Gladly! As a way to help banish these horrible flashbacks I still have about it.
He was a bartender I met at a struggling new lesbian club in the 1990s, that I patronized to help them out whenever in that area south of Seattle. We'd chat, often being the only 2 men in the place.
One afternoon as his early shift ended he asked me if I'd like to drop over to his house, just a few blocks away. I said sure, thinking that could be fun, since he wasn't bad looking.
He took his car and I followed on my motorcycle. Once inside I enjoyed a brief tour, a quick drink, and a fast strip. We began a nice little romp on his bed, learning he was a bottom eager to be filled, while I was glad to oblige. But that's when things turned strange.
We had just gotten into it doggie style when he started yelling, and I mean YELLING, about how great I was, how big I was, how much he loved it, best he'd had, etc, etc. Well that was OK, kinda inspirational for me, until he started hollering even more desperately how much he loved me personally, and wanted to marry me! On our first date? Even if it did already include a fuck? Really nothing more than a trick?
And after his marriage proposal, noisily shouted over his shoulder in gasps timed to my thrusts slapping his bare butt, he started adding the details. We'd rent a truck tomorrow, start moving my things into his place, and oh, did I need office space for my computer?
Now call me an old-fashioned romantic, but shouldn't conversation during a fuck be a little more intimate, or hot, or somehow related to the task at hand, assuming one talks at all? This was entirely too lesbionic for me, planning a U-Haul rental while I was still in the middle of plowing him for the first time. One thing at a time, please, and knock off the multi-tasking, OK?
But just then my infallible Peter-Meter sent me an urgent message that I was about to be running on empty, thanks to all this weird behavior, and I hadn't cum yet. Too late now, and I knew he'd be certain to notice the change in me any second. So I did some yelling of my own about my cumming, and pulled out so fast I think I must have made a pop.
I quickly went into the bathroom to remove my condom, being careful to hide its dry sight from him. When I returned he took his own turn in there, while I threw my clothes on as fast as I knew how.
He caught me almost at the front door, begging me to stay longer. Not slowing down for fear of losing the momentum of my escape, I made some lame excuse about forgetting a commitment I had back home. I left him standing naked in the doorway as I leapt on my motorcycle like it was a horse in a Western movie, and roared out of town.
I never contacted or saw him again. I also stayed away from that bar, until I heard he had quit and left town. And thereafter, every time I did a guy doggie I'd have flashbacks to that scene, and briefly wonder if I'll get a marriage proposal I didn't want, at least not at that particular moment.