Hungry Like the Wolf

by stargayzer3000

So this time it wasn’t accidental because I had found out that he throws that party. He’s not a celebrity to all but he’s one to me. I wanted to think I was the only one who felt this way but I did a Google search and realized I was just one of a million fags who like him. Big surprise.

I debated for a long time what to wear. Tried on different combinations of tight t-shirts and underwear with my boots, in case I felt inspired to take my jeans off, cuz it’s advertised as an underwear party but in my experience, fetish wear parties are a grim hook of expectation to hang your hat on. Ads always make these events look bacchanalian, but most people are too shy or boring to play along. Tighty whities with my Tom of Finland tank top seemed like a good choice at first but I looked like I was trying too hard. Lately I’ve been going for this proto-leather look, with the short hair, beard, muscles. I don’t wanna call myself a bear because I’m losing weight. But I’m not young or skinny enough to be called an otter. My friend D told me last summer on the roof deck of the Eagle that I’m a wolf. I was relieved to find out I had a category, even though I think it’s stupid and disappointing to aspire to be ursine, canine or a semi-aquatic.

Anyway I settled on my torn black 2xist undies and a navy blue tank top. I wonder if it’s true after all that I’m doing a “muted color palette” like C told me. The bar was big, two rooms. The bigger one is basically the back yard; there’s a makeshift roof of panels and since it’s technically “outside” people smoke, which looks really transgressive these days. There was a firepit too, which I kept going to cuz it was cold. A quick overview of the underwhelming crowd led me to the conclusion that it wouldn’t be an underwear night for me. “They don’t deserve me in my underwear” was my actual thought. He was there right at the coat check, where I handed over my jacket. He had a welcoming smile, but it was also a bit painted on, a practiced warmth. He’s tall, as I’d seen on that youtube video. He looks good but more weathered in person. He has tattoos.. I think they’re suspenders. Something with lines and circles at the end like eyeholes. Maybe they cover these up for the show or maybe they’re recent. Maybe you should just never meet your idols cuz I wasn’t too impressed. Though I could just be bummed that he didn’t flirt with me or invite me to join his Wolf Pack. I kept trying to determine whether he stuffs his underwear or if his cock is really big or if he just has that underwear with the forward thrusting pouch that makes everyone’s cock look big. His ass is ok. Depending on how he stands it seems juicy but when he walked it looked kinda small and flat. But it might just be the way he deals with his lordosis when he moves. I remember reading an interview with Kennedy Carter where he said that an important part of being a bottom on camera is keeping your back arched all the time.

He kept roaming around the bar, doing his laps, saying hi to different guys who all seemed to know him. He was really the “patrón” of the situation, the way he carried himself authoritatively. It reminded me of my uncles on my dad’s side, the way they’re social and important-acting. He is very good looking but the way his age shows I wondered if it’s a thing where he doesn’t sleep enough, or maybe he drinks/drugs a lot. His receding eyes and crows’ feet reminded me of the majordomo of this farm in Colombia I went to with my family when I was a kid. He was one of the first guys I remember being super hot for. I would linger around the courtyard because he’d walk through, shirtless in his dirty jeans, skinny and taut. I think I was seven or eight at the time. S looks like he’s got that kind of laborer background in his family. An inscrutable face.

Later when ____ was cumming on my back, after I’d spent almost half an hour shoving my ass in his face, acting the part of the eager horny bottom like it was my favorite thing to be, I thought about how we’re all always pretending, wearing costumes, negotiating who the fuck we want to be for whom and when.