Prince Albert & Husband
I arrive at exactly 6:30. It’s one of my biggest pet peeves: being late to a casual fuck. Convenience is the name of the game, and if I’m waiting for you, you’re playing the wrong game.
The Uber drops me off in front of a brownstone in the South End. I have never known someone who lived in this area of Boston. No one I know could even dream of affording a place like this. I ring the doorbell and hear him ungracefully clomp down the staircase.
He looks at me, “You are cute,” he says. His accent is thick and French. I hug him, smile, and say, “Thank you.” He tells me Husband isn’t home yet, but we can have a drink while we wait. He opens the door to his apartment and I enter. This is what wealth feels like: Twenty-foot high ceilings, a grand piano in the living room, contemporary glass figures of amorphous blobs.
His long, auburn beard hides his wrinkles, but his crow's feet reveal his true age: mid forties. He’s bald but shaves his head to make it appear like a choice. He wears a little skull cap to hide his shame. His eyes are big and kind.
We begin kissing. Deeply. Quickly we undress and find ourselves on his couch. His couch that costs more than my rent for a month. I’m wearing purple athletic Puma boxer briefs. He’s wearing a jockstrap. I pull his strap down to see what’s underneath. Big. Pierced. Gauged. Very gauged. Right through the tip. Cock ring at the base and another piercing above his taint. I smirk at him and pull up his jockstrap. He smirks back.
“Do we wait for your Husband?” I ask.
“Yes, we probably should.” I back off him and take a deep breath. “What do you want to drink?”
“Anything brown,” I answer.
He bends over to go through his liquor cabinet. I see his hairy ass pop out of his jockstrap. I get hard.
He offers me a glass of rum, and I kiss him. I’m perched on his couch. He takes the drink out of my hand, pulls down my briefs, and starts sucking. Slowly. I moan and caress his bald head. He looks up—making eye contact. Even with me in his mouth, I can see him smile. A naughty smile.
I hear keys jingle and the doorknob turn. I look down at him. I know he hears but keeps bobbing his head up and down. The door unlocks. I turn over to see another Frenchman smiling.
“Hello!” I laugh.
Prince Albert gargles a Hello, too.
“What do we have here?” Prince Albert stops and gives Husband a big smooch on the lips. I go over and do the same.
“You are cute,” he says. I smile and say, “Thank you.” Prince Albert and I begin pulling off his pants. He stops us.
“Hold on. I need to eat. Zach, are you hungry?”
“I was going to make chicken tikka masala. Would you like some?”
“Yes, that sounds great.”
Prince Albert and Husband ask each other about their days, kiss tenderly, and start speaking in French. I can’t help but grin as they interact. They are a cute couple.
He takes the chicken out of the fridge and starts boiling the sauce. Meanwhile, Prince Albert pushes me onto a stool from the island, directly next to Husband. Still naked, he puts me in his mouth. I then get on my knees and return the favor.
Before we met, I had mentioned I top. And that’s correct—usually I do. But with everything going on, topping didn’t seem right. Besides, my nerves might get to me, like they often do.
I get up from my knees, put my elbows on the metal stool, and prop my ass up. He grabs a condom and puts it over his gauged dick. Husband stops stirring the sauce to come over and kiss me while Prince Albert enters. I am tight. It’s been a long time since I’ve bottomed sober. Finally, he fits. I make him move slowly at first, but once I’m relaxed, I tell him to use some force. Husband is kissing me and playing with my nipples.
Then a piercing sound. The smoke detector. The chicken is burning.
“Shit! Shit!” Husband says in an adorable French accent, as he frantically waves his arm below the smoke alarm. We laugh together as Prince Albert continues.
“I could cum,” he says.
“Don’t. Just fuck me real slow,” I tell him.
Seconds later we’re instructed to stop fucking. Our dinner, burnt chicken masala, is served.
I sit on the chair next to the couch. There’s something satisfying about walking around a stranger's apartment naked, rubbing my hairy ass on the expensive couch. It’s even more satisfying when the apartment is fancy. It makes me feel like a hotshot.
We talk about what we do. I’m a writer for an LGBT millennial site. They are professionals, both in careers with repeated success. One has a PhD in genetics and an MBA. The other has masters in both architecture and engineering. Architecture, however, is beginning to bore him, so he’s transitioning into the music production industry. He says it like it’s as easy breaking into the music industry as it is making burnt chicken masala.
They speak about how they met. Fifteen years ago, in the Paris Gay Men’s Chorus. They’ve been married for 13 years now. Always open. They know the Boston hot spots and are thinking of buying a place in Provincetown.
As they speak, it becomes clearer how madly in love they are with each other, and the realization hits me: they are living the life I’ve always wanted but wasn’t sure was possible. Wealth, successful careers, a partner they care for, satisfied sexually, still partying, still seeing friends, still collecting exciting experiences (and apparently, even on a Monday). They are exactly who I want to be. I’ve never been in an open relationship, although I would love to be. I just think I would be too jealous—at least at this stage in my life. I know at some point I’ll get there. I’m in no hurry.
We start talking about my ex. We were monogamous. I loved her more than anything, but sometimes love isn’t enough. The realization was devastating. They are shocked by my bisexuality and previous monogamy but understanding and open-minded. My sexual orientation intrigues them, and I tell them about the trials and tribulations of being a bisexual man.
I take my last bite of burnt chicken. They’re already done with theirs, which means the conversation is now over. They get on their knees to blow me. I let them go at it for a few minutes before suggesting we head to their bedroom.
I lie in between them. Each of them straddled on one side of me. I’ve never been with such men. Hairy. Meaty. Bearded. Pungent. Rough. Older. I finally see the appeal of older guys.
I get on top of Prince Albert. Too tight. Husband asks me if I want poppers. I’ve never used them before, but feel it’s a queer man’s right of passage. I accept. Inhale. Cringe. Loosen. He slips in. I arch my back, putting my hands on his thighs. I jut my stomach out and extend my neck, looking up. I ride him like the rock star I am. Like he’s never been ridden before. Perks of being in-shape and 24.
I see Prince Albert look at Husband wide-eyed. His look says it all: Don’t I know how to pick ‘em? I look back to see Husband smiling. They connected through me. Inside me. In fucking me, their relationship strengthened. Seeing their emotional intimacy turns me on.
I speed up my pace and he cums inside me. I then lie forward, hugging him. Husband enters. I make out with Prince Albert, grabbing his face while Husband takes me from behind. I love having someone underneath me and someone on top of me at the same time. A man sandwich and I’m the meat in the middle. Husband cums inside me and I fall on top of Prince Albert. Husband falls on top of me. I feel thoroughly fucked. We breathe and pet each other.
Prince Albert asks to see something I’ve written. Huffpost featured a piece of mine about the fetishization of bisexual men a few days earlier. I pull it up on his laptop. He says he wants to learn more about male bisexuality. It fascinates him. I tell him I want to learn more about polyamory; it fascinates me.
We talk about places in Boston to go out. Fascination at Jacques’. We’ve all been. It’s a kinky, hairy, leathery, gay experience. Time races as we get to know each other better. It’s 10:30 PM, and I have a meeting to lead at 8:00 AM the next morning. I walk around the apartment from room to room, trying to find my various articles of clothing. I dress. Smile. Look up at them. Give them both a kiss.
“This was a lot of fun,” I say out of habit. Prince Albert looks at me, disappointed.
“It was more than fun. We connected,” he says.
“You’re right.,” I agree.
“Let’s do something again. And when I say this, I don’t say it the way you Americans say it. I actually mean it. You should come over and sing. I’ll play the piano for you,” Prince Albert says.
Naked singing in a beautiful South End home while I’m accompanied by, I’m sure, a talented pianist—
“I’d absolutely love that,” I tell them.
I give them both another kiss. I see them look at each other one final time before I leave. A since-when-has-Grindr-ever-led-to-something-this-good look. I smile, walk down the staircase, shut the door behind me, and call an Uber.
Photograph: “Two Men Dancing” 1984, Robert Mapplethorpe