Noom, my bar boy friend and current love of my life, has an annoying habit of stripping down to his underwear as soon as we enter our hotel room. It’s an annoying habit because he only strips down to his underwear. But it is part of who he is, the act is routine for him and is not meant as a prelude to sex. No matter how many times it becomes one. It’s about Noom getting comfortable. And he’s most comfortable in his own skin.
Undressing like that should be an intimate moment. It should speak to our familiarity with each other, to the closeness of our friendship. But that’s me reading something into the situation that isn’t there. Noom strips to his skivvies even when someone else is with us. At least if it is a guy. Whoever that guy is, it always brings them up short. They too see it as a private moment, one that they shouldn’t be privy to. But Noom is just being Noom. And I take a small bit of satisfaction in watching their reaction, in seeing them get a partial view of that which I get to experience fully. But that’s a small moment of one-upmanship because almost immediately I, like they, are drawn to the gorgeous hunk of manhood on display and all other thoughts quickly dissipate.
Noom is not shy about his body. Which I guess works to his advantage being a bar boy. It’s not that he is an exhibitionist, his routine display of what he’s worked so hard to build is not about showing off. It’s too matter of fact, too commonplace for that to be true. And that should make his undressing even less sensual. Instead it makes it even more so. Confidence coupled with a nonchalant attitude towards nudity can be damn sexy.
Casual displays of nudity are not really a Thai trait. From both experience and from hearing from others the exact opposite seems to be true. It’s not unusual to find when you get your boy du jour back to your hotel – even though you’ve just spent an hour watching him strip down to the altogether on stage – that he becomes shy and wraps himself in a towel. Many wait until they are safely hidden under the sheets of the bed before they feel comfortable in getting naked. That’s not a problem with Noom. And I should be the last one to complain about it.
But his act of undressing as he crosses a room, an act that has nothing to do with intimacy, precludes one that does. Undressing a guy, slowing stripping off his clothes, is an immensely pleasurable part of the night. When he’s already done that for you, before you’ve even managed to get your card key into its slot to turn the electricity on, you miss out. It’s not that I need to undress Noom every time we walk into a hotel room. But once in a while it would be nice. He doesn’t quite get that.
Noom’s thought process is quite linear, moving from Point A to Point B to Point C in a steady progression. Throwing a Point A.2 into the mix confuses the hell out of him. In this case, Point A is stripping down to his underwear, which is all about getting comfortable. Point B, losing the underwear, is a waypoint to Point C and means an orgasm, or a pair of them, loom on the horizon. Point C you can figure out on your own. It’s a logical progression that he makes almost nightly. Without thought. Interfering with that process, and making him think, throws him for a loop.
“I want to undress you.”
“Okay,” he says as he pulls his t-shirt over his head. Guys remove their pullover shirts in one of three ways. Each of us is committed to doing it in a certain way. Noom uses the two handed crossed arms grab the lower hem and pull upward method that exposes his torso, then his arm pits, in one feel swoop. It’s my favorite way for a guy to pull off his shirt. Except for when I want the pleasure of doing so myself.
“No! Stop! I want to do that.”
The first time I met Noom, a day or two into our being together, I took him shopping at Central World. I’d been wearing a different pair of cargo pants each day and Noom was envious. So we went shopping for a pair for him. We found some he liked fairly early in our shopping expedition, he grabbed them in a size 29 and headed for the checkout counter.
“Wait, you have to try those on.”
“To see if they fit.”
“Dey 29, dey fit.”
I suggested the length might not be right and though he knew it really didn’t matter, to make me happy he agreed to try them on. And dropped trou right there in the middle of the store. The sales clerk giggled.
Since then I’ve introduced Noom to the concept of a dressing room. And even though any size 29 is going to work, and even though a pant length with an extra three feet of material is easily worked around, he now dutifully tries on every pair of pants we’re considering purchasing. I’ve come to the conclusion, or realization, that that is an unnecessary process. But part of it involves him showing them off to me and waiting for my approval. And somehow, even though walking into a hotel room and stripping to his shorts isn’t an intimate moment, that is. You take your thrills where you can find them.
On that shopping trip I spotted a black lycra long sleeved shirt with a few yellow swoops crossing the back and upper arms on a mannequin in the Adidas store’s window. Noom’s body is built for lycra. Or maybe that’s lycra was invented for Noom’s body. His one-track mine was fixated on buying a pair of pants but I managed to convince him to try the shirt on. Even he admitted he looked hot in it. The smile beaming back from his reflection in the mirror proved that. And I have no doubt that I cemented our relationship when I insisted on buying it for him, even though it was a $100 shirt. No problemo. I’ve received more than $100 worth of pleasure seeing him in that shirt over the years. And a good $1,000 worth of pleasure in watching him pull it off.
Since our initial meeting Noom has bulked up considerably. That shirt went from fitting like a glove to fitting like a second skin. Eventually it threw a monkey wrench into his routine striptease act when entering our hotel room.
“I stuck!” came the muffled reply, his head buried in the fabric that wouldn’t slide past his expanded chest muscles. I finally got to be involved in his undressing process. Not out of my desire, but out of his need.
I love that shirt.
It’s not often that I get to strip Noom’s shirt off him, even when I’ve made it clear I want to undress him for a change. Unless he needs my help he’s already shirtless before it dawns on him that I’m being strange again. But he now recognizes when I want to be part of the process, knows that also means some cuddling, hugging, and kissing, and moves over to wrap his arms around me. And a minute later starts shucking his pants off.
“No! Wait! I want to do that.”
“Yes, I know. But I want to unbuckle it.”
“Okay,” I get in the same tone of voice you use toward a petulant child as Noom rebuckles his belt so that I can immediately unbuckle it myself. I’m sure his friends all agree farang can be mighty strange when he tells them about this. I don’t care. I do care that that means I’ll get to unzip his zipper without further impediment. And that that act always elicits an embarrassed giggle out of him. I’m not sure why that zipper going down becomes an intimate act in his mind, but I know that short giggle and what it means. Unfortunately, it also means he’s about to reach down and slip his pants off himself without my help.
At some point, regardless of desire, you realize your dreams are quixotic, that fruition is not in the cards, that the fat lady is gonna get horse from singing long before you’ll ever get your way. I know I’ll never experience the unbridled joy of slowly sliding Noom’s pants down around his muscular ass, past his bulging things, caressing his smooth masculine legs along the way. I also know I could insist he pull his pants back up to allow me that pleasure. But it would ruin the moment. And so instead I’m satisfied knowing that with his pants bunched around his ankles he’ll lean in, wrap his arms upward around my neck and pull me close; I trade my momentary thrill of undressing him for the soft kisses I’ll get in exchange.
Besides, I still have his underwear as a goal. Moving from Point A to Point B is in my hands.
When I slip my hands beneath the band of his underwear to reach down and gently cup his ass cheeks, Noom’s body gives off an involuntary start. I smile, and try not to giggle myself, knowing his reaction is from a conscious act of self-control. His internal routine calls for slipping his underwear off, and though he doesn’t seem to get it with his shirt or jeans he senses that the removal of that final piece of clothing is something I need to do for him. Even if it really is for me. And since it is the one part of the act that he allows me to indulge myself in, I drag it out, in no hurry to fall back into his hands-off undressing routine.
Whether it is the first time with a guy you’ve just met, or the millionth time with a guy you love, discarding that final bit or wrapping is a thrillingly sensual affair. There is trust in the act, revelation in its fulfillment. It is a moment filled with anticipation, an act enticing in its brevity. And Noom, for all of his straightness, for all of his complacency in the act of undressing, responds, growing hard so that by the time I actually pull his briefs down his cock jumps free from the confines of his briefs. It’s both sensual and sexual at the same time. And I could easily bust a nut right then and there except that Point B.2 sees him immediately plopping that ass I had just been cradling in my hands onto the edge of the bed while he systematically deals with removing his socks, bunched up pants, and underwear before heading off to the shower to get cleaned up before we go any further. And who said romance was dead?
I’ve recently decided to start referring to Noom as a stripper instead of a bar boy for the shear envy it induces in my friends. But a stripper should know how to strip. The whole bump and grind routine isn’t required, but the act shouldn’t be as unexceptionally dull as washing your hands, brushing your teeth, or taking out the trash. There should be an aura of mystery. There should be a sense of anticipation. The act of stripping without the tease is like apple pie without the ala mode. It’s satisfactory but not satisfying. But then considering the end product, maybe I should just shut up, sit down, and enjoy the show.
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