A Red State of Love Alert & the Story of the Christmas Whore

A Red State of Love Alert 
& the Story of the Christmas Whore 
©WTW 2004
by William Whiting

I arranged for an unorthodox Christmas love affair about six years ago – an experiment in intimacy with no guarantees, and that’s just what it turned-out to be – an experiment, with no guarantees. 

It seems I have certain reoccurring themes in my life to which I’m forever unwise, except in hindsight.  Infallibly bad judgment in men is one of those themes…  Ignoring all warning signs in the hopes of getting laid, is another.  In younger days I tried to separate the “wheat from the chaff” by running a very specific online gay ad:

  • Gravity Defying “Fifty-Something” Seeks Something Similar… 5’10” 180 fit guy looking for same – Men over 40 a plus…(men don’t ripen ’til well after forty). Kinda vanilla here, so nothing that requires plastic drop-cloths or upsets the housekeeper. Couples, feel free to cheat-on-each-other with me, but no 3-ways, (people in groups confuse me). NOTE: I make it a practice not to date anyone I could have fathered, so NO TWINKS! No fems, and absolutely no gay-republicans, I‘m still bitter about the Bush “reelection“.

I arrived at this love-pact with a man traveling north from Alabama. We met online on a site called ManHunt, and arranged to have our experimental affair with breathless anticipation.  It was to be an adventure of love with a beginning, a middle, and an end…  and I was filled with dry-throated desire by the time he arrived. 

Rick, (my southern gentleman-caller) and I arranged our meeting online weeks in advance through emails, phone calls, (OK, phone-sex) and a game of 60 questions.  I’d receive email questions from him a half dozen at a time…”Who’s your favorite movie-star?” he’d ask.  I’d roll my eyes, try to suppress my naturally bitter cynicism and email him back with something like, “Vilma Banky”.  In playful return, I’d ask: “What top 40 bubble-gum hit, (past or present) makes you want to hurl the radio at the wall?”.  I forget his answer, but mine was “Build Me Up Buttercup”.  That song shatters my fillings.  And so it went for several weeks, occasionally talking by phone late at night, describing obscene things we intended do to each other in person and making guttural noises into the phone receiver until completion.

Rick, got into Philadelphia on a rainy Friday Christmas Eve afternoon.  It was a totally non-picturesque rain that had descended on the city.  He called me from his cell-phone, he‘d rented a car at the airport, and was in Center City, hopelessly lost.  I told him to stay-put, and I’d come meet him on the street.  That way I had an opportunity to pull a disappearing-act if he creeped-me-out or seemed like a psycho-killer.  No one likes to spend their Christmas holidays in a shallow grave on some remote chicken ranch.  I wanted to meet him on the street – on foot – eye to eye – in broad daylight.  Even I’m smart enough not to get into a stranger’s car.  Rick was coming up to spend the holidays with his redneck brother and homophobic sister-in-law who’d just moved to Valley Forge.  He described them as “inadequate family” but his “only family”.  We had arranged to have our affairette so as to be an oasis of no-strings intimacy and fun before his facing the “family”.  The family were expecting him at noon on Christmas day.  He’d lied to his brother about his flight time and arrival.

To my obvious delight, he was WAY cuter than his pictures.  I brought him back to the house, dried him off shared a little wine and jumped his bones 20 minutes later.  The stats were perfect: runners ass and legs, nice torso, ripped abs, meaty tits, round shoulder caps and nice arms.  The meat was the international average, (if you factor-in the population of mainland China), but who the hell cares?  He had such an adorable face with a broad open smile, beautiful green eyes, and a sexy hint of gray at his temples.  But for all his obvious charms, it was the dirty talk in that lilting southern-drawl that pushed me right over the edge…

“Make luv to me cuddly-bear.  Do whatever you like.”

Before either of us knew what had happened, it was 7PM, and we had 8 o’clock dinner reservations at a chic little bistro around the corner.  Was it possible we’d been going at each other for 5 hours?  Or had it been a lost-time experience in duet?.  We showered together, and had trouble getting out of the shower.  While getting ready, we caught glimpses of ourselves in the mirror. Both of us had such a rough beards, our lips were peeling, our nipples were raw, and we both had nothing short of a full-body-whisker-burn.  I was a little self-conscious when we walked into the restaurant.  We were so red-faced and covered in moisturizer so no one could tell we were peeling as if we‘d spent the whole day in hot tropical sun.  I felt like everyone was looking at us – we had the guilty look of two people who’d just spent countless hours licking each other half to death.  But I always look guilty whether I’d done anything or not.  During dinner we laughed and played “footsie” under the table, stopping only to stare into each other’s eyes with nearly bovine bewilderment.  It was one of those rare ‘love-at-first-sight’ realizations.

After dinner we strolled hand in hand through the city, and later kissed in the moonlight in Washington Square Park while we walked my dog.  Lust set-in in the park and we ran all the way back to my house – tore off our clothes and went at it again like minks.  He uttered those classic words in my ear: “I want to feel you inside me”.  To which I gleefully complied.  But once sheathed-up and my attentive soldier had “gone-in, “ I stopped to look at how handsome his face looked with both of his feet flanking either side of his head.  Again he whispered to me in his devastatingly sexy southern-accent of his, “…Cuddle-bunnie, I haven’t been entirely honest or forthright with you”.  I suspended pumping, and dumbfoundedly stared at him, saying “WHAAAT…!!!?”.

“Well,” he replied, “I’m not really 48, I’m 52″

“I don’t have a problem with that.”  I said.

“I have a long-time lover down in Georga.” he said sheepishly.

Looking at him hesitantly, I said “I thought you told me you were from Alabama?”

“Ah-ahamm” he replied, turning 2 syllables into 6.  “Ah live in Alabama, and mah lovah lives in Georgia.”

“No worries, I’m not asking you to marry me.”

“It’s not legal anyway.”  He said, a little too quickly.  “But there’s Something’ else…I dye my hair and only leave it gray at the temples” he said.

“So do I“, I replied.  “Very skillfully done.”  I commented while trying to re-stoke the rhythm.

“…and while Ah read youah profile thoroughly, I neglected to tell you I’m a gay republican who voted for George Dubbua Bush.”  Without saying so much as a word in-reply, I firmly grabbed both ankles stretching his hamstrings to the max, and pumped him at an appreciably less courteous and romantic thrust.

“Ah campaigned doah to doah.”

I wasn’t even attempting to be polite about my physical reaction to his words. – deliberately fucking the living crap out of him until his teeth chattered. 

“Ah gave - (uh, grunt) – two - (squeel) thousand (gasp) dollahs (ahhh) of mah own (arrrggghhh) money (Oh, Oh, Oh Jesus) to his (OH GOD) Ah’m a major donor (I’m cumin’!!!) to his AAAAAAHHHHH….CAMPAIGN…!!!”

What the hell, was that?  He loved it.  The harder I pounded him the more he liked it.  You can’t win with these people – they’re impossible!!! 

So call me weak, I gave it to him again the following morning.  Thanks to (a little blue pill from Pfizer and Centrum Silver).  I even fed him breakfast, (which I thought was damned civilized of me as a member in good standing of the Northern Aggressors.)  

We didn’t get together again after that, but he has called and emailed a couple times.  Its a closed chapter as far as I’m concerned, besides, he lives in Alabama.

While reflecting on that sleazy trick six years ago it occurs to me there may be a political implication as to how progressives need to calm the conservative right – screw ’em ’til they squeal like the little piggy’s they are and pump-up-the-thrust.  Deep down inside you know they really, really want it.

Merry XXXmas !!!

*       *       *       *       *

WinnieToons is going to take off a week while Beihl works on some long overdue repairs to his house, his artwork, and his life. 

5 thoughts on “A Red State of Love Alert & the Story of the Christmas Whore

  1. Can I say shame on you for having "relations" with a Ratpublican't? Geez Beihl -STANDARDS (LOL jus' kidding) Have a good Yule and enjoy the house repairs. I always find fixing things restful and pleasant.

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