Remembering Bob

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Remembering Bob
[ This is for Bob. He was the first-ever glory hole I ever experienced. Hard to forget those ‘firsts!’ ]

What can I say about Bob? When I first came into contact with him it was through a website devoted to gay, gay-curious, bi, and even the occasional so-called ‘straight’ guys looking for some good sex. I didn’t regard myself as gay. Rather, I thought of myself (and still do) as bisexual, with an occasional penchant for something like gay sex. But what about Bob?

Bob was, without doubt, pretty much gay. Of course, he’d been married once. He even had a son and daughter, and, according to him, he and his ex-wife were, in his words: “Good friends. Better than we were when we’d been married!” When I knew Bob (this is now close to five years ago), he was still working (even at the age of 67). Later, when he retired, that was when he started a glory hole in the privacy of his townhouse, and that was when I began seeing him in that capacity on a much more regular basis than I had before.

Now, before I go on, I have to make a confession. I’m married. Okay? I was married then, and I’m still married (to the same woman I was back then); and yes—I did feel more than a little (how shall I say it?) ‘guilty?’, ‘conflicted?’ (all of that)—and yet, and largely thanks to menopause, I was horny, and so I started visiting Bob in spite of the inner conflicts I felt about doing so.

I love my wife…but, in the interests of being honest and truthful…she never liked sucking cock. Mine, or anyone else’s for that matter; yet Bob absolutely LOVED sucking cock; and that made him extremely good at it! So, after the first time I ever went to his place, I knew that I was definitely going to go back again (and, hopefully, again, and again, and again)!

At first I thought the glory hole setting was emotionally cold and impersonal—but that rapidly changed once I had my cock through that neatly cut and nicely finished round hole.

“Just stand there,” Bob’s voice could be heard saying from the other side, “and enjoy. Let me do all the rest!”

That was exactly what I did, and I was soon totally locked into the entire experience. I’d had sex with women, my wife included, of course, but what Bob did that day was quite unlike anything I’d ever known. To say that it was ‘like’ intercourse isn’t really true. There are aspects that are similar, of course. But taken as a whole, Bob’s mouth was just different than a pussy; it was more…supple; compliant; responsive; interactive! It MOVED. It could be loose, or snug. It could move rapidly, or so slowly it was barely moving. It was warm, and wet like a vagina…yet it was most definitely not a vagina. It was his mouth! His tongue! His lips!

With women, I’d always had trouble lasting very long once we started fucking, but with Bob’s mouth, it was very different. He seemed to be able to read my thoughts and feelings from the other side of that shut door, THROUGH my cock some how; and he used that knowledge to work me into a sexual frenzy I’d never known before…and he kept me right on the very edge, the very verge of an orgasm…but not quite so close as to let me slip over the edge. That, maybe more than anything else, was the biggest reason I came to enjoy visiting Bob! I was unable to go over to his place whenever I wanted, but, in a way, the very infrequency of those visits made the ones I made all the more thrilling and rewarding.

Yes, I did often feel a twinge of guilt after visiting Bob. I’d think of my wife, perhaps at home, likely working in our gardens (which is one of her passions), naturally unaware of what I was doing, or with who I was doing it. But I meant no disrespect towards her for going to Bob’s. It was just…menopause. I still wanted to have a sexual outlet; and if my wife was no longer interested in sex, then I had to do something about that for myself! I told myself that I wasn’t out fucking some other woman. I was being ‘faithful’ to my wife, at least in that regard. I told myself that Bob was not a threat to her. She was still my wife. I still loved her. What Bob wanted from me was not some sort of pledge of fealty. All he wanted was my sperm! So, since I wasn’t planning on using it anywhere else (and certainly not with a woman), where was the harm in that? It was ‘just sex’, in other words. Sex, and nothing more than that. She really had nothing to worry about. I certainly wasn’t going to divorce her in favor of Bob!

But, unfortunately, as with everything—Bob shut down his glory hole, and he simply disappeared. He moved, I guess. But I never really knew the details—just that he was gone. So, setting here typing this, on this hot and humid summer afternoon, I cannot help but miss Bob (and those amazing blow jobs of his). I think that in spite of wanting to see our relationship as “just sex”, there was more to it than just that. I mean—once Bob coaxed a load of sperm out of my balls, the intimacy of that act (which was of course mutual intimacy), there was a sort of bond forged between us. So, perhaps there is no such thing as “just sex.” Even with the apparent impersonal setting of a glory hole, there is that connection through the hole; that intimacy flowing between the two people engaged in those moments, through a cock, and into a mouth, that really does transcend the impersonal after all? If memory serves as a kind of thread that connects those two people…then my memory of Bob is still connected to him! We have a ‘history’, as the saying goes. Nothing can change that, either. What’s done is done. It cannot be undone. Time never goes in reverse. Only on into the future.

The End

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