Surfing.

I do it often, surfing the virtual waves, the familiar hiss of the Internet exchange guaranteeing a wild and fanciful ride. You meet all sorts: hot guys, fratboys, fat dudes, queerbashers, bible bashers, flamers, flooders, spammers, inexperienced but curious, geeks, old farts, older guys pretending to be younger, guys pretending to be girls, girls pretending to be guys-- a panoply of sexuality. A virtual orgy.

So it’s no surprise getting messaged by a guy looking for a private chat. A compliment, indeed. Mean he’s hitting on you. Buying you a drink in a virtual bar. All you get is his nick, and when it says FOOTYLAD, it conjures up a hot guy in jockstrap and white socks. Hot. Ready for action. There’s a thrill going up and down me.

>>HI<<

Yeah, well, not the most original start. OK, so I say HI back. Hoping he does more than ask for my ASL - (age/sex/location). Chat based on acronyms is a turn-off immediately. You’ll get the age, sex and location in time, mate. I’ll give it to you alright.

>> How U doin?<<

Well, it’s a start. He’s got me. Yeah, keep it going, buddy. Keep at it. I’m alright cheers. U?

>>HORNY<<

Cutting straight to the chase. I like it. It’s one of the things about chat like this - cuts through the bullshit. Of course he’s horny, otherwise he wouldn’t be in here. Otherwise he wouldn’t be lurking, stroking more than his keyboard. But don’t you just hate that chit-chat in some dimly lit bar or club, that pathetic chase before lights up and the doors close? Hey, it ain’t romantic, but at least it’s honest. Immediate. It’s like hitting at the soul of things, finding common ground. I imagine a naked football player with a boner, tapping the keys. Mmmmmmmmm, me too. Definitely horny now.

>G<  

Nice smile he’s got. Big wide grin. White teeth. I’m laughing out loud. LOL.

>WOT U UP TO?<  

Chillin. Don’t want to play it too fast too soon. Even here there are games to play. Just saying ‘come over’ is desperate - I’m hard but not hard up. Besides, I wanna know more. Just 'cause he calls himself FOOTYLAD doesn’t mean he’s a player, just some couch potato that fancies David Beckham. Well, hey, he’s only human. Mmmm, David Beckham… Definitely horny now.

He starts getting down to details, this cyber fuck buddy. Our locations match - about half an hour away from each other. Our ages match, which is a good sign, too. I’m neither chicken hawk nor gerontophile. I’ve been round the block, too, but nowhere near ready to hang up my boots. So he’s close, and we’re pretty much a match age-wise. Good start. 

>WOT U AFTER?<

Well, it isn’t a mortgage. Safe fun. I’ll get that one in pretty quick. Years of safer sex indoctrination have taught me it’s easier to get the boundaries set up from the start than get all hot and steamy and then break the moment to discuss status and precautions.

>ME TOO<

Well, that’s another hurdle over. Another hoop jumped through.

>HORNY - WANNA MEET UP?<

Here we go - electricity running through me. Not too much too soon. Can’t do today. Tomorrow?

> LOOKIN FOR FUN THIS EVENIN<

He’s persistent. I can feel his randiness through the monitor, the full rush of his sexuality. Pic? No pic no meet. It’s a precaution - a safety guarantee. Not just to check his looks, but also to check how willing he is to be seen. Getting a pic is like a statement of intent, an indication he’s what he says.

>SURE< 

We swap, and a while later my mailbox alerts me to his arrival. So many times the pic brings only disappointment, the craggy flesh of despair and deceit. Guys seem to think once they’ve got you horny you’ll go for anything. Or the pic is a model, pulled off some message board or Web site-- all cock and six pack. Nice to look at but give me the real thing, please.

Not him. He’s as he says-- better. A killer grin, white and broad. Short cropped black hair, Irish eyes a-smiling. He’s lying back on a sofa, firm physique held in tight by a dark wool sweater. He exudes sex: raw, masculine, passionate.

>NICE PIC< 

So he likes me. We’re up for it. What’s he into?

>WANKING, SUCKING, FUCKING. TOP ONLY.<

It’s the jackpot. Already I imagine him hot and hard, cock, lips, fingers, mouths, a mesh of flesh climaxing. Nothing about identity yet, just raw sex.

>BI, THINK I’M MORE GAY…< 

There’s something else, I can tell. 

>MARRIED<

OK, cool. I’m okay with that, bi-friendly for want of a better word. He grins at me with thanks. Yeah, I admit it. It’s a fantasy to be fucked by a horny married guy. Something that’s been there since adolescent fantasies about the straight college lads I grew up with. Getting them sexed up and curious, tasting my forbidden fruit. The look of surprise hitting their face as I go down on a spontaneously hardening dick, that first moan of pleasure as he feels what a man can do for him. His acquiescence to my knowing tongue, accustomed to male pleasures, where their prudish and inexperienced girlfriends are not. The sudden and delicious release, followed by embarrassed silence. 

We know the married guys do it. We know they can’t resist a good blow or screw. The snake in their pants wants release, and the brash homophobia displayed by so many straight boys can only be a cover for their curiosity. For their desire to experience what they fear the most. I’m an understanding guy - anything to help them out.

We exchange details, FOOTYLAD and I. We arrange to meet online the following day, noon. I don’t expect him to, and am even surprised that I show up. But he’s keen, and flashes a greeting. I’m burning for him as I look at his picture again. Just to remind myself it’s not a dream. Just to remind myself how horny he really is.

It’s just details then. Where, when. I allow him to come to me-- couldn’t go to his place, and I feel ok about seeing him. Plus, I’m horny now. He’s got me going. There are no strings here, just plain and uncomplicated sex on a lazy afternoon. Sounds good to me.

There’s the rap at the door. A hard tap on the door, a rattling of the letterbox. I peek through my spy hole, just to make sure he is who he says he is. Oh yes, and then some. He’s got a white football shirt on, tight jeans. He carries a video and a newspaper (a newspaper?!) a ring on his finger. We say, "hi " and he comes in, sheepish like a kid caught with a cigarette.

He sits on the sofa as I fix him a drink. Pleasantries exchanged, (the Irish accent is such a turn on) I sit down by him. Something’s wrong. Oh yes, something’s wrong. He’s sitting there, on the edge of the sofa, frozen. Like a rabbit caught in headlights, stark and still. He answers in monosyllables. Shit,  I think. I want him, but this just isn’t going to work. This is just not going to happen.

One of us has to start it. It’s not going to be him.

"You ok with this?"

There’s the silence of a dry throat, a switch being thrown inside him.

"No…no." I watch him crumble, shaking with desire and fear. He needs to explain.

"I’m not… used to this. I only meet guys with bars. Never been to a guy’s place…" 

OK. So he’s backing out. All of a sudden, the appeal has gone. He’s not the same horny guy I’d cybered with earlier. There’s a trap he’s in, a wall that’s gone up between us. There’s a voice which teases me, taunts me that somehow I’m not good enough for him. Not straight enough. And then that other part of me which knows he’s gotten nervous, that somehow this is too real for him. Too threatening. That today there’s only time to say, "hello" and wave goodbye.

There are no recriminations. We’re both grown ups. There’s no harm done, and I see him out. It’s amicable enough, and despite the assurances we’ll chat online we both know this is a farewell.. 

Besides, it’s happened before. A married guy, eager for something, but when he’s got it, he doesn’t want it. It goes with the virtual territory. Virtual time, it’s hot, easy, sleazy. Real life, there’s always that ring on his finger. Always.

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