Here’s how I got my last dick in Detroit.
I was messing around on the computer, last Saturday evening. I wasn’t really in the mood for full-blown fucking—I was too tired, to be honest, after a day of mucking around in the garage and trying to clean up the equipment down in my studio. But what can I say? I’m a man. I was still horny. I could have spent the day running from tornadoes and emerged from my storm cellar clammy and damp and covered with cobwebs and mold and the first thing that would have been on my mind would’ve been, hey, I wonder who’s up for a little sump-sumpthin’?
So I logged onto Manhunt.
Almost immediately I got a note from my local buddy with the gloryhole, Urlipsmypole. It was later at night than I’m accustomed to, with him. He’s always been a late afternoon, pre-dinner kind of guy, and here it was, post-dessert, late evening, pre-bed kind of time slot. Whatcha doin’, sexy? he wanted to know.
Waiting for you to invite me over, was my blunt reply. Name the time.
A couple of minutes later I opened the note flashing in my mail tray. Now.
I was there in five minutes. It was raining outside in a miserable way that started the moment I stepped outside the house and ran to the car, then diminished the moment I was inside and behind the wheel. When I parked and crossed the street, of course, the clouds immediately opened up and poured buckets. I was soaked to the skin just from crossing the tiny side street. I didn’t care, though. I only wore a T-shirt, some shorts and no underwear, and a pair of flip-flops. There wasn’t much to soak.
As usual, I knelt the moment I’d shut the door to his mud porch behind me, my knees cushioned by the layers of towels and padding he’d thrown down. His shadow crossed the dark kitchen, blotting out what little light I could see beyond the round, cut-out gloryhole. His dick poked through, hooded and soft, smelling fresh of soap.
I gently lifted it with my hand and let my mouth rest on his nuts. They were freshly shorn and smooth beneath my tongue. I heard him groan as I took his balls, one by one, into my mouth, scraping the skin with my teeth and letting my tongue lap long and languorous circles around their circumference. My spit was still slick on their heavy, plum-like roundness as I took his meat into my mouth and felt it twitch and harden between my lips.
I sucked slow, and went deep, thinking to myself, This is the last dick I’ll probably taste in this damn city. And you know, that was fine with me. I like Urlipsmypole. It’s easy to sense his shifts of arousal—that moment when his dick is fully hard and I know I’ve gotten his full attention. The next change in mood, when he leans forward and thrusts his hips, hard, against the wood of the partition separating the mudroom from his kitchen. That intense, sexy moment when pre-cum begins to flood from the tip of his dick, filling my mouth with a lubricated salty tang that makes me suck more quickly and to tighten the grip of my thumb and forefinger as it follows my mouth’s path, up and down his shaft.
I can tell when he’s close to shooting; he always, always begins to fuck the gap in the plywood as if it were a tight hole, sometimes thrusting so hard that the partition shudders in its hinges. I suck deep, and twist my fingers around his nuts, allowing the smooth skin and my saliva there to heighten the sensation of my fingertips dancing across his scrotum. He releases—once, twice, and three times, then holds there, allowing me to suck and swallow the sperm he’s produced. And I always swallow.
When I finished him Saturday, I contemplated jacking off with him still in my mouth, as usual. Then I simply let his cock drop from my lips, stood up, stuffed my hardness back into my shorts, and tripped out into the rain. Getting off seemed beyond the point, really. I’d wanted to celebrate my last night of freedom. I had, in a way that seemed perfect in itself, without me having to blow a load with the guy.
And I liked it like that.
I wrote him again when I got home. Thanks, I told him. I’m heading out of state this week and yours is the last dick I’ll have had in this town. I’m glad it was yours, too.
He didn’t write me back until the next day. Hey thanks, he said. Looks like we’re losing another good one. I know we never met face to face, but you seemed like a genuinely good guy and you were always reliable, which in this town is pretty fucking rare. Best of luck to you in your future journeys.
A handsome thank-you, I thought. And a fitting, positive end to twenty-five years in a city that’s sometimes confounded me, occasionally hurt me, and more than sometimes left me breathless and a little in love.