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Relief for Horny Gay Man

Six-Pack Man

Hello, Slutsville!

After all of my ranting in all of my previous posts, I’m afraid to admit to a bit of hypocrisy: I was very naughty this weekend.

I was horny, uncommitted, and I hadn’t partied in ages. No one seemed to be online. Normally this is when I’d follow my own “there’s nothing a good wank can’t cure” advice. Not this time. Instead I listened to my randy little demon—the one whispering in my left ear—and hopped a cab to take me to where I hoped to find all the guys who weren’t online. I poo-poo’d the bathhouse option (too high-maintenance) in favour of a neighbourhood sexpit. I was in the mood for all-business, no garnishes required.

Of course the lights are never completely out—there’s always just enough black-light to spot other guys while keeping the scene anonymous (which is very dirty). Even before leaving home, I had no illusions about what I was in the mood for. I wanted to be the go-to stud for cock-worship. Accordingly, I wore a white T-shirt. Once I planted myself on my knees, I glowed like a neon cock-cushion.

In less than a minute I was sucking cock like my life depended on it. It’s possible I was the only slutbag in the house at the time, but when I was soon surrounded by guys looking to be serviced, I’d decided it was my formidable display that lured them (or so I chose to believe).

Although only one guy fucked me (and not for long), I more than made up for it by sucking close to twenty cocks that night (I stopped counting after ten—I was wasted after both a pipe and poppers were circulated).

The party was over before getting “busted in the blinding lights of closing time”, but even in the dark I could see the place had nearly emptied. My little public service had already by then satisfied the greater good of mankind, and I left for home feeling proud of a job well done… and wearing a T-shirt that was now a soppy mess of baby-gravy.

Do I regret it? Not really. It was the dirtiest fun I had in ages.

Will I do it again? Probably; not anytime soon. It’s rare that I get worked-up to the point of needing to be a total slut. And the fact that I wait so long between suck-a-thons only makes them that much more thrilling when they happen.

In my little corner of fantasyland, it’s far sexier to claim, “Man, was I ever a slut last night!” than “Man, am I ever a slut!”

That subtle difference is worth a few points.

Party on, boys!

Be Safe!

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