I arrived at the bar stinking of dick, the other night.
Now, normally I’m not a slob. I have something of a uniform of jeans and a T-shirt when I’m running around town, and I’ll wear even less when I’m at home. On a night out, however, when I’m in a bar or club among the judgmental eyes of my fellow homosexuals, I’ll clean up a bit. I’m not really concerned with looking trendy. I don’t feel the urge to pull on a tight sports shirt printed with some oversized, off-center fleur-de-lis or other grainy, heraldic emblazonment. But I will make sure my pants aren’t raggedy, and that my top isn’t covered with more cat hair than the cats themselves are wearing. I’ll pull on one of my good pairs of leather shoes—or at least one of the better and snazzier pairs of my sneakers. I’ll even iron.
I was all dressed up and ready to head out for a night of drinking (Diet Coke, if you must know) and the occasional dip into karaoke waters when I got a text from Urlipsmypole, the fellow in my neighborhood with his own private gloryhole. You got time? he wanted to know. I’ve got a boner that won’t quit and dude, you know I like your sweet mouth.
I looked at my watch. It was 7:50. I told my friends I’d meet them at the bar at 8:30. Yeah, I had time.
My buddy’s gloryhole must be a cinch to install, because when I walked through his back door and into the little mud room at the top of the back steps, his kitchen was already dim and the plywood partition blocking it from view was already in place, as were the towels and padding he always throws down at the foot of it. I should write an email to the guy before I move, asking him exactly how he’s constructed the thing—it’d be handy to have one of my own, some day. I suspect it’s simply a piece of thick sheeting with a routed hole at the appropriate height, cut to fit the door and fitted with hinges and a safety bolt or two, so that all he need do is remove the regular kitchen door from its hinges (if he has one there at all) and replace it with the gloryhole partition.
I always tell myself I’m going to inspect it more closely, when I’m driving over to his place. When I hit the mud room and see the door, however, my next trip to Home Depot is the last thing on my mind. His dick is number one. I shucked off my jacket, unbuckled my belt, dropped my pressed slacks and my trunks to my ankles, and fell to my knees. Through the hole I saw a shadow, and then movement. The curves of his muscular thighs appeared first, followed by the silhouette of his trim waist. I couldn’t see his dick until it appeared through the gloryhole. It hung in a perfect arc over his full, shapely nuts, soft, but twitching at the feel of my breathing.
My own meat stiffened in the palm of my left hand. My lips parted, and my tongue licked out to guide his knob into my mouth. I felt him lean against the partition, pushing his hips forward to make available as much of his dick as possible. Gratefully I took him to the root, and found my eagerness rewarded as his cock grew in one mighty shot, like a javelin, and speared the back of my throat. He groaned, the deep grunt plainly audible through the three-quarters of an inch of wood, and seven inches of rock hard flesh.
But I wasn’t ready to go to town on him, yet. Now that he was hard, I took my left hand and wrapped it around his meat, while my right fingers brought his nuts to my lips. He groaned again as I sucked them into my mouth and very gently ran my teeth over the firm globes. One at a time I worked on them, and then both together. Finally, when I had him banging his forehead gently against the partition, my tongue snaked out and licked his hairy taint as far back as I could. He cooperated by spreading his legs and pushing forward even farther. I half-hoped he might turn around and offer me his butt to eat through the hole, but that didn’t seem to be his focus. He wanted his dick sucked.
Suck I did, as expertly as ever. I know how to get this guy off. From a soft, unfocused slurping I picked up the pace and began working his shaft with a tight jaw and my lips stretched over my teeth to provide some tension. A minute after that, I added my encircled thumb and forefinger. I used my left hand to cup his balls; my left index finger stretched out as far as it could and buried itself in his flesh, somewhere near his butthole. He parted his legs to accommodate me.
His dick started to produce precum; I could feel his hips thrusting back and forth more quickly, in the slightest of motions. I added another finger to the tight circle I was making around his shaft as I sucked. I’d slobbered enough saliva over his balls that his sac was completely slick. My finger withdrew from his hole and pressed hard at the underside of his nuts, right at the back, where I could feel his heart and cock pulsing in unison. The pressure elicited from him a mighty groan, and the partition shuddered from where some part of his body struck it.
Faster and faster my mouth moved back and forth over the shaft. My own dick was neglected, but hard nonetheless. His pleasure was what mattered, at this juncture. He began to batter the board with his body, trying to drive his dick deeper into my willing mouth.
Then he came. I could tell it was nearing a mile away. He yelled, and shouted its arrival, then thrust forward as far as he could. I wrapped my mouth tightly onto his shaft, and felt it pulse and shake as the head released pulse after pulse of fluid onto the back of my tongue. Only when it was quiescent once more did I pull back a little and swallow the mouthful of salty fluid.
Then, finally I went back to my dick. My right hand jerked myself furiously, while my left cradled and tugged at my balls. My mouth remained on his dick, nursing out the last sweet drops as I jerked myself to orgasm. I shot the fiery load into my left palm, jerking and convulsing with his meat still between my lips. He pulled out when I was done, and I lifted the cupped palm to my mouth and ate the generous amount of nacreous liquid it contained.
Like I said I stunk of cum. I knew it when I pulled up my pants and escaped with my coat out the back door. I knew it when I got into my car and drove straight to the bar. And I definitely knew it when the bar’s owner and several of my friends tried to close in for a hug and a peck on the lips, upon my arrival. I deftly squirmed out of their embrace before they could sense the telltale scent lingering on my beard, lips and face.
It’s a scent I love—dick and spit and cum, all mingled into one of the sweetest perfumes there is. After a few minutes of savoring it, though, I ducked into the men’s room and washed the lower half of my face. There was no telling who might have to smell me, that evening.