“Want to hear something beautiful?”
We were tangled together, knotted limb to limb, our chests glistening with sweat and semen. Though it was after midnight, I could see his face in the dark; the cheap room at the Red Roof Inn not too far from my home hovered in a perpetual twilight, thanks to the banks of florescent lighting beneath its eaves, that leaked through the drawn curtains.
I’d been hearing beautiful things all night, thanks to the young man in my arms. He was all of twenty-one, a senior in his last semester of college who’d driven into town to meet me. His hair lay on my skin as he looked down into my face; it tickled. “Yes,” I replied.
“When I was driving up 75 through Ohio, it was all gray and dreary and pretty awful. The rain was crazy. Then I looked up and just as I was passing the Welcome to Michigan sign, I saw this cloud break above. It was truly amazing. Like magic.” I held the boy more tightly in my embrace, after that confession. “That’s when I knew everything on this trip was going to turn out to be all right.”
In the artificial twilight he lay on his side, his long, long blond hair gathered into a thick rope that lay across his neck and jaw and dangled loosely across the lower reaches of his ribcage. With his clear eyes, pale skin, and impossibly long golden tresses that seemed to give off their own light, he looked like a Pre-Raphaelite painting. His nose was narrow and sharp, his beard as short and neatly-trimmed as it was fair. He was beautiful, and to think that he’d been mine all evening took my breath away.
I’d arrived not knowing what to expect from the evening. I’d loved the kid’s profile when I’d seen it on BBRT, the week before. He’d checked me out a few days before contacting me to say he was planning a Detroit trip this last weekend, and that he’d been a blog reader of mine for a short time and was wondering if I might want to get together? Oh, I absolutely did. Over the next few days we hammered out the details. The boy messaged me both in email and through text messages to warn me that he hadn’t been fucked in a while—for over two years, to be precise. He seemed nervous about his recent inexperience, too; he didn’t go to the extreme that some do of making me promise, over and over again, to be gentle. He’d mentioned the hiatus enough, though, that I knew exactly how he felt. After all, I’ve felt that way about my own lack of bottom opportunities in recent years.
I wasn’t prepared for how absolutely breathtaking the kid was in person, though. His BBRT photos had been kind of goofy in a college boy way—they made him seem like a smiling, fun person, and definitely attractive, but they hadn’t prepared me for how truly attractive he was, when finally I knocked on his hotel room door and saw him on the other side, anxious and wide-eyed. I kissed him immediately, savoring the push and pull on my lips from his own. While we made out, standing there with his head tilted up to reach me, and mine lowered to his, my hands ranged down his body. My thumbs rubbed against his pierced nipples; my palms slid down the sides of his narrow waist. Then I cupped his ass, which in a pair of clinging sweatpants was full, perfect, and round. The kid wasn’t a particularly muscular guy, but my god, that ass. It would have bounced higher than a SuperBall.
We took our make-out session to the bed, where we gradually undressed each other, taking our time. He licked and sucked my torso and cock and balls, which I paid back by lifting his legs high to expose his hole for my mouth to taste. Hairy little fucker that he was, his hole was a forest of fur that abraded my chin and nose as I dove in deep.
He was tight. I could tell merely from the way his hole nipped at my tongue’s tip. At the same time, though, I could tell I was going to get inside that unused hole. The boy responded to every caress, warmed to every admiring word that passed through my lips. He wanted me, and he was letting me know it in every muscle’s turn, in every slow lowering of his curly lashes. When after a very long time I flipped him over so that those twin hairy globes were directly in my face, and he lifted them to assist my access, I judged that it was time.
My first attempt went badly, though. I knew that when I eased my cock head between those furry cheeks that I wasn’t going to get inside. He clenched down, repelling the invasion, and I retreated. That was fine. I lay next to him on the bed, with my greased finger pressed insistently inside his hole. As we kissed and nibbled at each other, I used the finger to draw a circle, gradually widening the entry until it puckered. I slipped another finger, and twisted and turned them to get him used to the sensations.
Then, after another very long period of relaxation and intimacy, I sweetly turned him back onto his stomach and worked my way in.
There were a few seconds of shock, and another few of intensity. Very quickly they were followed by sweet acceptance as I slid to the base. He groaned loudly, vibrating the alien mattress with the noise.
“How’s that feel?” I whispered in his ear.
“Wonderful,” he sighed.
I fucked him four times that evening, each time escalating the intensity of my thrusting just to the point I judged he could take it. All four times he responded by grinding and trying to add to my pleasure, the closer to got to orgasm. All four times, he pleaded for my load, and I was glad to give it to him. He spilled his sperm, too, once bringing himself to climax while I remained inside him and once letting me do the honors, and once by face-fucking me while I gulped eagerly at his dick. He licked me from head to foot, omitting no part of my body in his quest to bring me pleasure; he hammered at my hole with his finger, driving it all the way in until I grunted in contentment.
“You are driving me absolutely crazy with pleasure,” I kept telling him, as he stimulated and stroked me. Waves of sensation traveled over my body like an incoming tide.
“You deserve this kind of pleasure all the time,” he whispered back.
What was sweet, and touching, was that he believed it. I mean, what he told me is my own personal belief—I do deserve that kind of pleasure, all the time!—but he managed to say it with such sincerity that I knew his conviction was far deeper than my own.
The kid is a writer. In the morning’s early hours I got him to turn on the lights and read to me from his work, while I laid there on the bed in my shirt, my legs naked and sprawled open, my spent dick hanging limp between them. I closed my eyes and savored the words he spoke aloud, amused by the half-reticence in his halting voice as he read, and impressed by the half-confidence that took over as he proceeded. In a very few years’ time, that confidence is what will turn him into a speaker who will command attention.
He’s a good writer, too—good with an image, playful with his words. At the conclusion of each piece, he turned to me, naked in more ways than the purely physical, his beautiful long hair hanging on either side of his face. He was looking for approval. He’d had that long before, from the moment I met him in the darkness as our lips wrestled for dominance.
“If I were to write a poem about you,” he’d said in that florescent twilight, somewhere in the long, languorous hours we passed together, “I’d write about the feel of your skin, the smell of you, the way you taste on my tongue.” His arms had pulled me closer to him, and his words had buzzed in my ear. “You’d be the best poem I ever wrote.”
I wish I felt like someone’s poem more often. Maybe I deserve that, too.