The Thug up the Block

thugI knew “Ray” a few years before I moved to Baltimore.

It was a coincidence I ended up moving on the same block. Ray is a top who is originally from the Bronx so he has that New York City swagger. All tatted up and shit.

He sometimes likes to play with other tops or tag team a bottom. He is short and a little thick and has a smallish dick that curves up.

But he makes up for that in other departments. Ray can suck dick like Deep Throat, can flick his tongue across nipples as delicately as a cat sipping milk, and is a first class ass eater.

But he is down-low as hell. The streets of Baltimore are rough and he has lived in the neighborhood for awhile, long before it started gentrifying, and knows all the dudes on the block.

He doesn’t want them to know how he gets down — that might deflect from his street cred.

Want to learn more about the Ray? Click here to read the story about the first man he kicked it with.

Mind you, I don’t act overtly gay. But if I see Ray on the streets and other folks are around he will nod but not strike up a conversation. Or if we are standing on the platform waiting for the next light railcar he will walk right past me and stand as far away as possible.

His actions don’t upset me at all — I know the DL game well.Still I think it’s a shame a 40-something man who lives with a pitbull that would tear you apart without a second thought is so worried about what some teenager selling weed on the corner thinks.

And late at night, when the streets are dark and the old ladies, teenagers, old heads and yuppies are off the street Ray will text. “Hey, what’s going over there — you got a bottom? You feel like playing?”

“Nah man, I’m going to sleep. Catch you later.” And I roll over and snore.


The Substitute

ThesubstituteHe is a regular. A fuck buddy. The sex you can call or text and an hour later it’s there in your bed, douched and ready to go.

He knows I’m just out of a relationship and not looking for another. Bruised and jaded and still in love with the one before.

“Damn man, I just caught you at the wrong time,” he says minutes after I had fucked him hard missionary style, knifing my dick into his ass while he jacked off and busted a thick, creamy nutt on his brown stomach.

Before Morgan the Substitute might have been a good catch. He is in his early 40s but ran track in college and is still tall and slender as a rail. We both love House music and dancing and dogs and cats.

Plus the substitute could fuck seven days a week and his ass would stay tight — his walls always grip my dick like a glove.

But I know the deal. I’m a foxy motherfucker now. I’m not the green, just-out-the-closet married man I once was. Like a fortune-teller I can look at the tea leaves in the bottom of the cup and read the signs.

The Substitute is a professional and a manager but smokes weed and drinks as soon as he gets off and shuts the door behind him. He shows up, his eyes red and blurry and his speech slightly slurred. He always has to have a beer in his hand. The alcohol and cigarettes are starting to age him — his face is gaunt.

And the alcohol can make his breath smell like a cloud of garbage.

“Hey dude, go in the bathroom and brush your teeth. I got mouthwash too.”

“My breath stinks? No way.”

“Yeah it do,” I say laughing.

I don’t like guys who drink or smoke weed alone. That’s a bad sign. Plus he has two or three regulars he sees, including this 30-something Jamaican buck who wants us all to threesome.

So I don’t take his talk of liking me better than the rest all that seriously.

The Substitute is company to make this new stage in my life less lonely and scratch that itch when I feel it. At least for now while my heart and soul heals and I wait for the sun to shine again.