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by Moore Lovin

“Can I cum on your face?”

"I don't know you very well, so let's stay below the neck line, sunshine."

Seconds later, he shot his load all over my chest and belly.

Just thirty minutes earlier, Mike and I had met on the street. We passed each other near the corner of 6th Ave. and Washington St., each of us looking backward at the other as we passed. Earlier that evening, one of my Brooklyn dates (see my next column, “Three Grows in Brooklyn”) had cancelled on me, leaving me wandering around the Village and straight into Mike. After brief introductions, he said, "I was going to the gym, unless you give me another option for a workout. You're really hot. I'd really like to fuck you." He was a 28 year old PhD student in Biology at Columbia (or so he said). His name was Mike (or so he said) and he was the best offer I had had for sex in a long time (so I said). I asked the only logical question for the situation:

“What is a cytokine? What is a macrophage? IgE?” His answers were all correct, so I took all of his information as credible: He was 28, he was a grad student in Biology, I was hot and he definitely wanted to fuck me.

“It’s not my style to fuck on the first date, but we can talk about it,” I said.

Ten minutes later, as we entered my apartment, he took off all of his clothes. He was even more attractive naked in the moonlight streaming into my apartment: fit, dark eyes, black hair. He was some flavor of southern European, but I didn’t have the courage to ask, and the answer wouldn’t have changed anything. His dick was the biggest I had. “Ouch,” I thought, as I prepared to tell him we would not be fucking tonight.

“Suck on my dick,” he demanded as I got on my knees. We got into bed.

“Are you ready for me to fuck you?” I paused, doing some mental calculation. It did feel great, he was hot, and I really did want him inside of me.

“Look, it’s been 2 months for me, 6 months for you, just relax and enjoy it.” “He makes some good points,” I thought.

I turned onto my stomach, giving him permission to enter me. He had trouble finding the right spot. When he finally found it, the entrance was quick, hard and painful.

“Be gentle and give a brother some notice, would you?” I asked, taking a minute to let the pain subside. He tried again. He was messy, sloppy. He fell out and found his way again. "This is the difference between 28 and 36," I thought. He kept falling out, reentering, initially with me guiding him until he figured it out. But, it was hot. With him inside of me, I turned to face him.

“You’re really hot. I’m glad I’m fucking you,” he said. Once he got there, it was great and it did not take long for us both to cum. He lay quietly for a moment, then quickly got up and put on his clothes.

"You took that dick really well," he complimented, as he got dressed. As I lay naked on the bed with the semen from both of us all over me, he reached for the door, and I asked the question, “Why did you want to fuck me?” The real test was at hand; he had no reason to lie. He had gotten what he wanted, had his hand on the door, and I would never see him again.

"Because you're hot. I'm glad I fucked you." Then, he added, in a sweet, inquisitive way, "You know you're hot, don't you?”

“Yes,” I responded, and, perhaps for the first time in my life, I really did.

“Bye, Mike. Please close the door.”

All of this made me wonder: What makes someone attractive? All summer, I was getting picked up everywhere - on the street, at bars, on subways. A patient had even looked at me in a flattering way. What made me more or less attractive at different times in my life? I could go for weeks in the past without a man looking twice at me and, now, it was happening on a daily basis. Was it physical (a 30 pound weight loss), attitudinal (I was more confident), superficial (a radiant tan), olfactory (was I using a new soap)--or something else? "New York" magazine’s cover story that week was about the science of attractiveness, suggesting that there may be a science to all of this as big name stars are all getting the same cosmetic surgery.

Like most New York gay men, I have spent tens of thousands--maybe closer to a hundred thousand--of dollars during my adult life on clothes, soaps, and hair products, trying to become attractive, so that someone attractive would find me attractive. My friends who visit from out of town love to stay with me, believing they have personal access to one of the best collections of soaps, shampoos, and hair products in the city. (“It’s like showering at Kiel’s!”) But have we ever stopped to consider if it works? With the belief that this stuff didn’t work, mass trauma would hit our city, with producers and promoters of clothes, makeup, hair products, etc., going out of business. So, it either does work or we believe it works. [Here was a 28-year old grad student in a t-shirt, shorts, no gel in his hair, no products on his face, no cologne on his body, but I found him wildly attractive. Was there something innate, something programmed in our early fetal life that makes us desire someone and not be interested--maybe even repulsed--by someone else? And if that was true, what roles did our personalities (over which we may not have much control) play?

My week ended at The Penthouse at Park (118 10th Ave. at 18th St.), at a monthly Sunday night bear party where the boys are large and hairy. Friends had called last minute and asked me to join them. Although I fantasized at times about being a bear's "cub,” the reality of the situation was that, in the end, I generally was not attracted to these shapes. However, even in the sea of large hairy bodies, I did find several men I gladly would have engaged in sex. Several hotties with big bellies and hairy chests were confidently sporting nothing but underwear as they danced. I flirted with them, saying, “You, only in underwear. That is a great look for you,” suggestively touching them as we spoke. So, maybe "New York" magazine wasn’t right. It was not just about the physical: the curve of a body, the shape of a nose, the width of the eyes, generally, things we cannot control. There is a biological mechanism, but, often, other factors—the way someone holds themselves, an accent, confidence--contribute and can overcome the physical imperfections.

I didn’t get laid that night but fell asleep being really happy to have gotten fucked by a hot 28 year old that week and, although not certain of its etiology, with new confirmation of my attractiveness.

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