Confessions Of A Gay Boy About Town #2: Animal In The Bedroom

Hungry, hungover, horny and in no mood for a hand shandy, I clicked on Grindr and found a hot bloke nearby. But that's not all I got...
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Hungry, hungover, horny and in no mood for a hand shandy, I clicked on Grindr and found a hot bloke nearby. But that's not all I got...

404

Hangovers are bad. Hangovers spent alone in your parents’ house are worse.

It’s the night after a mate’s 23rd birthday party, and not only is my head pounding worse than a gorilla on drums, I didn’t manage to pull last night. On top of that, I’ve felt shaky all day. I’m trying to tell myself it’s down to those Hussein specials I was chugging (a mix of Tequila, Spiced Rum and Port in case you’re interested) but, truthfully, it might just be the doomed feeling that I’m too old to still be getting recklessly pissed when I have no job and dwindling funds here in the Capital.

In search of a distraction from my existential dilemma I take to ManHub.com for a porn fix but honestly - my heart’s just not in it. Whatever P!nk says, it’s not just going to be me and my hand tonight. I need something real.

Meaning, in other words, that two minutes later my finger is hovering over the Grindr logo on my phone (well come on, I’m only human).

Convincing myself that I’m looking for Mr Right Now, I scroll through the gallery of pouting headshots and oiled torsos, and soon enough spot a hottie.

Lance is half Dutch, 31, tanned and lives down the road. I’m in the mood for an older man so I message him straight away. He replies and we quickly exchange introductions before I casually switch on my shameless sexting technique. Lance responds with a picture of his, well…lance, and asks me to come over. Score.

Ten minutes later I’m standing outside a chicken shop in North London, when it hits me that I don’t know this guy at all – he could be a pervert, a murderer. A Tory, for God’s sake! Just as I’m about to throw in the towel, Lance opens the door and smiles. He’s completely gorgeous. Maybe this could be a successful booty call after all…

“Nice to meet you Lance,” I say and step inside, immediately bumping into an unexpected guest.

“Mike, meet my best mate! His name’s Reuben.”

I look down. Reuben, an overweight sausage dog, stares up at me with an intensity that suggests he is hell bent on eating my soul.

“Hello…Reuben,” I offer nervously.

Reuben yaps back, with an ear-drum-piercing quality Paris Hilton’s record producer could only dream of.

“See? He likes you!” says Lance, with a grin. “Now follow me.”

We go into the bedroom, my nerves rising.

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“So, what do you do?” I ask as we sit.

“A bit of this, bit of that. At the moment I’m working for a premiere chocolatier and cake baking enterprise based in Surrey.”

“Oh cool…” I say, undressing him with my eyes.

“I’m also a personal food shopper for Whoopi Goldberg. The actress.”

Hang on. Let me get this straight.

Lance is a 31-year-old half Dutch chocolatier, who moonlights as a personal shopper for the star of Sister Act. And he lives above a chicken shop in Camden. And his best friend is an evil dachshund.

“Right!” I say after processing for a moment. “Is Whoopi…into chocolate based baked goods?”

“Oh yeah, big time! But tell me about you!”

I start making up some semi-truths about what I’m currently doing when Lance, feeling the need to further impress, butts in to tell me how he may appear on a chocolate cooking cable-based TV series: “But don’t tell anyone yet,” he adds, winking. “It’s an industry secret.”

He’s mental, I think. He’s a completely mental, really hot Dutch gay who potentially wants to cover me in chocolate and force me to watch Ghost against my will.

“You OK, babe?” says Lance, looking concerned.

Well, Lance, not really. I’m getting turned off by the minute – not helped by Reuben running around the bedroom like an overgrown rat on speed – and I’m not sure you aren’t going to kill me. But, hell, I’ve got an itch that needs scratching, and I’m here now. Might as well man up, as a straight lad might say.

“I’m perfect,” I say, slipping off my leather jacket to reveal my bare chest (saucy, right?).

Lance’s eyes fill with his renewed libido.

“I’m cold. Shall I get under your sheets?” I ask, mock innocently.

Thirty seconds later, we’re under the covers, getting hot and heavy. I’m finally really into it, and beginning to forget about Whoopi, when there’s a familiar yapping closeby.

“Reuben, ssh!” says Lance, giggling.

I ease back into the moment, slightly perturbed that Reuben is about to watch his owner sodomise a stranger, but essentially too horny to care.

“Ready for some fun?” says Lance, then roughly chucks me onto my front, lifts my bubble butt into the air and goes down on me from behind. I’m in ecstasy.

“That’s so hot,” I pant.

“Hah, well it’s not me licking you, it’s the dog!” comes the response.

I clench instantly, take my face out of the pillow and look behind me. Reuben is stood at the foot of the bed watching us.

“I’m just joking!” says Lance, grinning. “Reuben’s straight.”

I turn away again, trying to clear my mind. Lance gets back to work and within moments I’m in auto-pilot mode, on the verge of coming while Lance explores my caramel-coloured body. Strangely, even though the dog is watching, I end up having a great orgasm.

After I’ve taken care of Lance, he passes out next to me in post-coital bliss. Time to leave, I think.

I let myself out quietly, but when I look back at the scene of the crime, Reuben is standing in the hallway, a disgusted look in his eye. Somehow, his judgement makes me feel even dirtier.

Outside, I pick up some chicken nuggets and head home. What just happened might not have been the most romantic of experiences but, when you’re broke, hungover and in need of some human contact, you could do a whole lot worse than a quickie with hot man. No matter what his dog thinks of you.

Existential crisis? Momentarily averted.

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