Happiness Is a Warm Washcloth

The best part of Wednesday afternoon was this: when Mikey stood in the doorway of the bathroom, a wet washcloth in his hands, and said across the darkened room to me, “You want me to clean off your dick before you go?”

“Yes,” I said, almost shyly. “I’d like that.” I got up from the bed. The pig lying there with his legs in the air opened his eyes to watch me go, as did the lean, grizzled top man holding his legs. They’ve known for a long time what Mikey is to me. The black man who’d come late didn’t blink, but kept pounding away at his hole. I padded across the carpeting and into the bathroom, where Mikey was running hot water into the sink. He held the washcloth beneath the tap, wrung it out, and then very, very gently wrapped the hot cloth around my penis.

That was the best part of the afternoon.

This is how I got there.

Mikey called me in the middle of the morning to ask if I wanted to go to a gangbang with him. The bottom who’d pulled it together was a furry pig we’d topped a few times together and someone I’d seen on my own several times since. The pig was, in fact, one of the very very few tricks somehow ever to become one my friends on my real-life Facebook profile. He’d spent the morning on that site posting links to political screeds against Sarah Palin, and then apparently was planning to use his lunchtime to take every dick he could find. That’s what I call breadth of interest.

“I don’t want to,” I told him. “I just went to a gangbang yesterday. I lost a sock. I was kind of hoping you might be wanting to come spend time with me by myself today.” But he wheedled. He did that thing where he tells me he just wants the best for me, and how much he enjoys watching me fuck other men. Eventually I gave in.

I regretted it an hour later, though, when I found myself sitting on an expressway not moving an inch for over twenty-five minutes. I have to explain that Mikey fancies himself psychic. I don’t buy it. Not only because I don’t believe in paranormal activity, but because usually Mikey’s so-called psychic ability is limited to looking at the daily 4 lottery numbers and saying something like, “God damn it, I knew I should have played today! That was the age mom died, and the number of my first apartment!”, or “That was the number of the month Uncle Bill was born, and the number of cats I had living with me when I was down in Atlanta!” Yeah, right.

Today, though, when I text messaged him to say that I was stuck behind a 6-car pileup in which two of the cars had rolled over, he messaged back, I had one of my feelings about 696, little brother, so I took the surface streets and I’m already there.

Thanks asshole, I texted back. After all, what’s the point of having a goddamned self-proclaimed psychic in the family if he’s not going to share his traffic premonitions with me?

When I got to the cheap and sleazy motel along one of Detroit’s less savory avenues, I admit I was in a mood. I really hadn’t wanted to drive across town. The accident had upset me. Plus I was twenty-five minutes late. The hotel seemed to be filled with transients.

But the sex was good.

I shucked my clothes as soon as I got inside. Mikey helped me out of them; though the room was totally dark, there was enough of a glow from the pig bottom’s laptop screen that I could see Mikey’s lean and naked body as he helped me out of my jeans and sneakers. The bottom was on his back, legs in the air as another top ground his hips into him. I knew the other top; we’d shared bottoms before. His name is Sir Clay—which isn’t a blogger’s nickname for him. He actually requests that everyone, top and bottom alike, refer to him as Sir Clay. He doesn’t kiss, he doesn’t suck, and his dick isn’t as big as mine, but Sir Clay he is and Sir Clay I’ll call him.

There wasn’t much talking at all, as we played. That was something of a relief, because I’d exhausted my repertoire of toppy exhortations the day before. Mikey sucked me as only he can suck me while I watched Sir Clay fuck the bottom. The pig is a furry beast of a guy with an unruly mop of gray hair, though he’s younger than I; he squirmed and moaned with every thrust. I let Mikey suck until Sir Clay pulled out, held up the pig’s legs, and motioned for me to start fucking.

“Hi,” said the pig, with a shy smile on his lips, when I mounted.

I’d been fucking for maybe about ten minutes when someone knocked at the door. Mikey tried looking through the peephole to see who was outside, but either it wasn’t working or it was too bright out, because finally he said, “Are you expecting someone?”

“Yes,” said the pig and Sir Clay in chorus. Mikey opened the door and let in way too much sunshine. We all squinted. I’m sure that my balls-deep humping of the pig was visible from across the street, but I didn’t much care. I kept going at it.

A big bulldog of a black man entered the room. Without saying a word, once the door was shut again he removed his jacket and kicked off his shoes. He disappeared into the bathroom, presumably to remove the rest of his clothing. I moved the pig to the bed’s edge and set him on his knees, so I could slide in and out more freely; Mikey took up a spot behind me and nuzzled at my shoulders and played with my nipples as I continued to fuck. His hard dick pressed against my hip. I could feel its sharp curve lie snugly against the bone.

The black guy came out of the bathroom naked and hard and sporting a metal cockring. He was a good looking brute with a carefully-trimmed three-day growth of beard, a barrel chest, enormous arms, and a tattoo of the Jesus Christ Superstar logo on one bicep. He didn’t so much push Mikey out of the way as take his place when Mikey stepped aside. Next thing I know, the black stud was reaching between my legs and yanking hard on my nuts. His thumb plunged up my ass, like a cork.

The abrupt sensation could’ve done two things. It might have pulled me out of my fuck trance altogether, or it could have pushed me over the edge. I’d been fucking long enough that it did the latter. I squirted immediately while everyone urged me on in whispers. When I pulled out, the big bulldog dropped to his knees and immediately began cleaning me off.

I was actually pretty turned on that this enormous beefy guy was kneeling down to eat my dick when it was still dripping with juice, but unfortunately he didn’t stay on it for long. He spat on the pig’s hole, stood up, and shoved his own dick in, then gave the pig a rough fucking that had him gasping. Sir Clay took the opportunity to shove his dick in the pig’s mouth, and Mikey and I sat on the bed corner, watching. This time I held him in my arms, rubbing my big hands up and down his body, resting my cheek against his shoulder.

I can tell why sometimes people think we’re lovers—that is, lovers of a more traditional sort. We have all these intimacies we share without thinking. We hang on each other’s shoulders, or stroke each other absently, or offer each other a hand of comfort or a cupped chin or a soft kiss on the neck. It’s not the kind of thing that strangers do, certainly, or even fuck buddies. The black guy noticed. Though he continued to pound, he jerked his head in our direction and said to Sir Clay, “Are these two boyfriends or what?”

“No,” said Sir Clay, chuckling. “They’re not boyfriends.”

We left it at that. The black guy shot his load with a single, brutal thrust and a shout. When he backed off, he slapped the pig’s ass so hard that the pig actually let out a squeal. Then, without warning, he dropped to his knees and sucked me again, while Mikey and I made out.

Sir Clay fucked the pig. I fucked the pig, and came again. Mikey went in right after me and was so turned on to fuck in my load that he shot almost immediately, with a little quiver that made the end of his mustache tremble. Then the black guy started fucking once again, and I grabbed my T-shirt and socks. Mikey said, “You want me to clean off your dick before you go?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’d like that.”

The warm washcloth around my penis was almost too hot—but it wasn’t, really. It was just on the edge. Four times Mikey rinsed off the towel and wet it again, then quietly and gently wrung it out. I stood there in the ghastly pink motel bathroom with my arms crossed over my chest, shivering, with my eyes half-closed and a smile on my face. His face was only inches from my dick. He treated me so reverently that I felt like I was posing for a Mannerist painting of Martha washing Jesus’ feet, or some profane variation thereof. “Fucking washclothes are like sandpaper,” Mikey snapped, spoiling that particular illusion.

“It’s okay,” I told him, still smiling. I ruffled his hair.

“I just didn’t want to hurt you, little brother,” he said softly.

I shook my head. “You don’t hurt me.”

Once again he cleaned out the cloth and warmed it again. I felt its soft lick against my balls, the insides of my thighs, and scraping across the outside of my ass. Funny, but all I’d really wanted was this quiet moment, and I’d had to sit through ambulances and rescue squads and way too much traffic and dark room fucking to get it. The thought made me huff amused air through my nose. Mikey looked up. “Are you laughing with me or at me, peanut?” he asked, using an old nickname.

“I’m laughing because this is the—”

“—best part of the afternoon,” he finished saying along with me, at exactly the same time.

You know, maybe Mikey is psychic, after all.