Traveller has Drunken Sex with Very Tight Mongolian Yak Herder

by Albert P.

ULAN BATOR, MONGOLIA — I was in Ulan Bator, the capital of Mongolia, and had been surprised when a web search for gay bars had brought up an address behind the parliament building. Naturally it was the first place I headed for. I thought I’d got the wrong venue when I walked into a bright little bar and saw four Mongolian dudes in sheepskin jackets and flat caps eating steaming plates of beef stew, but one of them immediately hailed me in English and invited me to sit with them. The English speaker was the oldest of the four, a squat chubby guy in his mid-30s, though it was hard to tell. All four of them had red, wind-streaked faces from lives on the steppe as yak herders, he explained. They were visiting the city for the weekend and particularly the one ‘special’ bar here. Beef stew and vodka was quickly brought for me, and the older guy, who was clearly the alpha-male in the group, kept the conversation going and flirted with me, although his three younger friends were all far better looking and smiled at me shyly every time we made eye contact.

A few hours and many vodkas later we left the bar and stumbled drunkenly through the muddy, unlit streets of the city. It was already freezing and the Mongolians were all completely shitfaced. One of the guys, the sexiest of the four, took my hand and grinned at me, his flat nose and thick lips divided by a dark patch of bum fluff. Despite him already being in his mid-twenties, he clearly didn’t have to shave. He put his finger to his lips to indicate that his friends shouldn’t see us, and then gave me a bear hug and giggled uncontrollably. I guessed that meant he liked me, but as we didn’t have any language in common, it was all guesswork. ‘Ganbold,’ he said, pointing to himself and laughing again. I told him my name, which he found equally perplexing, and then we caught up with the others and took a taxi to a huge Soviet-era straight club where we all drank more vodka and danced to Britney Spears, Michael Jackson and Russian pop music. Nobody looked twice at the four shepherds and their Caucasian friend lunging at each other drunkenly on the dance floor.

Ganbold kept smiling at me, and eventually made it clear that we should leave surreptitiously. The others were too drunk to notice. Ganbold stopped a car and we zipped through the city to my hotel, but it was locked when we arrived and when the guard finally appeared, he saw my new friend and I and shook his head ‘No guests,’ he declared solemnly. Undeterred, Ganbold walked me through the back streets of Ulan Bator for a good twenty minutes until the modern town began to recede and rows of round white traditional yurt tents began to surround us. He led me into a fenced off yard, and opened the wooden door and took me inside. Again he made the gesture for silence, lit a candle and took me to a bed. The yurt smelled of old milk and smoke from a dying fire at its centre and I could clearly hear people snoring around me. He sat me down on the bed, took off his trousers and shirt and crawled into the narrow cot, clearly expecting me to do the same. I followed his lead, not quite believing my own behaviour.

We got naked under the scratchy thick sheets. I ran my hands down his hairless torso and flat, muscled stomach, reached into his underwear and pulled out a small but beautiful cock. He pushed my hand away though as if I’d done something quite improper and tore away at my boxer shorts to get my dick out instead. He then rolled over and pulled his ass cheeks apart – foreplay was over – and waited to be entered. I scrambled around in my wallet for a condom I hoped was still there, and hurriedly put it on, attempting to grease it up with some spit that I could hardly summon after hours of drinking vodka and interminable walks through the city. But Ganbold grabbed it impatiently and almost angrily started to stuff it inside him. He was tight, uncomfortably so, but was so clearly enjoying himself that I didn’t have the heart to protest. He wheezed face down on the bed, a sound like gurgling and chuckling at the same time, and I froze nervously as I heard someone just a metre or two away clearly being roused by the noise. Was it his father? His mother? I wondered suddenly whether Mongolians keep guns at home.

I pushed into Ganbold further, struggling to remain silent and getting a rhythm going on his slightly loosened ass. I pressed my lips into the back of his neck and my nose into his thick hair, then worked my hands around his boyish hips to fondle his rock hard cock and balls the size of chickpeas. I could hear more movement in the yurt, and maybe even some talking, so I pushed home, shot my load in thirty more seconds and pulled out straight away. Ganbold remained face down in the bed and gurgled a little more, happy and contented with my rapid drunken thrusting. I think he fell asleep immediately, as I didn’t even say goodbye. I pulled on my trousers, grabbed my shirt and shoes and headed for the doorway using the light from my cell phone. Not a great fuck, but definitely a memorable one.