By Jordan Jameson
There’s something enticing about being sneaky. I know this isn’t new territory. We have multiple apps for men where they can live out their full hedonistic, anon fantasies. But what happens when discretion and anonymity aren’t a kink but rather a matter of life and death? Dramatic? Possibly, but I was born and raised in NYC, where being gay is (relatively) accepted. I forget that a good chunk of our planet is not so welcoming, and the punishment for being your authentic, queerest self is, potentially, death.
Now I consider myself a Boyslut ambassador. I have fucked gentlemen across the globe but have done so safely in liberal cities. However, last week, I was trapped in Casablanca for twenty-four hours due to a delayed layover. What was the first thing on my mind in this pickle?
Boys, specifically Moroccan boys—hot, burly Moroccan MEN!
Fun fact about me, when I first discovered porn, I was obsessed with Raging Stallion’s “Arabesque.” While my taste in men is now more varied, I still can’t resist a hairy hole. And by accident, I was suddenly in the land of ‘em.
You can probably imagine being in a primarily Arab country with nothing but cock and ass on the brain, I thought I’d be living out my teenage porn fantasy. I was incredibly wrong.
I checked into the cheap hotel provided by the airline. My room wasn’t ideal, but it didn’t matter because I was on a mission—on the prowl for some big asses and juicy eggplants.
Let the Thirst Games commence!
(Super sexy image of Jordan)
I started with Grindr. As we know, Grindr is typically easy, and on a good day, you can get your dick wet in forty seconds. I entered the infamous app with the highest of hopes. My heart pumped as that orange ski mask loaded. Unfortunately, the dodgy hotel service made the wait much longer to see the neighborhood's current selection.
At last, I was in. I felt like I had broken into the mainframe. There were a lot of blank profiles—more than usual, if you can believe it. Only a few profiles had pics, and even fewer were of “hot boys.”
Letting my dick take the wheel, I tapped away with the hope and confidence of re-enacting some of my favorite pornos. We started with the typical Grindr normalities of “Hey,” “Horny?” “Into?” “Pics?”
I quickly realized that every guy was a catfish or only felt comfortable sending very blurred, expiring peen pics. Still, I was not deterred—off to Scruff.
Immediately upon opening WoofLand, I received a country warning message. It’s illegal to be gay in Morocco. Welp, that explains a lot, specifically my lukewarm, unsuccessful Grindr experience.
Before reading that warning, I bounced around Casablanca, blissfully ignorant of such laws. Thanks, Scruff, for lookin’ out, sis! Things were put a bit more in perspective. My mission was still on in full effect but with caution and discretion.
The thing about Scruff outside the US and North America is that it’s not as widely used, but there are more guys with actual faces. And, in my experience, far hotter guys. The only issue is: They are fewer and farther between. Not many ten feet away boys. I woofed at the sexy, scruffy men miles away until I found myself in a longer than “Hey/Sup” exchange with one hottie. We swapped various candids, nudes, and vids and went over a laundry list of kinks and desires.
He was DTF… with the use of condoms, annoyingly.
I was so used to breeding holes that condoms seemed retro, but for this specific fine specimen of man, I was willing to make an exception. Also, condoms were the least of my concerns compared to the fact that our being together was an actual crime against humanity. There was also the nagging thought that he, too, would be a catfish. I weighed the pros and cons and eventually decided to invite this kewtie to my dumpy airport hotel room.
By the time we decided we wanted to exchange bodily fluids, it was around ten pm. Unfortunately, his car was in the shop, and Uber and trains were not super accessible. So we decided on an AM play session before my trek back home to NYC.
I woke up the next day rock hard and ready to ravish this man. He confirmed around nine that he’d be arriving around eleven. A guy that double-confirms and follows up? Promising! I had a couple of hours to kill, so I began my usual routine of toxically masculine gay boy shit: I proceeded to dehydrate, work out to exhaustion, moisturize head to toe, style my mop of raven hair, and douse myself in Gaultier Le Male.
Finally, the time had come. At eleven, I impatiently waited for the “Here” text. It never came. To be fair, I am the King of Tardiness, so I gave him some slack.
Around 11:40, I started to get concerned and annoyed. Around 11:50, he updated that he was almost in. He took the train and assumed the hotel was directly next to the airport, which we both learned in different ways was not the case. At 12:05, I finally got that capital-H text.
But it wasn’t that simple. After all, we were in a country where being gay is not only a sin, it’s illegal. Now I assumed ol’ hottie could just stroll upstairs to my room, no questions asked. This wasn’t a fancy hotel where you needed a key to get upstairs. The elevator and staircase were easily accessible. But, of course, things were not going to be that easy. Silly rabbit, Trix are for smart sluts than plan ahead.
The front desk immediately stopped my gentleman caller and lightly interrogated him. After the back and forth of where are you going and why are you going there, the concierge informed me that I was not allowed guests. What the actual fuck?
Absolutely not! I refused to let this be the end of my story. He came all this way, and I patiently waited. I’m getting my dick wet if it kills me—which it actually might.
On Scruff, I told him we could meet by the pool area and improvise.
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