Carlos's cheeks felt like a luxurious set of golden silk pillows. I buried my face in them, imagining I had just arrived to my chaise lounge after a long day enjoying the beach in San Juan. He moaned and allowed me to taste him deeper and deeper until I had to come up for air. He flipped me over, straddled me, and started to grind on my hardening cock. Carlos was playing the slip it in game. We could get so lost grinding and making out that neither of us notice when I slide inside of him. We could both remain innocent while having dirty sex.
"I want you to unload inside of me," Carlos told me. "I need it, sir."
Carlos, a 24 year old movie production assistant I met on Scruff, followed in the same sexual footsteps of several boys before him. When he asked me to top him bareback, I knew this night would be just like Jimmy the 21 year old philosophy grad student, Zack the 28 year old flight attendant, Stephan the 25 year old graphic designer, and several more. We were not going to bareback (my call), and we weren't even going to have anal sex with a condom either (his uptightness). We were going to kiss, jack off, and call it a night.
It's unnerving when so many guys I meet need to be the object of my abjection in order to get off. They must become the raw receptacle of sexuality, and they aren't satisfied until I fill them up with semenal approval.
"I'm sorry, stud, but I won't bareback," was my standard reply.
"Why? Are you (HIV) positive?" was Carlos's standard response.
"No, I'm negative," I said back, squeezing his thick uncut cock in my hand.
"I'm negative too," Carlos told me. He slowly shrunk. "Then it's okay if you top me."
"No. It's not." I said as my own sexual vigor began to drain. "You're the bottom. You should demand that I use a condom."
"Are you lying to me about your status," he said. "Why won't you bareback me?"
I reached over to the side of my bed where I keep condoms and various sample-size lube containers I collect when I get tested for HIV. Nestled in there was a photocopied card from the place where I get tested, Aniz, Inc., providing professional assurance (and an online lookup ID) to my partners that I was negative. Carlos reached over to his overstuffed red-and-white Marc Jacobs wallet. He pulled out a similar card, from AID Atlanta, proclaiming him to also be HIV-negative.
"So we both know we are negative," Carlos said, pulling me in for a kiss. "Then it's okay if you cum in me daddy."
"I'm sorry boy. I just can't." I said, shrinking fast from this undue interruption. "It's just not my style."
Carlos whimpered a little bit. This was not the abasement he sought. Carlos wanted a man to use his holes without limit. He wished for a man to ravish him -- to eke out every bit of dirty, debasing pleasure from his body. I was willing to use him as a personal fuckboytoy, but only with a condom.
Sensing that I only had few moments to successfully put on a condom, I ripped open a gold-foil wrapped condom and slipped it on just before I went too soft. I stroked with lube quickly to regain rigidity. I knew this was not in Carlos's fantasy. He wanted to be lost together in the pleasure of sex; the moment I slid on a condom checked us into reality. The condom -- and the break in the bedroom when I put it on -- reminded us both of the emotional distance and health dangers associated with gay relationships. It's just not part of the fantasy.
I tried to slide my latex-sheathed cock inside of Carlos's anus, but I knew his body would not be receptive of me. His sphincter puckered shut immediately. I kissed him, helped him to breath deep, and pushed my heavily lubed cock harder and harder into his cheeks; yet he would not open up.
"I want it so much daddy," Carlos told me. "But condoms hurt me."
Moments earlier Carlos had been open and receptive, and I knew I would not be able to enter with a condom. When I pulled off the condom in frustration, his eyes lit up.
"I don't mind barebacking. It's a calculated risk I want to take for you daddy," Carlos offered one last time.
"I can't let you do that, boy." I told him.