Live with your lover's foster family

And yet the Internet is a good thing! Although dating through special sites turned out to be of little success (the need for preliminary meetings on neutral territory, the psychological problems associated with this, when you are either rejected or you are forced to tactfully refuse someone, etc.), these sites helped me find a kind of intermediary, who brought different guys to visit me. A strange person was this intermediary Max! He studied at a college, was a non-resident, rented an apartment, suffered from lack of money, but found a very exotic way to earn extra money: he knew that straight people and Caucasians were in demand and, in order to catch them, he wrote his mobile phone number on the walls of public toilets and mentioned certain activities like suck dick, give in the ass, lick ass, etc. The calculation was correct, because who does not need it, will never call. So the method worked. A good method, because otherwise many meets simply would not have taken place, since these people would never have crossed paths.

So Max began to bring different men to visit me. One of the first people he introduced me to was Rizvan, a man in his thirties, originally from the Caucasus, but who had been living in our city for a long time. Small in stature, with a kind face and a pleasant accent. The main thing that I liked about him was his openness and sincerity. He immediately, already at the first meeting, while sitting at the kitchen table, told everything about himself - what nationality he is, what village he is from, who and where his parents and brothers are, where he used to live and where he lives now, where he works and how much he earns. He didn't hide anything. Rizvan was already married, he rented an apartment in the city, he had a boy, then three years old. However, he and the whole family were registered in the region, in the house of some down-and-out people.

My age no longer allowed me to feel free and relaxed. Before his arrival, everything had to be thought out and taken into account, everything had to be prepared - the lighting in the room, some kind of music, and many other little things. The good thing about people from the Caucasus is that they don't really understand our age. But still, at first I had to avoid situations where my age could become known to him.

For almost a whole year, he came to me in this way - like an “escort” and like a friend and a kind and caring person at the same time. When his wife left with the child for a long time to her homeland, I suddenly, unexpectedly for myself, suggested that he move to live with me. I remember how many critical remarks I received from my acquaintances and friends - “you are crazy”, “how can you live with someone in the same apartment!”, “how can you live with a person from the Caucasus!” etc.

Time has passed. Everything worked out for the best.

How strange that all my life I strived, suffered, traveled the whole world chasing some kind of illusions and moments of dubious pleasures, and only in the middle of the second half of my life, let's say, I found what I was looking for. And I was looking rather just for the presence of a man, a masculine spirit.

I can’t even say when it was better - in that youth, which everyone praises so much, but which was associated with severe suffering and eternal lack of money, or now, when everything is there, there is money, a loved one is nearby, but my world is no longer as multi-colored as before.

But so far so good. And then ... no one knows.

 

The Muslim

I do not remember exactly how I went through the Internet to the "intermediary". He was a young man in his thirties, a university student who had found a very exotic way of working part-time. He drove around the toilets of the city and left his mobile phone number on the walls. Sort of suck dick. (Now this form is very common: a mobile phone number is written on the walls of the toilet. Whoever does not need it will never call in his life, but the ones who are looking for it will call.) This way the mediator found clients and introduced them to those who were interested. For this service he took a one-time commission fee of 400 rubles, such a small amount.

Once he brought me a handsome man from the Caucasus about thirty years old. The Caucasian stayed with me, and the mediator left with his commission. The Caucasian did not tell anything about himself, he even hid his ethnic origin. People from the Caucasus, especially representatives of small ethnic groups, have a panicky fear that their fellow tribesmen will find out about their non-traditional connections. Before the intermediary brought him to me, he tortured him with questions whether I had any connection with the Caucasus.

The Caucasian turned out to be a very good guy - with a gorgeous body and impressive other arguments. And in general he was handsome. When he passionately kissed me, he put his finger in my ass, and it seemed to me that now in bed we would fuck in every way.

But it was not to be! He fucked only in the mouth, for a long time and painfully, could not come in any way, from time to time he again put his finger in my ass. Finally, I asked him what was the matter, why he did not want to fuck in the ass.

- There is a reason. Can not say.
- What is the reason, what is the matter, - I stuck to him.

The reason turned out to be this: it is allegedly written in the Koran that it is possible to put it in the mouth, but not in the ass. Whoever does it in the ass will burn in hell. And in the mouth - nothing, it is allowed.

It seemed strange to me - is he really that stupid? We met a couple more times, because he himself was too good... Then the go-between brought me another person, also a Caucasian, also a Muslim, but devoid of such restrictions. He still lives with me, for several years now.

All the same, this intermediary, who went round the toilets of the city and scratched his phone number there, did such a good job! Without him, I would never have crossed paths with the one I live with now.

Paratrooper

 

New times have come when they began to get acquainted through the Internet. For this, numerous dating sites have been created. A completely inconvenient way, because it turns out that you are buying a pig in a poke. The photo does not represent the person. Nonsense turns out, something like "meeting through lonely-hearts dating." I was interested in straight people and men from the Caucasus. Naturally, almost all of them went to these sites in order to receive material assistance, that is, money, as a rule is not very large sums.

I will say in advance that I have not had almost a single acquaintance on the Internet. A stupid situation arises when you need to arrange a preliminary meeting, i.e. meet a person somewhere on neutral territory in order to see and appreciate him. If I don’t like him, then I need to look for a polite form of refusal, and if I doesn’t like him and I don’t fit, then this is also somehow not very pleasant. This happened once - I went to a meeting with one person who "rejected" me. I returned home as if drenched in slop. Another time, a guy came to my house, whose photo on the site was someone else's. He said, "yes, that's what I look like." I had to pay him something and send him away.

But my biggest mistake was with a paratrooper. On the photo he looked very impressive - in uniform, in a blue beret. It was indicated that he was tall, about two meters, weighing about 100 kg ... He found me himself and began to write persistently, offer services. Well, I thought I won’t regret any money paid for such a paratrooper. This is what I have dreamed of all my life!

Here he calls already on the mobile. He needs it urgently. I ask how much it will cost. He names a very large amount. I express surprise. To which he replies: “Don’t you understand, I’m straight, I’m from the Air Forces!”. That is, "I'm worth a lot."

I agreed. I decided that once in my life I can spend money on this. He came. Really tall and big. However, when he undressed, I was shocked. It was a completely shapeless pile, a bag, without a single visible muscle, all white, without a single hair on the body. Sort of like a sumo wrestler.

He lay down on the sofa. His dick is a dangling rag, no hard-on. Well, then I quickly realized that this was my big mistake and that I needed to get out of it somehow urgently, I had to curtail this business. It seems that I touched "for the sake of decency" his dick with my lips, a lifeless thing. Nothing moved there. But that didn't matter anymore. I came up with something like I’m supposedly out of sorts now, that I can’t fuck, that “it’s better another time.” But that I will pay him, as agreed. In short, I paid him a decent amount of money and sent him on his way. You have to pay for mistakes. There is such an item of expenditure in life - "mistakes".

Later one of my friends scolded me - “have you not seen these paratroopers bathing in fountains on the day of the Air Forces? Haven't you seen those disgusting and un-sexy hulks? I have seen. Here they are.

But this cheeky type about a month later wrote to me again – “do you want to repeat it”. "Repeat what?" I asked him? After all, we didn’t fuck, we didn’t do anything!

By the way, after this stupid meeting with the paratrooper, I once again confirmed my opinion that it is better not to deal with Russians. Russians don’t have a proper hard-on or it’s very weak or it needs to be “lifted” with incredible efforts, after which it falls again. Let them better fuck women (there is evidence that they have problems with women  too - feeble erection).

But later some acquaintances through the Internet did happen. However, in a different way - through an intermediary. More on that later.

The Singer ("La Cantatrice")

That was forty years ago, in the early 70s. I traveled every day by suburban train to lectures at the institute. In those days, faggots scoured trains, moving from one car to another, looking for some guy to sit down against and do something about. The figure of one fagot, ridiculously dressed - in a blue cloak, with a lot of jackets peeking out from under one another, and with a "hood" on his head, caught my attention. His face was wrinkled, flabby, although then he was only about twenty-six years old.

Once, standing in the vestibule, we started talking. And then, for many years, we met, talked, but for a long time I did not know his name and who he was. Called him "The Singer" (or La Cantatrice). Much later, when we became closer friends, and the Singer came to visit us, a problem arose: what is his real name? Somehow I figured it out.

The “Singer” sang in the choir of the Kirov (now the Mariininsky) Theater, earned miserable pennies there, and I remember that he even had to eke out his living delivering telegrams to apartments ... He was always without a penny, right up to Perestroika. True, this lack of money was morally  compensated by regular trips abroad, including to Western countries. But in foreign countries, the little money that was given to Soviet artists on tour he spent mainly on porn magazines, on visiting porn cinemas ...

The Singer is a very gifted person. Besides the fact that he had a great bass, he was good at drawing. He could paint the walls of public toilets in such a way that people noticed them ... and jerked off at some drawings... He only graduated from the first year of the architectural institute. He quit, like many gays, they could not study, because sexual drive interfered with the studies. And this passion was simply breathtaking. One day I accompanied him to the station. It was a late December evening, the moon was shining. He exclaimed:

- Oh, if you knew how I want to fuck!

The “Cantatrice” idolized men. Was not a dick addict, like many, but worshiped - how should I put it? - "male spirit". Once he said that “the greatest punishment for a faggot is to end up in a women's prison” ... He adored men's asses (fetish!), He was keen to get into them - and he got into them with his fingers and tongue.

Once he found a toilet where a hole in the wall was at the back, and from there it was clearly visible how young guys shit, how shit falls out of their asses. He often walked in the area where, after evening drinks, guys and men fell asleep, lying insensible. He put his fingers in their assholes, licked all the places, and fucked one of them in the ass right on the wasteland!

The Singer had a lot of energy in the sense that he could leave the house early in the morning and return late, having done a long route in a day: visit several baths (they joked about him: “you will wash off all your skin”), make a round of public toilets with glory holes, try to meet somewhere along the way, accidentally fuck in some place and in the evening still have time to work in the theater, sing his part in the choir.

By the way, thanks to a strong operatic voice (bass), he once managed to get rid of a molesting hooligan. Once he went to a remote toilet on the outskirts of the city, where it was completely deserted. But he waited for a guy to come in. They did something. After that, the guy began to behave aggressively, bullying followed. Then the Singer screamed so that the villain got scared off. His scream was amplified by the resonance effect of the tiled walls of the toilet, and the bully, who did not expect this, was taken aback and ran away.

Later, we became closer. The singer began to visit me regularly. We even had a day appointed for this. He brought slides, a projector, showed us pictures from his trips abroad. By the end of the 70s, he grew bolder in his tours abroad and began to independently snoop around various hot spots, get to know people. He spent money on porn.

These porn magazines and photographs taken from them (hetero, with women) were used to seduce the straights. Then pornography was very rare, and showing a straight guy pictures of fucking with women caused him strong sexual arousal. Once the following happened: The singer on the railway platform showed some young man a porn magazine. He snatched it from his hands and jumped down onto the railroad tracks. It was in April, when everything around was flooded with water from melting snow. The singer also jumped down and began to chase this young man. In the end he grabbed the magazine from him, brought from abroad at great risk, but, jumping along the ditches, got wet to the waist ...

He easily accosted guys. Sometimes he will stop someone, talk. Evening, area of new buildings:

Do you see how many windows are lit up? – the Singer would tell him. - And now everyone is fucking there!

A hint that we're the only ones who don't fuck. And immediately he took out cards with straight porn. It worked!

Another time he came to us late. Where were you, we asked. - While riding in the train, I picked up a guy, we fucked under your platform ...

The Singer also had love - strong and passionate and, it seems, the only one. However, it was only platonic. It was Vasily, a stage worker from the same theatre. A handsome Russian guy, a kind face, a wonderful figure, a juicy ass ... For several years he went to visit him, was well received by Vasily’s family. It happened that he stayed overnight with him, and they slept in the same bed. But he didn't even touch him. Oh, Vasily could do a favor and aqllow the Singer to suck him off and lick ass! After all, he knew what The Singer  wanted and why he suffered so much. He still remembers Vasily, decades later, in his flat there are stacks of his photographs ...

Those days are over. And we met twenty-five years later. It was no longer the same "Singer", but a respectable and handsome gentleman. It seemed to me that with age he began to look better than then, in the 70s. The change in the system in Russia opened up new opportunities for him. His good voice was finally appreciated. He began to travel to different countries, get contracts in famous theaters ... He lived abroad for a long time. Now he is retired.

However, our friendship somehow did not resume, although there was a desire to renew it on both sides. Not the right time, and we are different. I was even reluctant to ask how he now lives.