There Kevin stood, sex feet two inches tall, light caramel
complexion, goatee, looking like Montell Jordan with a bald head. Lord have mercy this muthafucka is fine! I couldn’t stop staring at him. He winked at
me, and I almost shit in my pants. He is
feeling me? Oh my God! I thought to
myself. He was dancing with this sexy, dark brown skinned shorter guy named
Trey, so I figured he was just flirting with me because he saw how nervous( and
stalkerish in my staring at him) I was.
I walked away, put some cold water on
my face, and wiped off to cool myself down.
Then a voice from behind me shook me to my core.
“You didn’t have to run off like that. I was gonna ask you
if you wanted to dance with me”, a baritone voice whispered in my ear. It was
Kevin. Staring directly in my eyes, he
looked through me like a freshly cleaned glass. His eyes were warm and
friendly, and he smelled even better.
“I’m sorry, I just needed to wipe my face. I was sweating a
lot”, I said nervously,lying.
“Your face looks fine to me. My name is Kevin, and you are?”
he replied.
Perfect. This gorgeous man pursuing me, wasting no time,
assertive but not too aggressive, suave, and yet gentlemanly. I had been
getting a few, “ What’s up. Do you wanna fuck?”’s already, and I wasn’t about
to tolerate another one, even if he was
phyner than a bottle of 1956 Don
Perignon.
“Hassan here, nice to meet you Kevin”, I said, this time
letting my hands out of my pockets to shake his. He had a firm grip, but
surprisingly small hands. Small hands,
equals small dick, I thought to myself. He made me even love pronouncing my
own name to him. I had legally changed my name from Jason as a teenager, due to
my Muslim conversion.
“So, you never answered my question?” Kevin said, with a
raised eyebrow and a smile.
For a second, I got lost in his smile. Wow, this guy takes
amazing care of his teeth. Peering up at him from my momentary dental daze, I
came back to reality.
“What question is that, Kevin?” I replied coyly.
We were now two men standing in the bathroom of a club,
making eyes at each other, holding conversation, while guys walked in and out
of the stalls
.
“ Will you dance with me, Hassan?” he repeated with a more
forceful, yet playful tone.
Despite having two left feet, I agreed. We danced for hours
to songs such as “Everybody Wants to Be
Somebody” and “Keep Pushing on”,
club classics. We danced to house remixes of some of my favorite songs, Michael
Jackson’s “Scream”, Mariah Carey’s “Fantasy”, and many, many more. My friends
were stunned to see me having so much fun with anyone. They were calling me “Two
Hand Hassan”, a glaring reference to my having both of my hands stuffed into my
pockets in a nervous tizzy.
Kevin and I exchanged pager numbers,( I was still living at
home with Mom for the summer, while on summer break), and agreed to chat the
following day. Is he The One? I asked
myself. The following day, I looked in my pockets . I had accumulated six
numbers the night before, and wanted to weigh my dating options immediately.
Kevin was obviously at the top of the list, but nothing was ever certain. As I
unfolded the slips of paper and napkins that contained the numbers of Reggie,
Chris, Kevonte, Darnell, Lamar, and Kevin, I counted only five numbers.
Reggie? Check. Chocolate sexy cutie.
Lamar? Check. Brown skinned, slim, but gave me “thug” vibes.
Check.
Kevonte? Young dude like me, but sexy as hell. Check.
Chris? 40 year old muscle dude that put my hand on his dick?
Check.
Darnell? Brown skinned, average looking but sweet. Check.
Wait…
Oh NO!
Oh…My…God….
I lost Kevin’s
number!!!!!!!!!!
I sat on the bed, despondent, pissed at myself for losing
the number of the one guy in the club I wanted to talk to the most. How could I
allow this to happen? How irresponsible was that? What would happen if I see
him again and he asks me why I didn’t call him? Was this an ominous sign from
God that I should stay away from him? I racked my brain for 30 minutes,
scouring through the lint in my pants pockets to see if I merely misplaced the
number in one of the many pockets of my pants.
Nope. Nothing.
I laid on my bed, saddened, wishing that I had been more
prudent in my care of this caramel cutie’s number. As I got up to fix lunch, my
pager went off. I was in such a foul mood, I was not up for catty conversations
from any of my friends about my first night at the club. My maiden voyage had
been an unqualified success. None of
that mattered to me, however, as my top priority was dashed, presumably laying
on the ground outside the club. I fixed the turkey and cheese sandwich with
Miracle Whip and sauntered back into my room, ready to eat my sorrows away. My
pager kept buzzing, as I had not even bother to look at it. Finally I grabbed it as the vibrating
sensation began to annoy me. It was Daryl, one of my friends that took me out. Get this over with, I thought. I picked
up the phone and called him.
“Hey girl!” he
shouted, in his usually loud, shrill voice.
“Hey Daryl” I
replied, munching on my sandwich, waiting for him to recap the evenings events
in as flamboyantly, and stereotypically, as gay a manner as possible.
“Girl, you debuted at
the top of the charts bitch!” he shouted.
I couldn’t help but
laugh at his quick witted retorts. His gift of gab was legendary throughout
Chicago, and he took me under his wing right away, after we met off of a local
partyline. We met, decided we would be friends( he was not cute at all to me,
but I loved his spirit). He was also king of gossip, so I wanted to run the
names of all the guys I met from the night before through his “dick database”,
his internal storehouse of gossip, scandal and dirt he had on most of gay
Chicago. He was almost always right if the dirt was bad. I proceeded to put my
sandwich down, and get to the nitty gritty.
“Alright bitch, what’s
the tea on Chris, the older guy I met? You know, Mr. Muscles?” I quizzed.
“Chile, that old queen
stays cruising for young boys. His last lover was 23, and he bought the boy
a car, only to find out the boy was getting fucked by his best friend!”
He remarked with a confidence that assured me that this “tea”
was probably accurate.
“ How old did he tell
you he was???” Daryl asked.
“he said 40”, I replied.
“GIRRRRRL please! She
is close to 50! She got coins and dick though, from what I heard”, Daryl said, with almost a touch of
reflectiveness in his voice.
“Ok, so he is almost 50 but looks much younger than his age,
he is sexy, and he has a body to die for, and prefers young men like me. These
are bad things? Shit, sign me up! I’ll be a kept boy toy.. especially if the
dick is big like you say it is!”, I replied, laughing. We both fell out
giggling like two school kids after a practical joke.
“OK so what about-“ I began to speak, before he interrupted
me.
“Who was that dude you was dancing with all night? Baby he
was gorgeous!” Daryl exclaimed.
“ Oh that was Kevin. Yea he is great looking, right???” I
replied.
“You better get up on that, bitch. If he is single, he won’t
be for long”. Said Daryl, emphatically.
I decided to cut the conversation off at this point, having
been reminded of my folly in not keeping up with Kevin’s number. Just as I was
struggling to get Daryl off the phone, my pager went off again. Strange number, I thought. Must be one
of the five dates I met.
“Gotta take this call”, I said to Daryl, and rushed him off
the phone. For all of Daryl’s conversational ability, he did not know when to
shut that trap of his. “Goodbye” meant “we will talk ten more minutes” in his
motor mouth world of shade, tea, gossip and reading. Finally, after getting his
talkative self off of the phone, I dialed the number that had just paged me.
“Hello, did someone just page Hassan from this number? I
quizzed.
“Yes, how is my dancing partner doing today?” the voice
replied.
It was Kevin.
I tried as hard as I could to contain my excitement. I
talked to Kevin while silently doing the Cabbage Patch dance in nothing more than a pair of
basketball shorts. Kevin and I talked for over an hour, moving from politics,
to sports, to music, to clubbing. We clicked.
The connection was immediate. We made
arrangements for me to come by his North Side apartment later that evening. He wanted
to cook for me, and we would watch the videotape of Philadelphia, the Tom
Hanks/Denzel Washington movie about a man fired from his job for having AIDS.
We can discuss HIV/AIDS and I can get in his
head about where he was on that, I surmised. I was also no dummy. I had the
hots for this guy, and the possibility of hot, nasty, raunchy sex was real and
palpable. I decided to shower both right then on the spot, and then shortly
before I leave later to assure that everything was squeaky clean.
That night was electric. Although neither of us fit the
other’s age requirement(he was 28, while I, only 21, and we both liked men over 30),
our connection was amazing. We watched
the movie, chatted, kissed, laughed, and then finally we went to his bedroom. What
then ensued was more than three hours of kissing, licking, sucking, munching,
slapping, and foreplay unlike any I had ever had. I sucked his dick with such
intensity that I ejaculated while doing it, a first for me. We stood in the
window overlooking the city, butt naked, kissing, groping, touching like
Michael Douglas and Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.
I felt utterly submissive
to him, and I loved feeling that way. He didn’t just fuck me. He made love to me. My worries about him
having a small dick were quickly dashed when he pulled his boxer briefs off to
reveal a long, perfectly sized caramel dick that matched his skin tone
perfectly. I was ambiguous about what my sexual position would ultimately be
for over a year, and wasn’t big on intercourse at all. On this night, every
fiber of my being wanted to please his mind, body, soul and dick in whatever
way he commanded. He asked me if it was OK that he was a top, and I said, emphatically,
“Hell yes. Baby just wants to please Daddy”.
He was turned on by that, and we
would fuck for hours with him being captivated about how, with such little
experience(my hole was tight as hell), I could be so sexually unrestrained and
eager to please him.
I would ride his dick, lean back(I am super flexible), and
suck his pretty toes while bouncing up and down on his dick. This drove him
crazy with pleasure. He then flipped me over on my back, where once again, I
showed my faux-gymnast chops by sucking my own toes while he pounded me
mercilessly.
“Where did you learn
how to do that??” he whispered.
“Just felt the moment and knew I could do it, Daddy. You
want me to stop Daddy?” I asked softly, sensually, while gripping his dick with
my hole in such a way that almost brought him to his knees.
He looked at me with such lust in his eyes, and whispered, “Hell
naw. Daddy likes making Baby feel good”,and then began sucking my toes as
well. For some reason, I felt more
comfortable trying these things with him than anyone before that point. The
lust in me made me creative, almost athletic. Even as a bottom, I knew how to
take control, and make my entire body let him know that I want that dick.
I craved it.
For the rest of that summer, I never missed an opportunity
to take the hour and 15 minute trip from the South Side, to the North Side to
please “Daddy".....
“Daddy” never turned it down, either.
I grew sadder and sadder as the summer ended, due to my
having to go back to school that fall. I was “big cheese” on campus, and strode
around with confidence and control, being one of the most popular students there.
With Kevin, however, I felt weak and helpless. I was falling in love with this
man, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
