(This post is a continuation of Getting a Room, and will itself be continued.)
“Hi.” Will stood before me bare-footed. One of his compact, fleshy hands was thrust deep into the pocket of his athletic shorts. The other lingered on the knob of his front door. He wore a red T-shirt. Red was one of his colors. It suited his dark skin; it directed the eyes to his body, his ass, his face. Will was a full head shorter than I, and he looked up at me with long, scared eyes. “I’m really glad you came.” In afterthought, he added, “Welcome to my home.”
It sounded like the kind of line he’d been taught by a parent, as a child, oddly formal in the face of what I’d come for. “Thanks,” I said, stepping inside. It was not a fancy place. The apartment complex might as well have been named The By-the-Highway Hideaway for Newly-Divorced Men. The rent here was cheap, the apartments cramped and dark, their windows occluded by hulking air conditioning units and the despair of the single. I had to edge my way in through the narrow hallway and into the cramped living room, where on the second-best furniture from his marriage Will had strewn newspapers and framed photographs of his sons. There wasn’t much in the way of decor, or frills. Everything was functional, and sparse, and obviously salvaged.
“So,” he said. His dark eyes rested on me, mournful. “I hope you didn’t have any problems getting away.”
I hadn’t. I swallowed, and licked my lips, slightly nervous. “No,” I said. “I didn’t.”
“And you can . . . stay all night?”
I nodded. It was the year 2000 and I’d been in my relationship for a good decade by that point. I’d never once broken the first and foremost of my own rules; that is, I’d never spent the night, the entire night, with anyone else. I’d had a few encounters from which I’d stumbled home at one or two in the morning. When I’d gone traveling, I’d stayed out mighty late, or had people back to my hotel room until well after midnight. But never before had I ever intentionally slept over with anyone, all night long, in a premeditated fashion. (Not until Spencer would I do it again.)
“You don’t have to,” he said. “We can mess around, then you can leave if you need to. I don’t know what you told—“
“Will?” I interrupted. He blinked, and stopped mid-sentence. “Shut up.”
I pulled him to me, tipped my head so I wouldn’t collide with his baseball cap, and then kissed him deeply.
We went upstairs to his bedroom. When he opened the doors, I was taken aback by the heat inside. At some point before my arrival, Will had collected every candle he’d owned, and probably had picked up a few at the dollar store, lit them, and placed them around the room. Tea lights shone from the dresser in massed bunches. Fat chunky pillars adorned the television. On the nightstands were an assortment of white, waxen lights burning at different heights. The bed itself was adorned with a coverlet that was turned down to expose its homespun border of periwinkles.
I blinked in astonishment. It was really one of the loveliest things that anyone had done for me. “Oh my gosh,” I said, turning to him.
He looked sheepish. For such a handsome and buff guy, Will honestly had very little in the way of self-confidence. “Is it okay?” he asked. “I wanted it to be perfect for you.”
I melted. “It’s very okay!” I told him.
In some ways, it was difficult to believe he was fifteen years my senior at that point. Case in point: his next statement was, “I’ve just never . . . you know. Had intercourse with a man before. Like we did last week. And I was hoping this time I could . . . do it right.”
I swallowed, hard. My stomach seemed to have hatched hummingbirds. “I want you inside me again,” I told him at last, once I could speak. “I want you to fuck me.”
“Do you want me to put on a condom this time?” He’d probably gone out and bought them in all sizes, colors, and varieties, if I knew him.
“No,” I said. “I want to feel you in me. Nothing between us.”
He nodded. Obviously he wanted that, too.
I’d hosed out earlier, and made myself sweet-smelling. He lay me down on the bed and undressed me, his short and strong fingers tugging at my buttons, pulling down the zipper, gently unlacing my boots. Then it was his turn to remove his clothing. He did it both with a charming self-consciousness, knowing my eyes were upon him, and the grace of a stripper.
His body was beautiful. His dick was angry and hard, and already laced with pre-cum. When he climbed between my legs, they automatically parted for him. He kissed me deeply, as his hips pushed against mine, raising them up so that my hole was exposed for him. He didn’t bother to eat me out. He didn’t know how, probably. He’d told me that his experience with guys had been limited to a couple of blow jobs and a lot of fantasy; he hadn’t even watched any porn, at that point.
Married men, though—divorced men too—know how to fuck. He didn’t need me to teach him.
I’m not usually fond of Vaseline as a lube, but it was all he had. I’m not usually able to relax enough to be fucked without being eaten and loosened slowly. That night, though, his desire and mine were enough. The candlelight was enough. My ass rose to meet his cock, once I was face-down on the bed and he had gently arranged the pillows to support my chest and head. He pushed his red and angry flesh against my hole. It parted, and he slid inside without effort, and without any pain for me.
I remember that night vividly. I felt as if my hole were afire with him in it. He penetrated deeply and without any of the awkwardness or pain we’d had during the aborted fuck at Mark’s place the week before. Because we had the entire night, neither of us was in a hurry. He fucked me slowly, pausing between thrusts, his cock rigid and insistent inside a hole that miraculously responded as if it were fucked regularly.
We didn’t talk much. I let out small, contented sighs. He would kiss my neck and grunt to himself with every thrust. From time to time he’d pause to wipe away the sweat from my forehead, caused by the heat of the massed candles and our bodies. Never did he completely stop the rhythm of in and out, in and out, deeply in and slowly out.
For close to an hour he fucked me, several times bringing me close to orgasm without touching myself. I’d seem to get there, and cry out to beg for him to make it happen, but then that delicious sensation of dissolving and dissipating would ebb away until his dick brought me to that point yet again with another dozen or so sharp thrusts. “I’m getting close,” he finally told me. I could have told him that. No longer was he taking his time. He was battering away at my hole, holding himself up by the forearms and using his hips as a jackhammer. “I’ll pull out,” he promised.
“Please don’t,” I begged him, genuinely afraid he might.
“I really should,” he whispered. “I don’t want to put you in danger.”
This was from the man whose sexual experience outside his marriage had been on the receiving end of two blow jobs. I could live with that level of risk. “I want you to stay in,” I begged him. “I want you to shoot in me.”
“Really?” he asked. I knew that if I looked over my shoulder, I’d see surprise in those large eyes. But I was too much the cunt at the moment to turn. I wanted his release as much as he did. I buried my forehead in the pillow and waited for it. My ass clenched at his dick, willing it to shoot.
I could tell the moment he was on the verge. My hole ached as his dick swelled and buried itself to its deepest point. I had to catch my breath, because he seemed to grow to twice his previous size as the first blast of semen erupted from him. “I think I’m in love with you,” he blurted out as he came, and then followed it up with an anguished cry. It was a howl of pain and pleasure, of need unleashed after so long. It was the first orgasm he’d ever had from fucking a man. I knew he’d remember it for the rest of his life.
I would, too.
“Don’t pull out,” I begged him, when he was quiet and still atop me. I felt him nod against my shoulder blades.
It was a few moments before he answered, “I’m sorry that I—“
“I love you too,” I told him, shushing the apology before it came. I didn’t want to hear he was sorry for saying that. “Don’t. Just don’t.” I sighed, contented, knowing that his cock was softening inside me. “There’s never enough love in this world. Don’t regret having it for anyone.”
“Okay,” said the strong and built man in a very small and quiet voice. Then, after a moment more, he reached for my hands, to hold them tight. His voice was sleepy when he asked, “Did I do all right?”
“Oh god,” I whispered back, squeezing his fingers. “More than that.”
He rumbled, happy to hear it. A few moments later, he was asleep, his dick and sperm still in me.
I lay like that, with a hundred and seventy pounds of fur and muscle atop and in me, for what seemed like an eternity. The room was stuffy and their heat and the human blanket were making me sweat again. My ass was beginning to ache; it hadn’t been used like that in an awfully long time. I had difficulty breathing, and was being pulverized into the mattress.
But you know what? It was perfect, and I was perfectly happy.