A meetup from Grindr should be considered tentative until he’s in your house. Half the time, the guy doesn’t show up. He gets freaked out at the last minute and cancels. He has to work. His mom drops by.
If you can get him through the door, you are usually in for a good time. But other times, when you first lay eyes on him, you just know it’s not going to work and now you have to kick the guy out of your fucking house.
These are stories of three failed hookups, with a twist. In all three, the guy being kicked out is me.
The last laugh
The twink has a great smile and he really want’s to suck my dick.
I want to let him. I’m sitting in the Starbucks parking lot, ready to drive, waiting for him to message back. His parents are in Vancouver this week, and he just has to wait for his brother to go to work before he has the house to himself.
“Is he gone?” I text back, getting impatient. I’ve already ignored two other guys while I’ve been waiting.
“Yeah he left. Come over”
I start mapping my way to his house and start the car.
“Wait he came back to get something”
This is not going well. The last thing I want is someone to come home and find his little brother face deep in my crotch. I turn the car off and wait a few more minutes in the parking lot. “Please tell me when you are absolutely sure nobody will come back.”
“Come now.”
Finally, I drive over to the suburban neighbourhood and park several blocks away. As I walk up to the door, my heart flutters. This is very early on in my adventures and I’m still getting the rush, telling me to turn back. I no longer fear being murdered. But I imagine his muscle-bound big brother coming home, and while my friend blubbers and tries to explain I have to shamefully pull up my pants and get my shoes on and slink out the door.
I text him at the door and it opens immediately. He’s a fresh faced boy of eighteen, and after I get my shoes off (and put them in a easily accessible escape location) he leads me to the living room. It’s a modern home, and probably the family’s second. A chandelier hangs from the vaulted ceiling in the white plush carpeted living room.
“Uh – Do you do this often?” I ask. I never know what else to say and this greeting has worked to break the ice before. My heart is pounding now and I still feel nervous. I try to keep it out of my voice.
He smiles and laughs. “Not really, no.” He stands near the couch, which is covered in soft, ivory coloured leather.
I plunk down and settle into the soft cushions, and unbuckle my pants. At this, he sits down beside me. I yank my underwear down and spread open my knees.
He stares down at my crotch for a moment, and giggles.
I’m anxious now. I’ve exposed myself in the family room. I can’t stop looking around, sure that someone will come down the staircase, or the front door will fling open. “Er– It’s not hard yet, but that’ll change pretty quickly once you get started,” I tell him.
He stands up. “I don’t think it’ll work,” he tells me, his nervous giggles turning to outright laughter.
I’m surprised that he’s laughing at my size. On a good day, I’m an easy 7. “Ah, don’t worry, I’m a grower – it gets much bigger…”
“No,” he interrupts, slowly backing away. “I mean, I don’t think I can do this!” He’s stopped laughing.
Consent has been withdrawn. “OK. No worries,” I tell him evenly. While he hovers, I silently latch my belt and clumsily pull on my shoes without undoing the laces.
As I speed-walk back to my car, I start to text him back, to tell him not to worry about it. But as I’m typing the screen implodes and goes back to the grid. I’m blocked.
I’m kicking myself. Damn it! I was a ball of nerves there from the start. I realize then that so far I’ve always relied on the other guy to make me feel comfortable. It’s time to grow up, because it’s just as much my job too.
A week passes. He messages me again from a new profile, sending me his familiar picture again, and asks what I’m into. As I move to text him back, he writes, “Wait I think I saw you b4.” and re-blocks.
This time, I’m LMAO.
The roommate
“I’m an artist,” he tells me, in his Australian accent, after I ask what he does. He’s got blond hair, and he’s pleasantly muscled.
That seems like enough conversation for now. Comfort achieved. I take off my shirt, to show him my own set of toned pecs, and lean down to suck his cock.
His cut penis is smooth as a dolphin’s nose and quickly rises to a full 7”, which I gratefully take into my throat.
The Australian lies back on the bed, completely motionless, and stares at the ceiling.
“Is there anything I could be doing differently?” I ask him.
“Nah.” he grunts.
I lick his balls, work the shaft, the frenulum, swirl my tongue around the smooth head, trying to find his sweet spot. But it seems like nothing works.
Suddenly, he shifts and grabs his phone off the nightstand.
“Sorry mate, my roommates coming back!” he suddenly exclaims. Shit. I stand up and pull my shirt on.
He’s already grabbing a pack of cigarettes from the nightstand. “Tell you what. I’ll distract her in the garage, you wait a bit and go out the front way.”
“But how long should I wait?” I ask him, panicked.
He pauses, annoyed. “Have a bat, I don’t care. A couple of minutes.”
I dutifully pace his bedroom, looking at the painted pictures on his wall.
I can hear the ticking clock in the kitchen as I carefully pad down the stairs in my socks, silently put on my shoes and slip out the door.
I’m walking across the road before I dare to look back. I see him having a smoke in the empty garage, and then I have to grin at his ingenuity.
What a classy way of being thrown the fuck out!
Gore
STI tests always stress me out. You go in, get swabbed, pee in a cup, and you can’t call for your results for five days. I know that HIV is not a major concern for my oral adventures, as it requires blood to blood contact. I worry about chlamydia, gonorrhoea, and syphilis, which have about a thousand times the prevalence in the general population. During sixteen months of adventures, they’ve never found anything from my oral swabs, and I have begun to believe that blow jobs are as low-risk as they say. Luckily I happen to love doing them.
Yesterday, I had my most recent test, and with the stress of it all, I’m feeling a little worn out lately. There’s nothing like a hookup to get my blood flowing.
I get to his messy bachelor apartment. He stands there, freshly showered, wearing only a purple towel. As soon as I see his face, I realize that this town is too small.
Before I could stop myself, I say, “Hey you look familiar.”
He tenses up. “Why?”
Shit. I should keep things to myself. What I said would freak me out. But too late now. “Do you know Ricky?”
He shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah. How do you know him?”
“I don’t really. But I saw you in his Snapchat story.” I follow random guys who post their Snapchat ids on Grindr. Ricky stands out because he regularly stages outrageous photo stories. Last week, he had posted five public photos about him and my host picking up a pizza and getting trashed in his apartment. It was very entertaining, and I was just surprised to find someone I recognized.
“You want to suck my cock?” he says.
He sits on the couch and spreads open the towel. He’s hard already and soon he’s humping my throat as I kneel on the floor and go down on him.
He has a perfectly sized dick for me and i really love the feeling of it slamming against my throat so I go deep.
Gradually I begin to sense something unusual. I’m on auto pilot though, just enjoying the moment. But 30 seconds pass by when it suddenly clicks.
“There’s blood here.” I croak.
He jumps up, cock jutting out straight from his body, and we both gawk at a microscopic fleck of scarlet near the tip of his dick.
“Do you have a cut?! Or do I have a cut?!” I say. The shock and danger of it all just starts to set in. I need to know NOW.
“Fuuuuck.” He says, wiping at it with the towel.
“Where did it come from?” I ask again. I’m putting on my shirt, finding my footwear. This is over.
He’s bending down, examining his penis.
“I don’t think it’s me.” He announces.
I can still taste it. my throat is raw and burning. “I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry.” Shit, I want to run it the door and pretend this never happened. But I’ve got to know. “When was your last STI test?!”
“F- February” He stutters.
“Clean?”
“Yeah.”
“Mine was yesterday,” I say. Fuck, that really sounds like I’m lying. ”I’ll know the results next week. The last one was May. Clean.”
Now I can leave. “Sorry,” I tell him, heading out the door. “It’s never happened before. And don’t block me or I won’t be able to tell you my results. And I’d would appreciate if you let me know your next test too.”
The next day, I feel even more run down than before. I just have a standard cold and a sore throat. By the time my test results come in (all negative), I’m over it and back to my healthy self. I dutifully text him everything I know. He hasn’t blocked me yet, but hasn’t said anything either.
I don’t expect I’ll hear from him again. There’s just no coming back from that.