After many conversations with several other men, it seems I am not alone in the excitement and burden of discovering my bisexuality this late in life and the pains of finding another sane, ordinary guy who happens to also be bisexual are extraordinary at times.  Fear kept me from even acknowledging that I am bisexual to myself for decades and then it took about another three years to find the courage to reach out to other men like me.  So, already, the statistical cards are stacked against us, since precisely the guy I am looking for is going to be low on the radar to start with.

Happily married to my high **** sweetheart, our sex life is healthier than it has ever been.  What I have concluded about most of the men on Craigslist or bi/gay hookup sites is that they really might be married but are lonely and the bedroom is stone cold or they might actually be satisfied with their wives sexually but still have some major conflicts in their own head about being bisexual.  Some seem to just get off on the chase and then just before we close the deal and agree to meet for coffee somewhere -- after weeks of chatting like regular pals -- the line goes silent.  In the beginning, I took it personal, but it was happening over and over again to where it became kind of interesting from a study of human behavior point of view.

For me, fantasy has yet to align with reality in most respects.  When anticipating an encounter, I think about how the knob of his cock is going to feel as it glides past my slippery lips and the textures my tongue will encounter as it swirls at the V of his cockhead.  I imagine the weight of his shaft across my eyebrow while I am suckling his testicles and rimming his clean shaved asshole.  When I am finally rewarded for my sensual hard work, it is paid off with a thick creamy splash of cum, warm and fulfilling, rivaling the taste of a musky, soaking wet pussy.

In my very limited experience, there have been glimpses of these screenplays come to life but on whole, the true emotional account is considerably different.  There are slices of a meet that are incredibly arousing for me, like getting permission to pet the bulge under his denim jeans before we are undressed or hearing him start to moan and grunt and know that I am about to get a mouthful of cum.  I can't really recall consciously observing a pulsing or "throbbing" sensation in my mouth but licking and kissing a firm set of shaved balls is an enjoyable memory.  I think that until the over-stimulation of carrying out a taboo affair is normalized by regular occurrences with a trusted friend, it will be difficult for me to be in the moment.  These escapades also reveal (having over twenty five years together) how well my wife and I understand the erotic triggers as well as boundaries of each other in bed; this is fairly new territory to me as I fumble through the dance of figuring out what turns on the guy I am blowing and how do I communicate my own wants when he is reciprocating.

What I wasn't prepared for --  but in hindsight should have seemed obvious -- is how guys smell.  Not in a "stench" kind of smell but just the scent, in general, that we have.  It did not matter that we were always freshly showered; there is an underlying musk that is distinctly masculine present when within a few inches of a man's crotch.  Duh.  The other thing I wasn't prepared for was my mouth getting fatigued after a good stretch of bobbing on a cock.  One time, as I was going to town on my buddy's tool, my mind was starting to wander around and my jaw was getting tired.  I began to get concerned that my teeth were going to rake this guy's shaft, kill the moment, and double the work to get my anticipated shot of cum.  The thought made me think of (and have a new found appreciation for) my wife when I am in ecstacy as she is going down on me and not letting myself burst for just a little longer, nearly causing me to let out a laugh.  Fortunately, I kept it together long enough for him to release :)

It's been well over two years now since my last taste and despite the specific details fading from my memory, the craving is stronger than ever.  Good thing I am a patient kind of guy and, fingers crossed, someday my cherished wife will accept my invitation for a stud to join us in the bedroom ;)

Still working on the Toga Party, but here is an account of my first MM experience that I posted in the forums a while back...

An honest account of my first time, not that long ago....
Near the end of my boozing career many years ago, I remember having occasional fantasies of getting a cock in my mouth.  To this day, wonder if I made any pursuits in a black out. I sobered up and slowly patched my life back together with the fantasy pretty far away in my mind. The distractions of clearing wreckage and rebuilding relationships finally began to ebb and my instinct for sex swelled, spilling over to the other side. Within kicking distance of turning 40, I dealt with it with familiar denial mechanisms but a little over a year ago, I discovered the personals on Craigslist.

A devoted husband for nearly 20 years with a couple of escapades with women in the distant past, my heart raced as I selected the M4M section. Months trickled by as I increased my visits to the site to read men and bots advertising needs and abilities. Again, with trembling fingers, I set up a secret email account and posted a ridiculously long and wordy ad centered on fear and hope. Looking back, it went very fast but my education seemed to be taking forever. Most promising leads went cold. I was stood up several times but began to understand that it wasn't personal and kept trying.

Eventually, a guy in the same desperate boat had the house to himself when his wife went out of town.  With considerable effort, I was able to persuade him to give me his address and I went over after a shower and shave. For certain, it was awkward but we both understood the importance of pushing through the anxiety and within minutes of pulling in his driveway, I was undressed in his living room. He stroked my flaccid cock and then knelt down to get a taste. It became utterly surreal. I was in an unfamiliar house with unknown family pictures on the wall and the top of a middle aged man's head was beginning to bob back and forth on my stiffening tool.

He took a break and stood up. I took the cue and sat on the couch then maneuvered his belt loose. Next was the button and zipper on his jean shorts. Though freshly showered, his musky odor pushed past the perfume of soap. I did not find it offensive but it certainly added to the strangeness of the situation. He was small enough for me to easily accommodate his entire pointy cock in my mouth. I even grabbed his thick ass and pushed my nose against his large belly, tasting another man's precum for the first time. We traded back and forth for about 45 minutes. I had hoped to get him off first because of a fear that I would lose interest if I shot my load first but it was unfounded.

I blasted his mouth shortly after warning him that I was cumming and he simply kept bobbing his head until I went soft. "Hmm. Not bad," he said, smacking his lips. He sauntered to the kitchen for a drink of water and came back for my turn. Kneeling in front of him, I clumsily worked my head back and forth.  He began to pump his hips faster and I struggled to keep pace and I was momentarily concerned that I have to take a break and then start all over again.  My mind drifted as I thought about how my jaw was getting tired and I nearly laughed as I thought about my wife voicing fatigue when she first started giving me head years and years ago.

At last he told me in a low voice that he was going to cum. I had expected a stream to gag me but what I experienced was a warm, salty, oozing flood of spooge that mixed with my saliva. There was a bitter aftertaste that did not leave my mouth for hours, too. We dressed and thanked each other in another strange and surreal moment then I was off on my way back home. I sent him an email that evening thanking him again for having the courage (or lack of good sense?) to hand out his address to another stranger and indicated that I was not interested in continuing any other engagements with him. All the same, I am hooked....

...to anyone taking the time to read my hack-work, the following is a continuous story that reads from the bottom blog to the top.  If there is a setting to change this layout and reverse the order, I would appreciate such knowledge.  Thanks for stopping by and happy reading.

-J

The notion of the Hamiltons hosting a toga party was so ludicrous that I could not get it out of my mind for days.  We met them about ten years ago when our older son was playing baseball through the park district.  Dan’s choice to volunteer as coach came from Jill’s direct order to get involved with their youngest son before he was as resentful as their eldest for his absenteeism.  Dan’s career kept them comfortable but at great cost to his availability as father and husband.  This only added to my surprise of them hosting a party.  The guy was almost never home.  

Despite brief appearances at many of our cookouts over the years, I knew little about Dan.  Jill and Kate grew somewhat close, first at the ball games and then more so when they discovered the scrapbooking phenomenon together.  Dan’s stoic demeanor always left me grasping at where the hell this guy was at.  No hobbies to speak of, just a workaholic.   Both had just hit 50 earlier in the year and were college educated but the similarities stopped there.  Jill enjoyed too much wine sometimes and I wondered if Dan has had a beer since college.  He was pale year-round from his office job but Jill kept her pleasing body tan and primped.  They were such an unlikely pair.

Katie took great delight in researching how to tailor an authentic toga.  I felt ashamed when I recognized her attention to detail because I would likely have just grabbed a white sheet and added knots in it until it didn’t fall off.

Pleased with her efforts, she asked, “Do you think a purple stripe would be insulting?”

I had no clue.  “Do I look Greek to you?”

I earned a sideways glance for my ignorant comment.  “Roman.  Romans used purple to indicate status....  Never mind.”  My blank look ended the lesson.

Katie dropped the boys off at my folks and whipped together some kind of pumpkin dish to bring while I raked up the last of the leaves and took a shower.   I put on a pair of comfortable running shorts and I did my best impression of a scarecrow with my arms sticking out as Katie dressed me with the 20 foot piece of linen and fussed over the details.  I stood feeling like a chump until she made her final inspection and remarked her reluctant approval.  “Done?”  I asked.

“Yes.  Thank you for being such a good sport.”  I even earned a sweet kiss on my freshly shaven cheek.

I sat on the corner of our bed and watched her casually undress down to her tan bra and panties.  Studying her womanly frame, I felt an unexpected sensation of appreciation for Kate’s body.  I questioned when it happened to me that a woman did not have to be a size 5 to be sexy to me.  “What is Katie, an 8?  10?  12?”  I wondered to myself.  Total MILF.  The juvenile wandering of my mind made me chuckle.

“What are you laughing at?”

“I’m a pig.  Nothing to worry about.”

“When you’re done hurting my feelings, would you mind helping me with this?”

I got up and pinched her ass before taking the cloth she was holding out.

“You’re leaving your bra on?”

“My strapless broke two years ago. hint-hint, and I am NOT going braless to a party.”

“Okay.  But they’ll see your bra strap.  Do we have time to stop at the store?  Ha!  That would be a hoot, going to Kohl’s in togas!”

“I go to a public pool wearing a much more revealing one-piece.  Have you not seen what the girls are wearing these days?  Thongs with low-riding jeans and bras are the latest craze in outerwear.  Since when do you want me to start covering up?  Aren’t you the same guy who wandered our old neighborhood in a naked stupor?”

Ouch.  I haven’t had a drink in ten years and that still comes up.

“Forget it.”

Properly prepared with our dish and togas, I gathered the loose ends of her garment after she sat in the passenger seat of her sensible mom-mobile and handed her the dessert.  Feeling grateful we had a garage so the neighbors did not see me in this getup, I closed Kate’s door, went around to get in the driver’s seat, and backed out of the garage to drive us to the Hamilton’s.....

“Hope?”  I called.  “I have your ‘puter.  Just a graphics card issue.  I had a spare, so no big deal.”

I stood for a moment waiting for a response and wondering if I should take my shoes off or not.  Finally, I heard her coming down the hardwood stairs.  My arm was beginning to fatigue from holding the computer in the crook of my arm.

“Hi Justin.  Thanks for bringing it over; it really wasn’t necessary.”  She was clearly trying to mask troubling emotions with a twisted concoction of casual gratitude and familiar friendship.  I noticed that both Hope and Amanda were not in their usual slob-Sunday attire.  I guessed that they went to church.  I added to that deduction how late in the afternoon it was and I projected a giant sign of Guilt onto the scene: Hope was obviously not the only one suffering the consequences of infidelity.   My ego began to rail against the reality that I was not in control of our escapade.  My mind spun through options of how to get this derailment back on track for just one run but Hope’s face tore it all apart.  It was over and I began demanding that I be grateful to finally have a lid on the anxiety....


Our family keeps a schedule that leaves the kitchen calendar busting at the seams, so there was not much food for the emotional turmoil brought on by what seemed to be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity ejected into the ether.  Spring and summer strode by and our pumpkins were set aside to be carved for Halloween.

I was transferring dates from the paper calendar to my iPhone and noticed “H-PARTY” near the end of the month.  I cringed at the thought of enduring a long night at Hope and Frank’s trying not to think of what might have been.  Irritated, I called out, “When did THIS get announced?”

Katie was in the laundry room and couldn’t hear me clearly over the dryer.  “What, Honey?”

I waited until she appeared in the kitchen.  “This.”  I jabbed my finger at the last Saturday of the month.

Her expression reminded me of Alice Kramden when she was patiently dealing with one of Ralph’s ***** outbursts.  “I told you about it last week.  You don’t want to go?”

The ball was back in my court.  “It just seems like there is hardly time to come up for air.  Thanksgiving.  Christmas.  New Year’s.  Birthdays.  Seriously, it’s nuts.  Besides, I thought Frank was getting his knee worked over -- how is he supposed to host one of his ‘legendary extravaganzas’?  Does no one remember that I work on Sundays?”

“Nice of you to not include our anniversary in your chore list.  And it’s not at Hope and Frank’s.  Dan and Jill are having a toga party.  Take vacation on Sunday and please stop whining.”

My mouth opened and then shut.  “A toga party?  Like Animal House?  I’m not seeing it.  Well, Jill maybe -- but Dan?”

“I swear you don’t hear a word I say sometimes.  What’s wrong with Dan?”

“Nothing.  I mean, he’s a little... pedestrian for a toga party.” I had to grope to find the right word.

“That’s nice.  Did you not want to go?”  She was sounding exasperated.

“Heh, actually, this might be fun.”

Katie’s eyes narrowed and she stopped her self from saying something and ended it with, “I don’t wanna know.”

For two days I was delirious with anticipation.   High on lust, my brain seemed on overdrive and firing an all cylinders.  My notoriously rotten memory and struggles with multi-tasking evaporated.  I cranked out four small projects that I had putting off for close to a year.

Katie took notice.

“Wow, somebody’s on a roll,” came the trigger that nearly stopped my heart.

Instinctual fear nearly whipped up a sarcastic attack but I caught it.  For what felt like an eternity, I paused to try to evaluate her comment.  I demanded that I not panic and send this moment spiraling from what might just be an obvious observation into a full blown catastrophic event.

“I’ll take manic over depression any day.”  I swear I heard my voice tremble and crack a little.

Katie’s expression hitched into a puzzled look for a moment then retreated behind a comforting smile.  Her smile morphed my fear into a mix of relief and guilt.  I changed the topic by announcing that I needed to get some ground beef out of the freezer for dinner on Tuesday.

The hangover from the exchange rolled in swift and thick.  My mind ticked away at least a dozen scenarios where my thirst for excitement dampened my sense of discipline and attention to detail; the probability of getting caught, or at minimum, strongly suspected of cheating on Katie was a near certainty.  I bargained with my own rational conclusion: I’ll be careful.  No phone calls, no emails, no texts, no trails.  I’ll set it up for just one meet with Rob and Hope just to get it out of my system.

“You’ll be unbearable until you get another fix,” I heard myself mumble.  Great, I am now talking to myself in second person.  I could set it up with them with the understanding that it is to be a one time affair -- a pact.

The drama in my head was getting ridiculously similar to a prime time soap my folks watched 30 years ago.  I trudged down to my sanctuary in the basement and stared at Hope and Frank’s computer that I had mended the day before.  The pride I had felt earlier for being trusted with their machine and having the character to not hunt around the hard drive for secrets was gone.  My thoughts circled around the fact that I cheated on Katie with one of our friends.  Strangely, I was aware that I was rationalizing that the hook ups with the dads did not seem to count despite my command for psychobabble was recognizing it as nonsense.  “If Katie had a cock to play with, I would not have needed to step out,” was the ludicrous justification.  But another woman was a completely different matter whose growing weight my self centeredness could no longer support.

No doubt about it, manic is far better than depression.

I picked up the phone and scrolled the directory for Hope’s house phone.  I stood staring at it for a few moments and then made the call to let them know that their HP was ready to go and I could drop it off in a bit.  Frank answered the phone and thanked me for taking care of it.

“Dude, I don’t know a fuckin’ thing about them things.  What do I owe you?”

“Ribeye.  Medium-rare before the summer is out and we’ll call it even.”

“Are you sure, man?  Seems awful light, but it’s your call.  When do you think you’ll be comin’ over?  I was just about to head out the door to get Nate from my Mom’s but Hope should be here for a while.”

“That’s cool.  Let her know that I’ll be there in about an hour or so.  I guess I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Sounds good.  Thanks again.”

Sitting in my office chair, I contemplated what I was going to say to Hope when I got there.  An hour drifted by and I coiled the power cord and put the computer in my truck and announced to Katie that I was dropping off the machine and asked if she needed anything while I was out.

“Not that I can think of.   See you in a short.”

My mind was sober and reflective for the ten minute drive across town.  My mouth dried up and I was irritated that my heart rate was getting obnoxious.  I went to the side door with the computer under my arm and rang the doorbell with a knuckle.  Amanda, their pint-sized daughter, came to the door.

“Hi Mistoh Justin.  Daddy went to get my brudda but Mommy’s inna house.”  Too cute; but why didn’t Hope answer the door?  Something was up.  I wiped my feet vigorously on the thick outdoor bristle mat before stepping inside.