Third Leg

Browsing dating apps can be tedious and overwhelming, especially if you’re looking for someone of substance. I’ve had more penis pictures sent to me than I could count. Don’t get me wrong, I do love a well photographed package, but it doesn’t exactly set the tone for relationship goals.

I found a man named Anthony online who looked very presentable and had a well-written profile biography. More often than not, guys don’t even bother to fill them out. Or they will simply put in some sexual bullshit with improper grammar and odd symbols.

Speaking of symbols, can we just take a moment to figure out how an eggplant is supposed to represent a dick? If my dick were shaped like an eggplant, I would have some concerns. Cucumbers? Sure. Even a banana. I’ve seen a lot of cocks in my day, and I can’t say any one of them remind me of a bulbous vegetable of uneven proportions. I digress…

After some small talk, Anthony and I began sharing our passions, hobbies, favorite things, etc. He used to work for Disney, and he was obsessed with Harry Potter. What more could I want in a man?

He lived in up in Leander, which is a suburb of Austin no one cares about. We decided to meet for a date in Cedar Park, which is a slightly closer suburb of Austin no one cares about.

I dressed to impress and headed up to the sports bar he suggested. Ironically, we’d soon find out that neither of us cared much for sports. But it was a good location all the same, and we were able to sit down and get to know each other better.

Neither of us ordered any food, or even beer – just water. I’m not sure what his reasons were, but I didn’t want to be the only one digging into a greasy basket of cheese sticks and chugging down cheap booze.

We spent several hours together before deciding to wrap it up. I knew we wouldn’t be spending the night together, which is the most common fairy tale ending to first dates in the gay world. He still lived with his parents, because he had just moved back from Florida. As it would turn out, they were Pentecostal Bible thumpers who disapproved of homosexuality. His mother was sleeping with two men at the time of Anthony’s conception, because adultery is apparently not sinful. This resulted in him having an estranged biological father than he never got to meet. He was raised instead by his mother’s husband, and he was often reminded of it during arguments. Anthony’s biological father was black, and being the only biracial member of his white family did not make matters any better.

He walked me to my car, and we both hesitated in that awkward time warp trying to decide if we should kiss and who should initiate. I get uncomfortable and impatient in that situation pretty quickly, so I got up on the tip of my toes to reach his lips. I’m above average in height, but Anthony loomed over me. A parking lot isn’t very romantic, so we didn’t kiss for long. And before parting ways, we made plans to see each other again soon to do karaoke.

Before driving away, I texted a couple of my friends who wanted to know how the evening went. I filled them in on the details, and they were all happy to hear the good report. One of my friends jested about him being half black and accused me of being a size queen. Because all black men have to have giant dicks, right? I’m not a fan of stereotypes, but at least that one is somewhat complimentary.

The night of our karaoke date came quickly, and he drove all the way into downtown Austin to meet me at my favorite spot. Unlike last time, we both decided to indulge in rounds of beer. I justified it would make our voices sound “better” while performing songs. He was too intimidated to sing in front of people, unfortunately. But I did lure him into my clutches with my own siren songs.

I returned to our table and suggested he stay with me overnight instead of driving all the way back to Leander, especially after drinking. I’m pretty sure he was planning on that already, but I extended the invitation anyway. And, of course, he obliged.

When we got to my apartment, there was no time wasted in pawing at each other’s clothes and throwing them around. There was a path of debris heading right to my bed.
He hit the lights before I got to see him naked, but he certainly felt good. He had a large, sturdy build with a well defined chest and unbelievable biceps.

We laid in bed making out for a while, running our hands down each other’s bodies. I wasn’t in the mood to invest much more time into foreplay, so I climbed on top of him. My hand reached back for that moment of truth, because size does matter to a degree. Anyone who says otherwise is either ashamed or being polite. But something didn’t feel right.
I wasn’t able to process what my hand was grasping at first. “What is that?” I thought to myself. I finally realized I was, in fact, touching his penis. It was so gigantic in both girth and length, it felt like an actual third leg.

“Holy shit, Anthony!” I shouted, dismounting from my straddled position.
“I know, I know, I should have told you, I’m so sorry!” he pleaded.
“No, no… it’s okay, just…”

Just what? I didn’t know what to say. I reached for it again to measure for size. It was monstrous and fascinating. Certainly larger than any phallic fruit or vegetable I had ever seen. It was like holding onto a burly man’s forearm. I wanted him to have a big dick, but this was outrageous. I’d never even seen a porn star be so well endowed. Was there a such thing as gigantism of the genitals?

“Wow, what do you feed that thing?” I said, stupidly.
“It’s always been this way,” he said, defeated. I felt terrible for him. This man seriously had such a large penis, he was hardly ever able to use it. I’ve pitied men born with little willies, but had never even considered the other extreme.

I decided I would try to at least give him a blowjob. But when I tried to put his wiener in my mouth, it wouldn’t fit. I was trying to unhinge my jaw like a snake. It was the most pathetic attempt at oral sex I could fathom. I stayed down there for a while trying my best, but ultimately it was a fruitless endeavor.

He returned the favor before grinding himself on top of me. I realized that it was the only way he could really get sexual pleasure without having to ask his partner to prepare himself by carrying a wine bottle around in his ass.

“What’s your wildest fantasy?” he asked me. It was a terrible question that I hated being presented with. My brain went completely blank. I felt so vanilla in that moment.
“I don’t know, what about you?” I pivoted.
“Pinch my nipples!” he shouted. “Harder!”

Nipple play is nothing new to me, but this guy was seriously into it. I worried that I was going to twist them right off if I squeezed any harder. Instead, he unleashed a fire hose of cum onto my body that splashed onto my sheets as well.

He collapsed onto the pillows, exhausted. I cleaned myself off with a towel and rested my head on his chest, listening to his heart beat. It was then that a sickening thought crossed my mind. I realized there was no hope in continuing to date Anthony. I wanted to be able to have penetrative sex with my partner. I felt selfish for having to admit that to myself, but I knew I wouldn’t be physically satisfied with this otherwise perfect man.

We woke up together the next morning and said our goodbyes. He mentioned our next date, and I was careful not to lead him on or hurt his feelings. It wasn’t his fault, after all. I sulked back to my bed and laid there, trapped with my own battling thoughts. How was I going to explain to everyone that I couldn’t date Anthony? Because his penis is too big? What a problem to have…


Behind Closed Doors

Some of my greatest misadventures in dating have occurred while living in Austin, prior to meeting my now fiancé. Meeting someone in person is considered old fashioned at this point, so most of those who are fishing for attention and affection must turn to “the apps”. In the gay world that means: Grindr, Scruff, Growlr, etc. I had an active profile on all of them at one point with the intention to either find a boyfriend or at least get laid.

While browsing the man-buffet of pictures on my phone, I stumbled across a gent I found to be rather attractive. He was a bit older than me, well proportioned, and had intense eyes that somehow complemented a large, genuine smile. His name was Trevor, according to his profile, and I decided it was worth a shot to send him a message.

It’s always awkward trying to start conversations with a stranger whether you are in person or have a screen barrier. If you’re looking to seem date-worthy you have to start with something better than “Hey, what’s up?” And if you’re looking to get your dick wet, you have to decide ahead of time how long you should engage in pointless small talk before sending nudes.

I managed to initiate a conversation that eventually resulted in us agreeing to meet at my favorite watering hole for drinks and karaoke. Although, I should mention, we did unlock our “private” collection of photos for each other. With that said, I wasn’t really sure what to expect for the evening.

When I arrived at the bar I recognized him almost immediately. He was sitting with another gentleman who was probably twice my age and quite spindly. His face seemed to have only one expression – a look of both constipation and confusion.

I grabbed a drink before approaching him and the man sharing his table.
“Trevor, right?”
“Travis? Take a seat.” I did. He went on to introduce his friend Pete.

Trevor and I hit it off immediately, and he even complimented me on my singing voice when I would return from the microphone. He was speaking my language with a dry sense of humor and constant use of sarcasm. Even flirting. However, I noticed a closeness between him and Pete that went well beyond friendship. Perhaps I was being paranoid.

Pete got up to sing a pitchy rendition of a song no one else knew as Trevor and I stood and watched. “How do you know him, again?” I asked.
“He’s my boyfriend,” he replied. I laughed involuntarily, completely unsure of whether or not he was messing with me or being serious. I decided not to press forward with any more questions at the risk of embarrassing myself. Instead, I was left wondering whether or not I was invited to a date with two men instead of one. Or maybe it wasn’t a date at all. The mystery wouldn’t solve itself that night, because Trevor ended up getting too drunk and left without saying goodbye. My pride and ego gasped for air before perishing together in a romantic tragedy. I imbibed a while longer to drown my sorrows.

Some months later I ran into Trevor again at that same bar, this time without Pete around to spoil the environment. He greeted me with a tight bear hug, and I immediately dropped any sense of resentment I had been holding against him. Trevor had a quality that I can only describe as mesmerizing, for better or worse.

We shared a pitcher of beer together and spent most of the evening making fun of the poor karaoke performances that night. As it would turn out he didn’t care much for karaoke to begin with and only went for Pete’s sake.
“So if you don’t like karaoke, why are you here without your boyfriend?” I asked, tripping over the last word a bit too noticeably.
“I dunno, I can’t resist the cheap PBRs, I guess,” he joked. “We’re open, ya know, me and Pete.”
“Oh?” My eyebrows raised with suspicion and intrigue. The game had changed.
“Yeah, you want another beer?”

My sides and cheeks were aching from laughter the more time we spent together self-medicating on piss-colored beer.
“Wanna go down to 4th Street?” he asked. This is an area in town where there is a cluster of gay bars. Although most of the patrons of these establishments are young twinks and witless jocks, I didn’t want to reject his suggestion. I wanted my evening with him to continue, regardless of where it was.

We walked and stumbled for a few blocks before entering a nightclub buzzing with effeminate young men, drag queens, and go-go boys. It wasn’t my scene, and I didn’t expect it was Trevor’s either. However, there was a nice patio in the back that provided cabana like structures with an arrangement of couches and chairs. We got our drinks and found a place to get comfortable.

Our conversation shifted from poking fun at karaoke singers to judging the shameless boys prancing around in their underwear belting out Katy Perry lyrics between shots of some green-colored concoction. Our chuckling subsided into a silence that transitioned into very direct eye contact – the kind that signals for action. We began to make out, and everything else disappeared. Trevor was a damn good kisser, and as I said before, mesmerizing.

We broke for a moment and he asked if I wanted to go back to the bar where we started. When I asked why he said, “Because I want to see you try to walk with that!” I followed his eyes to my crotch which I had somehow neglected to notice during our public displays of affection. I reached into my shorts and readjusted myself in one of the few ways us men can really manage. We’re limited to pushing it down to be held poorly by the elastic of our underwear, or flipping it up into the waistband of our pants. You have to be careful not to let your shirt lift up once you’ve committed to the latter, lest you reveal the top half of your schlong. We’ve all been there, men. You’d think it would get easier to play the “How Do I Hide My Boner?” game after surviving puberty, but that’s not really the case. I digress…

Trevor and I did indeed return to the first bar which was now considerably more crowded than before. The night owls had come out to play.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” he said to me.
“Okay.” My eyes were wandering around the room, analyzing new bodies and faces.
“No, I mean, I’m going to the bathroom…” he said again, this time with a mischievous grin and a no-longer disguised agenda.
“Oh!” He walked away leaving me with a difficult decision. Do I follow him and risk getting caught having sex in a public restroom? Should I stay? Should I go? Am I really about to do this?

Perhaps it was the alcohol thinking for me, but I ended up casually wandering into the men’s bathroom. I found him waiting there in an open handicap stall with the shit-eating grin of a champion spread across his face. He pulled me in and locked the door.

Now having sex in a gay bar’s facilities doesn’t sound very appealing, but it’s actually more thrilling than I had previously thought. And kudos to him for picking a handicap stall that had convenient metal bars around to hold on to. This probably wasn’t his first rodeo.

We made no attempt to be quiet in any way. My worry about being caught flew out the window, replaced by primal lust and reckless indiscretion. We heard other men coming in and out of the restroom, carrying on conversations and seemingly ignoring the distinct sound of sex. Perhaps this was more common than I thought. Now it had become an auditory performance.

I have no idea how long we fucked, but at some point after climaxing we both realized that the bar would be closing soon. We dressed ourselves and peered out the stall door. The garbage had already been bagged up and tied by some poor barback who most likely experienced a symphony of our moans.

Trevor and I made our way out of the bathroom and found a backdoor to sneak out of. I’m not sure what the point of protecting our identities was at that point, but it felt like the right thing to do.

“Well that was fun,” I said, still somewhat out of breath.
“Yeah, we should do it again sometime,” he said with a nod.
“Maybe even in a bed?”
“You’re not that boring, Travis,” he joked.