Strawberries and Cream at the Plaza

Liza Minnelli used to perform a song about a thirty- three-year-old, unmarried girl named Shirley Devore who literally had to travel around the world to meet the guy next door. It's a great song with a great story. Poor Shirley living up on Riverside Drive with aging parents. She was still a virgin and desperate for love. Though entertaining and comedic, the song shows the unmeasured lengths to which single people will go in order to find the perfect partner. And how terrified they are of making a mistake that could ruin a good thing. Never in a million years would I have imagined that I'd be able to relate to that song.
But one day last spring, a rainy Monday so cold and damp you would have thought it December, I decided it was time to start dating again. I'd had an excellent weekend. On Friday afternoon, I'd logged onto one of those "listing" web sites, the ones where you can buy or sell anything from bed sheets to automobiles, where you can search for, or advertise, unusual jobs, and where you can meet a lover no matter what your sexual orientation. I clicked "men seeking men," scrolled the simple black and white listings for a moment, and then clicked onto an ad that read, "Horny 23 year old top guy in search of good-looking bottom for fun. I can host." There was a color photo. He had a thin, tanned torso, loose-fitting jeans unbuttoned to expose everything, and strong, young legs spread wide in a slightly bow-legged stance. Just what I needed: a good top guy with strong legs who could pound away my frustrations for a couple of hours.
So I e-mailed him, sent a few provocative shots of my seductive thirty-year-old body (mainly ass shots), and we hooked up at his studio in the Village that night. We wound up spending the entire weekend together, doing everything a horny 23-year-old top and a good-looking bottom can possibly do. And on Sunday evening as I walked out the door, he said, "Thanks man, that was fun," as he stood there with bed-head, wearing wrinkled white boxer shorts, scratching his balls as though we were standing in a locker room and I was just another one of his football buddies. The fly in the boxer shorts was open, and I could see his dick moving up and down.