A Man in My Bed
Young men – can we ever get enough of them? Especially the tall slim ones, the agile ones, the ones whose skin is soft and pliable, who are uninhibited, who are driven my pleasure and hunger. I meet a lot of them during my visits to London’s subterranean haunts of promiscuity. How refreshing these young men are! And yet, how disappointing some encounters can be. More than anything – and I speak from experience – some are vacuous and lacking in curiosity, as if they have not been taught the basics of human interaction: to share, to listen, to be kind, honest. Some of them work in jobs that demand neither imagination nor ambition. Sometimes, though, a body is enough. Sometimes, being young is enough.
Even after several such encounters, I am still surprised there are men in the world, long past the age of consent, who are considerably younger than me. Wasn’t it just yesterday that I was twenty-five and sitting in a cafe at 3 or 4 or in the morning, after work, sitting outside on a sultry night, and this guy came up to me and said: My brother, you are so beautiful, I have to draw you, and then ran back inside to get his sketch-pad and crayons. For a long time, looking back at it now, I was a body desirable to other men… for my youth, for the elasticity of my skin, that sort of thing. Today I am desirable to the young for other reasons.
“You are incredibly attractive,” he says to me, on the sofa, just after midnight a couple of days ago.
Luis is twenty-six. He has walked over from Stoke Newington to have sex. He’d complimented me online, too. Wow!! he’d written. Months have passed since the last time I had someone over, and when I say this to him in bed, that it has been five or six months since I’ve had sex in this bed, it sounds slightly sad. I find myself telling him things that make it sound as if I am too busy to have guys over, that it;’s so much easier just to go to the sauna when I’m horny. But it’s actually quite nice having someone in bed, and the sex isn#’t bad. He is a lot of those things that I like about young men. He is hungry and pliable and when I ask him what he likes he says: Whatever you like.
“You are very dominating,” he says.
“The illusion is, though,” I say, speaking slowly and clearly because his English isn’t great. “The illusion is… when you say whatever you like you’re being submissive, but that is quite dominating.”
“What is submissive?” he says.
Sometimes it’s better just to fuck. So we do. And his hole is soft and welcoming, the kind that is relaxed from the start, and grateful. He makes those sounds that one likes to hear when one is pounding the arse of a young man. I am – and I’m not sure what to make of this fact – two years younger than his father. I think it keeps me from being totally relaxed, from just letting go. When you let someone into your house, things are not so clearcut, there’s all sorts of stuff going on at the same time. I think what we do when we have sex in public places is that we keep the family out of the story, our mothers and fathers in particular. If Freud is right when he says that there are always four people in a room when two are having sex – the other two being the two the two having sex are thinking about – well, if he’s right, then sex in… hold on, this is falling apart a bit. What I’d thought he’d said was that we always have our parents in the room when we’re having sex, and I think, to an extent, that is true when we have sex at home in our beds. The super-ego likes a proper bedroom; saunas and sex clubs are mainly for the id.
We covered most positions, but always came back to my favourite: Him on his back. His legs went back so beautifully – just like in the picture (though that’s not us… Luis has a bit more hair on his chest, and so do I!) – and he liked it when I slapped his face while we fucked, and he slapped me back, which I like. I enjoyed the bigness of him, his bulk, even though he was flabbier than I like. He had a softness to him that was endearing, although I could tell that if we ever hooked up again, if, say, he was my boyfriend, I’d want him to work out more, get some exercise, get rid of the flab.
He didn’t seem bothered by his weight, by not being the kind of skinny guy I professed to like on my profile. There was nothing awkward about the way he was in his body, the way he came out of the shower and wrapped a towel around himself and didn’t cover his upper body when we’d sat together on the sofa. He didn’t try to hide anything. I liked that. And his comfort made me more comfortable and eventually we fell asleep, both of us naked, back to back, and didn’t wake till morning.