Last One to the Car as published in Afterwords: Real Sex From Gay Men's Diaries edited by Kevin Bentley; Alyson Publications, Los Angeles, 2001. Copyright © 2000 Tom Ace somewhere in California, February 2000 Two nights ago, I was walking on a quiet residential street near Doheny Drive in Los Angeles at around 10 at night, on my way to a concert up on the Sunset Strip. Four guys, in their twenties or so, came running after me from behind; the one in front said "gimme your money, motherfucker." I outran them and got away. Fuck, I thought, I lived in L.A. from '81 to '83 and nothing like this ever happened to me; have things changed that much since I left? Pissed me off, but at least it was at nice to know my 40-year-old legs still kick ass. Then I remembered a time, about 16 years ago in Colorado, when being able to run fast had come in handy indeed. That time it wasn't muggers I was outrunning, it was a 21-year-old named Eric. Eric was an undergrad, a business major I think, who I'd met on the sidewalk outside the dirty bookstore in Boulder. Too bad I never met any other boys on the sidewalk outside, what with how gross the inside of the store was. We went back to my apartment and enjoyed the first of about a dozen fucks we would have over the next few months. He said he was bi, I think, or at least had had his share of straight sex. He didn't talk a lot, didn't have much of a sense of humor. Hanging out with him wasn't painfully boring, but I wouldn't have bothered if it weren't for his boyish face, lean hard body, and fine dick (not listed in order of importance). He was butch, but not excessively so, and cultivated a simple, unadorned style. He favored blue jeans, athletic shorts, t-shirts, sweatshirts, and definitely no designer underwear: the look imprinted on my sexual taste from countless frustrating episodes of secretly lusting after straight friends as a teenager. Eric said he'd been in a frat the previous year, but was now living with a roommate who didn't know he was bi (or whatever he was). He didn't have any frat house sex stories to tell me, but he said that his roommate would get on top of him and mock-fuck him when Eric was lying prone on his bed doing reading for school. All in good clean straight-boy fun, of course. I told him that if I had a roommate who did that, he'd better be prepared to deliver the goods. Eric was sexually aggressive in a selfish, straightish-top way; lots of fun if you like that and probably horrible if you don't. Our sessions became fairly routine: I'd suck his dick, he'd go to fuck me, I'd stop him and hand him some lube (he'd never ask for it), and then he'd fuck me about as hard as he could. I can't keep from coming if a guy has a big dick and fucks hard, so our sessions were characterized more by intensity than by duration. He didn't make much noise during sex, verbal or otherwise, but occasionally he spoke up. Once, while we were doing it doggie-style, he told me "You've got the best ass in town." I actually disagreed with that assessment, but I didn't think there was any point in contradicting him. He once told me he liked having sex with me because "chicks" would "freak out" if he fucked them that hard. It was nice to know I was good for something. Much as I like getting fucked, I wanted a little variety from time to time, and Eric had a very desirable ass. Problem was, I couldn't fuck him without first enduring a stream of whiny I-don't-wannas. If I persisted I prevailed, and things smoothed out after we got over the initial hump. More than smoothed out, actually; he'd make like he was just discovering the nerve endings in his rear end, and say that we really ought to do this more often. But somehow those realizations would disappear by the next time he came over, and the I-don't-wannas would return in full force. Curious boy. One fine summer afternoon, we went for a hike in the hills just outside of town. Taking a short hike is the Boulder equivalent of having a drink or two; you're not allowed to live in the town if you don't like the outdoors. We hadn't discussed any agenda in advance, but we both knew that the outing was to be followed by going home and fucking. After we'd had enough and were walking back, he turned to me and announced a deal: "Last one to the car gets fucked." Without waiting for me to agree, he ran off with a good head start--but he didn't know that I could outsprint most anyone. I beat him to the car. He admitted that I'd won fair and square (not mentioning how unfair it would've been if he'd won with a head start). I could see the wheels turning in his head as he tried in vain to think up a way to undo what had happened, all the while making a cute futile effort to hide just how pissed off he was. He wanted my ass, plain and simple, and went into full-on calculation mode to find a means to that end. Meanwhile, I was withholding my glee at having beat him at his own game, and loving how I didn't have to calculate and wangle because I was holding the winning hand. On the way home I savored the thought of getting my dick into his fine straightish-boy ass, a special kind of anticipation made possible by the contest: Eric's gift to me, if unintended. Back at my place, he made one last attempt to see whether I'd be willing to forfeit what I'd won. Not a chance, I told him, and his ass was duly penetrated--although this time, I didn't hear any of his usual gee-this-feels-great-let's-do-it-more-often, heh heh. I made sure he got a good, solid fucking, if not quite as hard as the ones he liked to deliver to me. I have some sense of mercy. Next time he came over there was no mention of his previous defeat. I reckoned it would be the usual suck-his-dick-and-get-fucked routine, but Eric added a new twist. I was on my knees blowing him, having a great time at it as usual--when he pulled his dick out of my mouth, turned around, reached back and pulled my face into his ass, not saying a word in usual Eric style. Most guys wait for some indication that you want to rim them before putting their ass to your face; Eric was one of only a handful I've encountered who didn't. I can't help but think it was his way of getting even with me for what had happened the last time. I breathed nice and deep, he had a fine ass scent, but I'd recently decided to stop rimming for health reasons and kept my tongue in my mouth. After a while he gave up on waiting for me to lick him, took me to the bed, and proceeded to fuck me as usual. I explained afterwards why I hadn't licked his ass, and he understood just fine and said it wasn't something he'd ever do. Not long afterwards, Eric stopped seeing me. He told me all we ever did was have sex. I thought yeah, that's because you're a boring person, Eric. That's why we've been fuck buddies and not boyfriends. At the time, I couldn't imagine giving up on hot sex for some silly reason like having nothing in common. Given access to the hottest dick in town, I'd have preferred to milk it for more than just a dozen go-arounds. Dear Eric: wherever you are now, are you still getting so much good ass or (even if you can't fuck it quite as hard) pussy that you're turning it down? Are you still "bi"? I loved the fucks you gave me, but what sticks in my mind is your little contest, your nice try to squirm out of having lost, and your ultimately giving it up like a man. Some butts I've had offered to me, others I've charmed my way into, and others I've paid for--but yours is the only ass I've ever won.