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Happy Hogmanay! A Tale of Merchant City This is a true and fairly recent story of a chance encounter on which the Gods smiled: Christmas, 2010 was spent with my closest remaining family in Scotland, on the edge of the Western Highlands. I had a meeting in the North of England on the first business day of 2011 so had decided, after the family festivities were over, to move into Glasgow for a couple of nights and drive the 400-odd miles back to the South Coast of England via Yorkshire, where my appointment was. I had never properly explored the centre of Scotland’s largest city but had read some favourable reports of the architecture; and of some of the gay clubs and bars. On New Year’s Eve, the centres of both Glasgow & Edinburgh are condoned off to accommodate huge, ticket-only street parties where hundreds of thousands gather to celebrate New Year, or “Hogmanay”, as the Scots call it. I didn’t have a ticket. I saw the closure of the city centre going on during the afternoon and early evening as I wandered around the deserted, sub-freezing, streets, taking in the stolid but ornate, Victorian buildings which testified to Glasgow’s former civic pride, when more ships were launched on the Clyde than anywhere else in the world. Mercifully, the weather was crisp and dry and it felt a lot less cold than the eight below the newspaper had forecast. To my dismay, I rapidly realised that Merchant City, the smart, mid-town area that has been the beneficiary of much tasteful, post-modern construction to blend in with its surviving, grand, extensively-restored 19th Century architecture, was at the heart of the area being cleared and barricaded for the street party. Merchant City was also as far my research had indicated the location of practically every gay venue in Glasgow. Hell! I spent a very quiet New Year’s Eve on my own outside the Hogmanay party zone, had a couple of beers in a bar near my hotel and, after eating there, went to bed at about 10.30. By midday the following day, the weather was still fine and the street barriers surrounding Merchant City had been dismantled. Early that evening I thought I would go and check out The Revolver, which is a cellar bar I’d read about on one of the “pink” websites. There were several other gay bars & clubs on that short precinct and on the immediately adjacent streets, anyhow. It was quiet but much as I had reasonably been led to expect – friendly, older crowd of 30+ to 60+; no CDs, no “screamers; a couple of faintly camp but pleasant twinks serving behind the bar under the watchful eye of the amiable “governor”, who was evidently “hands-on.” He was also almost certainly why The Revolver had a reputation as trouble-free in a city where “bar” and “trouble” often ride in tandem: maybe a couple of years older than I and immaculate in the traditional, tartan kilt complete with white shirt, waistcoat, sporran and knee-socks, he wasn’t “chubby” or “plump.” He was square – a solid block of tattooed muscle. I confess I fleetingly pictured being topped by him – I reckon he’d have been a great daddy-fuck… About 8 o’clock, I went upstairs for a cigarette – yes, I’m afraid I still do! The temperature was still well below freezing but dry, so it was a bit of a dilemma whether to put on the overcoat or not. I decided not & stood on the pavement in jeans and a slightly too young, slightly too tight, black Cacharel cashmere. I must also confess that I was wearing only a suntan underneath (I travel, as you will discover, always in hope). I had taken about two draws on my ciggie when a slim, ginger-headed guy of about 40, about five-feet-10, in combats, jumper and a waterproof anorak, who’d come out from the next-door bar for the same purpose, walked up to me, wished me, “Good evening” and complimented me on the sweater. We exchanged names and a few more pleasantries, finished our smokes and returned to our respective drinks in different establishments. Let’s call him “Jack.” Within ten minutes of having re-seated myself at the bar in The Revolver, I was conscious of someone positioning themselves to my right; I turned and saw that it was ginger-headed Jack from the pavement above. We ordered fresh beers, quickly chatted the basics – Where home? What work? Why here? - and he leant across, whispering in my right ear, “Are you a top or a bottom?” I answered and he then asked, “Cut or uncut?” I answered that I was uncut but wore the foreskin back. “Ah’m likin’ this so far,” purred Jack, following on with, “D’ya want my eight-inch cock in yer arse?” By now, Jack’s left hand was not on his own lap. You may have guessed, gentle reader, that if I told you I’d gone out that evening hoping for a candle-lit dinner date with a string quartet playing in the background, I’d be lying. I had allowed my right hand to stray a little further to the right so my only slightly sceptical thought was, “I’m a bit of a seller at eight inches…” We talked status, which was fine. We almost immediately left, having agreed on one more beer at Del’s (Delmonico’s, one of the largest & most established gay bars, located a few streets away). We each got about a third down our pints when something more primal than the desire for another mouthful of over-gassed beer took command and we each simultaneously asked the other, “Shall we go?” Once at my hotel a 12-minute walk away, we kissed hungrily, half undressing ourselves and half undressing each other, I pausing briefly to suck his semi-hard cock as I slid his underpants down; he to express his surprise and approval at my shaven pits, pierced nipples and the tattoos on my arse cheeks; and curiosity at the doughnut ball weight, which I explained was partly to make me hang better but largely to delay the tipping-point. Jack had a short and wiry Vandyke and the roughness of this on my mouth and cheeks felt good as we kissed – he was, thank Heaven, an enthusiastic kisser. I discovered through the night that we shared several other preferences, too, which always helps sex to be more spontaneous and rewarding. Jack was also uncut but had a fairly short, loose foreskin – so neither of us felt any misgivings about getting down to some fairly serious mutual cock-sucking; I did swallow a couple of Jack’s sweet-tasting loads that night – but much later. We were both “high” on lust and testosterone: I partly because I realised this was my first proper fuck since well before my ex- and I had separated (we’re talking years, here, not weeks or months, gentle reader); Jack just because, I suspect, he was a horny stoat most of the time. By now we were on the bed, which was bigger than a double but not king-sized, which is what’s needed for totally abandoned gymnastics. Neither of us was excessively tall and certainly not heavy; and we were only two so it was adequate. The evening’s pleasant surprises were far from over. Jack liked to have his arse, which was beautifully clean and ivory-smooth, eaten out; and, yes, he liked doing it, too! I said earlier that I travel always in hope altho’ seldom in expectation: I had shaven (not my face) and thoroughly cleaned out before venturing down to Merchant City; I had a pump of “Titan” lube; and a fresh bottle of poppers (the latter bought on New Year’s Eve at a tobacconist’s on Gallowgate in the city because I’d left mine down South, either in error or in resignation). After what seemed like (and actually was) hours of eating each other’s arses, sucking and kissing/ chewing/nipping – I am such a nipple-freak and wish I’d had my piercings done 30 years previously - most parts of our bodies, toes and fingers not excepted, Jack announced, “Ah’m gonna fuck the arse off you!” Earlier, I mentioned my scepticism back in The Revolver over Jack’s self-assessment. Let me tell you, gentle reader, at that point of the night I was bloody glad that my instinct had been correct: Jack had between six and seven nicely-proportioned inches and, after such extended lack of practice, I doubt that I could have managed much more with true pleasure; or without screaming the hotel down! Doggy clearly wasn’t going to work initially; I lubed us up, rolled Jack over and swung his feet round until they pointed at the pillows, then climbed astride, facing him. There was momentary pain but I was surprised how ready I was; soon, I was able to manoeuvre my legs straight with my feet towards his head, bend forward and put my arms under Jack’s pits, gently rocking back and levering him on top of me. I breathed something like, “Jeez, you feel good in me.” He held my ankles and the next delight of sex with Jack became apparent: he was a talker. “D’ya like ma’ cock inside ya? Does it feel good? Tell me how ya like it.” I had fantasised about this for years – Jack couldn’t have known this – and here I was being fucked by someone who was talking to me as if he were topping in a TIM vid. As he fucked me harder I was vocalising like a porno’ power-bottom, “Deeper! Fuck me deeper! Oh, God, fuck me, etc. etc.” It was obvious from his breathing that Jack wasn’t far off and he asked, “D’ya wannit? D’ya want ma hot load in yer arse?” For the first time in my life, I was begging aloud like some skanky hoe being dangled a wrap of cocaine: “Yeah, fucking give it me, deep inside! I want your man-juice in me; please give it me!” And, bang! It happened. With hindsight, I don’t know how I didn’t blow there and then. I cleaned Jack up (no towel required…) and we cuddled together, spoon-fashion, for a while just enjoying each other’s warmth and skin scents. I began to doze but after about 10 minutes, he moved and climbed over me so I rolled onto my back and his knees were in my pits. No mistaking what he wanted. I obliged then put my palms upwards underneath his pelvis and pushed him up and forwards, so he was directly over my mouth, and just took him in. He’d only been fucking my face for what seemed like a couple of minutes when I felt him start and I just continued, swallowing intermittently. If the marzipan on this late Christmas cake was the rimming, the icing was realising the long-nurtured fantasy of “vocal sex” and the star on top was to be fed afterwards; twice. We did go to sleep for a few hours after that but, as a winter dawn was breaking through the hotel room windows (Jack had wickedly insisted that I leave the curtains open, just in case there were anyone in the building across the street, looking in), I felt something unmistakable between my cheeks – beard; then a wet tongue. Soon, I was being lubed up and Jack was taking me from behind. I pulled my left leg up so the knee was aiming at my chin, to give him access, and he was again asking, “D’ya wannit? D’ya want ma load?” We weren’t as vocal as previously but quite noisy enough. The response, gentle reader, wasn’t, “No.” And again, ten minutes, a can of soda and a quick trip to the bathroom later, I was being hauled up by my arms into a sitting position on the bed, we were kissing face to face and then my head was being steered down onto a hard cock; and within minutes, I took another helping of sweet cum. This time, Jack then lay on his back and pulled me on top of him so I was astride his stomach and I shot over him; and, of course, cleaned up. As he was leaving me to go to lunch at his sister’s house we kissed, thanked each other and I asked diffidently whether he might be able to meet that evening, expecting, “Thanks; but nah.” I got, “Revolver, eight o’clock?” Jack may never know how our chance encounter outside The Revolver led not only to some great sex and fulfilled a huge fantasy (I’m very noisy, now!) but has helped move me further through my late-onset mid-life crisis; and has helped to crystallise a whole new perspective, which will be with me for a long time. ********************************************************************************************* So, if you ever read this, Jack, thanks not only for making the first two nights of 2011 totally memorable but for much, much more. And thanks, too, to The Revolver in Glasgow’s Merchant City! http://www.revolverglasgow.com/