(Since I'm out of town visiting my future home state, I'm posting an older entry from my journal so that you guys won't miss me. This entry is from 2004.)
Though my face was buried in the pillow, I could feel the cold wetness of the lubricant as he drizzled it over the cleft of my buttocks. “So beautiful,” he whispered, running the top joints of his fingers into the crack. In their wake, the lubricant cascaded further down, tickling the furthest reaches of my sac as he rubbed his fingers in a circle over my hole. “You enjoy that, don’t you?” he asked.
My agreement arrived as a grunt.
His hand moved away for a moment as he took time to ease the lube over his cock’s length. The room’s cool air suddenly chilled square inches of my flesh I rarely expose, causing me to contract; just as quickly I relaxed again as he climbed on the mattress and eased himself on top of me. I carried his weight completely. “Beautiful,” he whispered again.
I’d been sick of writing, that Saturday night. I’d needed some kind of physical activity to distract me from the world of words. I’d chosen him because of his hair—short, brown, fine, and spiky—and for eyes of a blue so pale they might have been grey. He had to be at least twenty years older than I. In a way I didn’t want to examine too closely, despite his age he resembled photographs of my father during his youth: lanky, fit, a kind face. Perhaps he reminded me of my father because he had that vaguely military hair style that all adult men seemed to have in the Kennedy era.
I wasn’t thinking of family or of photographs, though, when he started to grind and slide against me. I wasn’t thinking of anything but his cock, long and hard, easing a path along my cleft and gliding over my body’s curves until it crested at the base of my spine. He seemed content simply to rub himself over me, one of his hands twisting what he could grab of my hair and pushing my face deeper into the pillow. Occasionally I would moan, unable under his weight and pressure to form coherent words. “This is why I’m glad to love men,” he whispered in the darkness. “Sex between us is so primal. So basic. You like the sensations, don’t you, pretty boy?”
I nodded once. Under the force of his hand, the pilllow’s rough case seemed to grate against my cheek. Thankfully, he released me. I propped myself up on my elbows and tried to look at him over my shoulders. To either side, his taut, muscular arms supported his upper body, staunch as flying buttresses. “I needed to see someone tonight,” he whispered in my ear. “I live too much in my head.”
I only nodded. I understood the feeling. “I teach,” he said, somehow compelled to talk to me while he continued his frottage. He named a large university an hour away. “I teach Shakespeare there. Have you heard of Shakespeare, boy?” he asked, once more grabbing my hair and wrenching around my head.
I once taught Shakespeare to college students. At that moment, though, when my ability to articulate was vanishing rapidly, all I could rasp out was “Everybody’s heard of Shakespeare.”
I’d said too much. He pushed me all the way down until I was flat on the bed, barely able to inhale under his bulk. Still his cock continued sliding over the slick surface of my skin, harder and more insistent. “Sure they have, baby. I know you haven’t heard of the other men I study, though. Marlowe. Webster. Sydney.” He panted slightly.
I knew them all.
“You know why? Because boys like you don’t have to.” A firm thrust now. Its friction burned. “All you have to do to get through life is lie there. . . .” He thrust again, two, three times, his voice reduced to a scrape of noise in his throat. “. . . and look pretty.” His breathing became faster, his tone resentful. “Isn’t it? You fucking pretty boys don’t have to be smart, like I do.”
After one more giant thrust forward, he came. I felt his semen puddling onto the small of my back, and then slowly seeping to the sides as he huffed and puffed his way to rest. Once more the room’s cool air chilled the tracks of his wetness as they lazily trailed down my sides toward the mattress.
I lay there almost exhausted, as if I’d actually done anything more than provide him a pair of butt cheeks to rub between. And I wondered if I ought to be offended that he thought I was content to be an intellectual midget. He’d been condescending and, by almost any standard, fairly rude about his assessment of my worth, especially based on nothing more than fifteen minutes’ worth of nakedness together.
I kept my mouth shut while he dressed and left.
After the door closed, I still didn’t move. I was happy to be drifting between contemplation and sleep. I was dozily content. It felt relaxing to be pretty. Even if I knew the sensation would last only for a few minutes, it was wonderful to be stupid.