Sex Histories	Sex Histories Archive

Scotland -- I quoted you to a class in mid-December with my reference to Marcia Pally's article, "Object of the Game," in which she approvingly quotes your remark about being not just a human being but a piece of meat. I wondered what reactions the quotation would produce. Some of the men looked uncomfortable, while some of the women, particularly the more worldly-wise, smiled broadly.

I allowed one very hungry older married man to practise his cocksucking skills on me when he admitted he'd acquired "a taste for cock" (his expression) about 10 years before but had not been able to find any willing cock in the past few years. He was good, it turned out. He knelt fully clothed by the side of the couch on which I lay naked and bent reverently to his task. He sucked steadily and very efficiently for many minutes. When I interrupted my equally steady flow of mild praise to ask him if he wanted a mouthful, he nodded vigorously, his mouth still full of cock. I felt his tongue relax at the moment of climax to receive the gush of sperm. He seemed very thirsty for it. Married men have played a large part in my sex life since 1982.

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The one cock I have sucked off in that time belongs to the one student for whom I didn't just have the hots but the full violins since his very first entrance to my room at the very beginning of the 80s. He was about 20 then, and so handsome that I'd have fallen at his knees to worship if he had allowed me. He was friendly and bright-eyed and, even at that first meeting, I dared to hope that there was some reciprocation. (Years later, I found that there had been from that first meeting -- that this hitherto unassailable het. beauty had been disturbed by his response to me.) I longed for him from the first moment, and put him through a great deal in my masturbatory fantasies -- which seemed impossibly wild then, but which proved less than I have put him through in reality in the past three years or so.

One of the peak erotic moments for me was when I was teaching a class and he chose to remove a sweater, so that he could sit in the coolness of his yellow T-shirt. Since this was more or less armless, there was a moment when his pits were blatantly exposed and the lushness and glossiness of his pit hair had my senses reeling, my nostrils longing to sniff, my tongue to lick. I found it difficult to maintain my teaching posture without languor or downright faintness.

When I saw him one day in the showers, I was so overcome with desire that I scarcely registered what I most wanted to see during his student years, his totally naked body. I managed to note that it was more beautiful than I ever imagined and that maddeningly he did not turn round to display his buttocks, but my eyesight seemed to swim so that it was like some disgustingly prim soft-focus soft-porn imagery.

Despite his virulent heterosexual monogamy the gets married early next year), and his limited sexual conduct, he has delighted me on several occasions, by for example sitting on my face, by allowing me to suck him off all the way to cream-guzzling, and by performing a lurid strip for me, as well as shyly masturbating to climax for my entertainment.

Although he has never licked my cock or reciprocated in the basic sex actions, he has done some beautifully queer things like kissing me on the lips when he leaves after he has been licked all over naked, or, as exactly a fortnight ago, displaying his nakedness shamelessly in the sporty, all-normal-men-together atmosphere of his Sports Centre changing room where he asked me to meet him for a sauna. Anybody seeing him strut naked would have thought he was just another normal guy doing what normal guys do in sporty settings. But I know that he knows that I crave his nipples, cock balls bush, thighs, and buttocks. Therefore I know that his naked athleticism is just a cover for that beloved old routine, the bump-and-grind.

Grateful as I was for his sluttiness I couldn't help also enjoying the young innocents who followed his lead and displayed their all. I was particularly charmed by a tall, very young, very friendly redhead with creamy arse cheeks, like large ice cream scoops, and a burning bush (the only hair on his glistening young-het. body) drawing attention, as if that were needed, to his pink and white cock and ball bag. One thing I liked about him was his accepting my undisguised lust for his genitals by leaving them exposed while I stared at them. He could hardly have missed my interest since I made a point of it, but either he was too sweet and innocent, or as I suspect too charmed at being a sex object. His thighs remained parted and his towel off as he smilingly conversed with both of us, but particularly (I noted) with me. I wonder if he would appreciate the sheer lust that came into my face whenever he stood up and displayed to me his splendid bottom each time he left the sauna.

Much as I like the sleaze of a real homo sauna, I do enjoy occasional forays into straight-seeming sauna territory. Straight saunas are seldom what they seem. I rushed eagerly to the local sauna one day only to find that it was closed for its annual maintenance. Closed for three weeks! I thought that was quite excessive. How long does it take to mop out the spunk that must be clogging the jacuzzi?

Well, it reopened two days ago. I found that they had replaced the changing room cubicles with a completely open space with benches along the walls. It means that you can watch a strip show from outer street clothes to stark nakedness if you feel so minded (and I did).

They had also produced a plethora of exercise machines to provide the most expensive alibi yet for male interest in other males.

I have only twice seen any man in there use the weights, but that iota of respectability must be needed to make the staff, if not the more nervous customers, feel that all is well.

All was definitely well, from a pervert's point of view, when I entered the sauna. There were two outstanding beauties in there. One looked to be in his middle 30s and had the face of a B-picture Western hero. He was lean and laconic-looking (in fact he was totally silent). His cock was enormous and though uncut like nearly all Scots' had an expanse of pink cockhead emerging from the generous sheath.

On the bench below was a cheerful-looking, dark-haired, crew-cut "butch number." He had a generous black bush and a more than generous thick, long, uncut dong resting on a fat scrotum. Both men were easily AMG [Athletic Model Guild] material and wildly pornographic already.

I had obviously come upon them in mid-masturbation and they decided I was obviously interested in their tools, so that they could continue, and look at and feel mine.

The elder of the two put on a superb display of masturbation by opening his legs wide and working extremely fast and hard on his huge cock while I fingered his dry, tight ring [asshole]. His hand movements got faster than ever, then suddenly he removed his hand altogether and raised his bottom right off the bench. His display ended with an explosion of spunk fired into the air so that the cream splashed like warm rain onto our legs and the bench. He had been a quite superb performer and left satisfied with the professionalism of his exhibition.

This left the other one to be felt and to feel. My eyes feasted on the cock flesh -- so much of it -- and moved down between his meaty thighs to the little seam of the perineum as it led to the virgin territory of his crack. Being a professional like the other, he saw and understood my look. While he continued to masturbate, his free hand moved rapidly to his pussy area, a finger was slipped in between the cheeks and he penetrated himself most charmingly. While the finger was moving inwards, his face expressed some concentration, but once his finger was moving in and out, he relaxed and flashed me another broad grin. Seconds later he came, puddling onto his belly and nipples. I was given another smile, this time of a performer who has performed well but who now needs a rest.

Five minutes later, when I went to the changing room, he was still naked. He seemed reluctant to dress. He opened his thighs even wider than he had earlier. He made the international masturbation sign, not for once to be abusive but as a polite request. I immediately complied, whipping back my towel and showing my hard on, then jerking on it. I improvised a finger-up-the-arsehole gesture for him. He smiled his male slut smile and held open the flesh flaps of his lower buttocks to show me his little purple pucker, before inserting a finger. I asked him if he got fucked often and he laughed as if I'd said something outrageous but forgivable. "Never,"' he told me in shocked tones.

I told him he should be, and often.

When somebody came in, he pulled out a pair of black briefs, which he slid up his thighs. After that he kept on the briefs but played with himself even more rudely.

You probably often have seen a butch number pull down the front of his briefs to display and play with his dick meat. But the obscenity of a butch number pulling aside the hole-protecting black material to work a finger in and out of himself has to be seen to be appreciated.

My experiences at the sauna (there were others) on that grand reopening prove what I have often observed that Scotsmen, being unaffectedly virile in many instances, are also more generous and slutty in their generosity. I have had so many examples of big uncut dongs being offered for my viewing and groping entertainment that I feel free to make the generalisation.

Another I'd make is that Scottish arse tends to be larger and rounder than English. Usually, the largeness and roundness are of the firm rugby player type, but some are fat and white and bounce charmingly. These provoke lewd speculations in me about how magnificently they would quiver and bounce under a leather strap or cane.

Scottish cock varies in size and thickness from brutally large to schoolboy small, but the constant factor here is the uncut status and the thickness and manipulability of foreskins.

What I'd like from you is any recent book of collected letters and "Sex in the News" cuttings. I have seen no publication of yours since 1989 and feel my life is much the poorer because of that. I would also like to know that the wonders of homosexuality remain -- well -- wonderful to you.

Editor's note: The writer of the following letter has the longest address of any STH writer (seven lines) and one of the longest peters, to judge from remarks made by men who've had it. The word "slut" in the headline is not intended disrespectfully. On the contrary, the behavior of the Scots in this letter, including the author, is inspiring and could well serve as a role model for us all. -- B. McD

Author Profile:  Boyd McDonald

Born in 1925 in South Dakota, Boyd McDonald entered Harvard as a high-school dropout after serving in the army in World War II. Jobs with Time, IBM, and several Wall Street firms preceded Boyd's career as a chronicler of gay sex. He was the founder and editor of Straight to Hell (alternatively the Manhattan Review of Cocksucking), and later published a number of anthologies of true sex histories. Boyd died in September 1993, two months after completing his final book, Scum.