I'm not one to believe in Luck, unless it's the dumb variety, which has gotten me out of a number of scrapes over the years.
Well, let's recount.
Yesterday morning found me whipping up vanilla sauce and créme anglaise. The vanilla sauce was way easy and had a great result (equal parts water and sugar boiled for three or four minutes, then vanilla extract added). The créme anglaise threw me a little bit, since the recipe I was using didn't quite give information about when it was done, just said, "and cook." It didn't seem thick enough to me, so I kept wisking and cooking. Then, I decided to wisk it in an ice bath, and that made it thicken up nicely. And then it set. As custards do.
This meant that although it tasted great, the look of it wasn't what I was hoping for, no creamy expanse of golden cream atop my trifle, but sort of globby and unspreadable.
Ah well, I thought, let's just conceal that with whipped cream! And so I did. And on top of the cream, I made a nice rosetta arrangement of peach slices, peach juice, gingersnap cookies cut in half, and vanilla sauce. I walked Faithful Companion, bid adieu to my dad, and headed over to Pottstown.
When I arrived, there were only a handful of guests there, some I recognized from years past or other contexts, and some who were knew to me. A few hours before dinner, Man Of Discipline rolled up. I introduced him around, and then settled in and passed the afternoon talking. Such the nice group of guys. Dinner consisted of grilled italian sausage, and it totally hit the spot. After dinner came dessert--the moment I had been anxiously awaiting--for weeks now--and sure 'nuff, the ginger peach trifle was well received. "You made this yourself?"
Yes I did.
More talking. I enjoyed a cigar. The light started to fade. But just as I went and fetched a bottle of water and was preparing to suggest to Man Of Discipline that we head up the hill to the barn, he announced that he had to leave, wanting to get started before he was traveling in the dark on unfamiliar roads, and a buddy of his was waiting for him at the gay campground where he's spending the weekend. (Not that gay campground, the other one.)
Luck deigned to intervene.
I saw him when he arrived. Medium height, shaved head, wearing a lightweight sweatshirt unzipped to show off his nice pecs. He looked like a prizefighter returning to the gym where he had first learned to box. Nothing tentative about him as he descended the steps to the patio smiling. Just confidence, his face glowing with anticipation. Way sexy.
And he also reminded me a little bit of Harry Goldenblatt on Sex And The City, who made Charlotte York into Charlotte York-Goldenblatt. Of all the men who have appeared on Sex And The City over the years, I think Harry is the hottest. In one episode where they went to the beach, Charlotte is aghast when Harry, cigar sticking out of his face, removes his shirt to reveal the Hairiest Back Ever. I, on the other hand, just about creamed my pants.
After Man Of Discipline bed us all goodnight, I tarried for a bit, enjoying my own cigar, then headed up to JPZapper and DogTopper's well appointed barn.
"Well-appointed"? No. That doesn't quite cover it. "Fabulously outfitted dungeon" is closer to the mark. A few scenes, including a quite electrifying display by Master of Mirage were underway.
Prizefighter guy and I were on each other immediately. What followed was a very hot bout of sportsex with him in the sling and me in the saddle. He looked So Damn Hot looking up at me, urging me on. And his hole felt even better. So sweet!
I haven't been to many orgies. Of the few that I've been to, I can't say I've quite gotten the knack of it. But last night I made some improvement in this area. At an orgy, it's like a cocktail party: it's considered bad form to pair off with one other guest and the two of you head to the kitchen and sit and talk together about 19th Century French poetry. Uh uh. You mingle. You do your best to have quality interactions with as many folks there as possible. Emphasis on the quality. So Prizefighter and I ended things a little early, with both of us wanting more of each other (and not before I put him up against the St. Andrew's Cross and beat on his beautiful meaty bubble butt till it was nice and red... fukken WOOF!). We exchanged numbers.
And then came the clearest indication that Luck just might have something to do with it...
Me: I like you. A lot. Do you give a good backrub?
Prizefighter: I'm a massage therapist.
Cue the brass band.
Watch my eyes spin around before coming up 7 7 7, like in a Bugs Bunny cartoon.
To renew myself after Prizefighter, I headed for the hot tub. I was alone when I got there. I sprawled out, resting my head on my folded arms floating on my belly. I could watch, but not be seen. And that was kinda cool, seeing men moving among the various outbuildings in various states of undress and dishevelment.
And then I heard fireworks.
I looked up, and through the trees, I saw fireworks. Pottstown was apparently doing their fireworks show that night. And I, sitting in a hot tub, got to watch.
Fireworks. In a hot tub.
I love fireworks. (I still haven't forgiven The Baron for making me miss the fireworks for Gay Pride in NYC.) And, as even the most casual reader will know, I love hot tubs.
What the hell are the chances? I'm soaking in a hot tub and I get to see a fireworks display???
It had to be...
When I headed back to the barn, I took note of this big built beautiful man with innocence in his eyes, shyly holding back from the festivities. I cunningly circled like a shark, thinking that a direct approach would startle him. Out on the deck, I introduced myself.
And he was a sweetheart. From South Jersey.
What the hell is it about South Jersey? Do they put something in the water there? I have a total soft spot in my heart for men from South Jersey. Think about that guy you know from South Jersey. He's guileless, kind-hearted, surveying the dark and malevolent world we live in with openness and wonder, obviously seeing something very good there that the rest of us somehow miss. Right? Isn't he? It's amazing! They're all like that.
And Mr. South Jersey was no exception. He and I talked out there on the deck. About work. About growing up. (We both agreed that everybody has a bad childhood, it's all about how well you live your life as an adult.) About working out and the gym. (He hates crunches and never does abs either.) And about Jesus and God and such.
And it was while we were having a theological discussion that he absentmindedly reached out with both hands and tweaked my nipples. And we went at it.
After a time spent on the creaky ol' bench out on the deck, I suggested we move inside the barn, so we did. The space available which best suited our purposes was a wrestling mat folded up and stacked against the wall out of the way. We collapsed on it and spent the next hour or so grappling around with each other, kind of having sex like two fifteen year old boys. Luckily, our folded wrestling mat was right next to a... ummm... Convenience Station, y'know, a table with a selection of lubes offered. So pretty soon both of us were sticky with glycerin.
And then there was a weird thing.
This... this... guy... he sort of crouched over us, kind of joining in, kind of just observing from really up close. And he was mumbling to himself, Rain Man style, delivering an inner monolog of his own stream of consciousness, in part offering commentary on what was going down with me and Mr. South Jersey ("yeah just lying all over each other, got tattoos, yeah all inked up, yeah giving and getting, yeah"), but interspersed with a kind of Dada free association: "and Street People come in the door, and they see us and they're afraid because we're Masculine."
I've seen the best minds of my generation... Et cetera. Et cetera.
Mr. South Jersey, being from South Jersey, took it all in stride, of course. Glancing at me now and then with a look of "Huh. How about that?" So Rain Man just sort of contributed an odd background motif to what we were getting up to. And then he moved on.
Our wrestling subsided into a more casual holding and massaging. I drifted off to sleep once or twice, resting my head on Mr. South Jersey's big pillowy pecs.
Time to call it a night.
I thanked Mr. South Jersey for our time together, put my clothes back on, bid goodnight to my hosts and thanked them for having me (DogTopper: "But I haven't had you yet!"), got in my Jeep, and headed for home.
What a great day.