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I wake up. I do my normal routine: check the clock. Groan. Pick my stuffed dog up off the floor. Roll around for a few minutes. Finally, I drag myself to my feet and stumble to the bathroom. My hair is greasier than it should be, even with another set of hands running through it. The crotch of my pajama bottoms clings to the anatomy underneath. I drop them to discover that my genitalia is slightly shiny, sticky, with the occasional speck of lint clinging to it. Fragments of the previous night recollect themselves in my memory. It all comes together. Lubricant. God dammit. For me, lubricant is a horrible fact of life. I hate the mess it makes, but I can't have sex without it. Being an uncircumcised man, I have little need for it in my daily life. But that only makes the shock more intense as I slip the condom on, and remember what comes next. Of course, I want my bottom to feel good, so I endure it. I wouldn't find the substance so frustrating if it wasn't so difficult to remove. But what I really hate is how after you've slathered your rubber-covered cock (I hope) with this slippery goo, you have to maneuver your way through the rest of your session with a hand that's covered in the aforementioned goo. From this point on, this hand is of no use to you. You can't support yourself on the bedpost with it, because you'll surely slip. You can't pull your partner's hair, because that's just plain mean. I do suppose there are certain precautions one could take to avoid this mess, such as a strategically placed rag to wipe your hand off before the action begins, but who wants to plan for these things? I swear, some horny gay Einstein could make a fortune inventing some device that you just stick your erect member in, pull out, and you're all lubed up and ready to go. I'd take on the mission myself, but I am not scientifically minded, and I'm lazy. So until that point, I maintain a love/hate relationship with lubricant: Can't fuck with it, can't fuck without it.

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Cas I feel your pain (or actually, since you're so sensitive to the needs of your bottom boys, I suppose I vicariously feel LESS pain thanks to your giving in to the lube). But I've been around the block and back and fucked in every alley along the way. I've NEVER not been in the presence of "The Special Towel" -- and surely, I thought, everyone has one handy. Me? Same dresser: condom, lubes, poppers, dvd remote, The Special Towel. It stays on the bed within reach through the whole thing, and you'll be surprised how often your playmate will look for a quick wipe of a hand or a thigh or a cheek mid-session as well. This is the reason they are so plentiful at city gyms. Snatch one or two at a time (not that I ever have). Just be a charmer, and take it back to the gym after a home-use or two so it makes its way back into the circle of fitness-cum-carnal life. And as for the Einstein invention to make it a hands-free practice from the get-go: stick the head of your cock under your boyfriend's pussy, and shoot a gob of the lube right on his hole. Your dick will catch the slow cascade; use enough to insure that moving up and in is in itself the act of applying the lube as you pass through the viscous gateway to fun.

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