were paying close attention, you didn’t realize we were fucking right in front of your eyes. This was not 101 gay shit. And though the outside of his ass was hairy, his inside felt so smooth. He squeezed his cheeks around the base of my cock as I grabbed his hips and thrusted into him. While I was deep inside his hole, I grabbed his throat, tilted his head back, and kissed his cheek.
“Squeeze harder,” I commanded, and he listened. My dick was so engorged with blood, I was light-headed. (The poppers he held under my nose most likely contributed to that, as well.)
With each thrust, his ass would ripple against my hip bones. I grabbed his chest and thrusted harder and deeper. I was ravenous and wanted more of him, but I didn’t want to put on a show—or any more of a show than we already were.
Right then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a sweaty man in a jock open the door that resided beyond the kitchenette. I couldn’t exactly make out what was happening behind him, but several men were definitely engaged in a scene. And the lights of that room, a standard yellow when I entered, were now red.
I pulled up my pants.
“Thank you,” I told the boyslut. He wanted more—I could see it in his carnivorous eyes, but something was going on behind that closed door—something I would very much like to experience.
I crossed the kitchenette, opened the door, and entered the red room.
I had stepped foot into Narnia, if Narnia contained two dozen naked men fucking and sucking and devouring assholes.
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