"How are my bowls?"
"Huh?" I grunt, not wanting to be distracted from the task at hand.
"My balls. Are they fragrant?"
This is likely the last question you want to be asked, especially when the owner of the aforementioned has his dick in your mouth.
His British accent, the source of the initial confusion, has the effect of transforming any sort of dirty talk into a dick-shrinking nightmare. I very nearly lose my hard-on, but continue giving his prick the old college try.
"They're okay, I guess," I finally manage to reply, resigning myself to yet another unsatisfying cruise.
He seems obsessed. The very thought of any fragrant ball seems to drive him closer and closer to the inevitable, which I'm beginning to get a little impatient for.
Eventually, he comes in my mouth without warning me, then seems nonplussed when I don't swallow.
Too bad, I think to myself. Despite the dude's willingness to pick me up for an afternoon blow job back in his and his unwitting wife's bed, he won't be enjoying further fun, oral or otherwise, with me.
"There has to be a better way," I think as he walks me to the back entrance where he had me put my shoes just in case his wife or one of their kids decided to come home early.
I've been waiting a long time for a better way. For better or worse, my bisexuality and corresponding inability or unwillingness to cope with it have been a defining dilemma since those first furtive gropes more than 20 years ago. As a teenager, I furiously masturbated to equal-opportunity fantasies that would always climax with overwhelming shame. Later, as a young adult, I more or less accepted I was one of those rare people who got hard when they saw a sexy boy or a sexy girl, and indulged with countless partners I met at bars, bathhouses or on the Internet. But all the while, I just wished my damned libido would make up its mind. After all, nobody likes a wishy-washy person, and no matter how much pussy or dick I was getting, I always found myself wanting more of the one I was getting less often.
This is rarely a big deal when you're single, but love makes it complicated. Like right now.
A few hetero relationships ago, I began dutifully disclosing my bisexuality as soon as possible. There were few gasps of horror. Indeed, a few women seemed unsurprised, yet while all have been more or less accepting of a few dicks in my past, they've all been far less thrilled to know that the yearnings never go away.
I love my current girlfriend madly. She and I have big dreams together. We want to work with each other, maybe start our own business. We want a home. We even want to have a kid, but there's this big, ugly elephant sitting in the room that both of us are terrified to talk about any more.
Love, unfortunately, has not taken the edge off my yearnings. Instead, there's guilt, increasing resentment and subterfuge.
Most of the time I manage to fight off the terrible urge to cruise, but I've cracked a few times.
In my dream world, my partner and I come to some sort of arrangement allowing me to disappear for 24 hours once a month and get whatever out of my system. That's the dream, but I'm afraid that's all it will ever be. And judging from the thousands of screen handles in online chat rooms like #bi-married-men, marriedandbi and the like, I'm far from alone.
That I've managed to exercise any sort of restraint at all is a testament to how seriously I've come to take my current relationship. In previous relationships, there was no restraint. The urge would come over me and, invariably, so would some stranger. Nowadays it's a constant struggle, one in which I keep winning pyrrhic victories. I beat the yearning but wind up feeling resentful, and ashamed of myself for even having it in the first place.
As I navigate my way out of Mr. Fragrant Balls' back alley, I wonder to myself how it is that being a cocksucker can be such a pain in the ass.
Robert Mackenzie is a psuedonym.