Monday, September 26, 2011

Lightning Bolt

My Dear X.,

When I think about you this week, and I think about you often, I think about lightning bolts.

I know you might not read this today—you're off on the other side of the country, traveling and enjoying yourself—but I wanted to write about you on your special day. It's one of the few gifts I can offer.

We chatted for nearly two weeks online, you know. You discovered my blog at the height of Hurricane Irene, and sped through it as if you were racing. I enjoyed your brief notes along your journey: the quick shout-outs for the entries you enjoyed, the questions, the observations. You made me go back and read some of my own stuff, just to keep up. It was an experience that rekindled an enjoyment and appreciation for the last year and a half of writing. Thank you.

When you sent me photographs of you, they literally took my breath away. That first image is branded on my brain. You, sitting on the very edge of your mattress, naked, legs spread apart, your fat dick hanging down between them as if it were too heavy to stand. Your waist is so narrow that it appears to be an optical illusion; your shoulders are broad and muscular. Your skin is dark and as shining as the accidentals on a grand piano.

And above it all, peeking out above the phone camera you're aiming at a mirror, was that smile of yours. That inviting, sweet-faced smile. More than the dick, the waist, the chest, the long legs or the lanky arms, that smile did it for me. I had to know you. That's why last Wednesday, on a day I had to venture into Manhattan anyway to see a friend's play, I arranged with you to have my hair cut.

The train from Connecticut was crowded. The subways from Grand Central to the West Village, more so. I had a few minutes leisure to collect my thoughts at a noisy Starbucks on Eighth Avenue, and then I made my way to your salon. It was what I expected, a large and industrial place with modern fittings. Beautiful views of lower Manhattan from windows that stretched from the floor to the ceiling that, on a sun-soaked autumn day, showed off the city like a jewel.

Then you walked in, all loping legs and angular arms, skinny and long-limbed as a fashion designer's fantasy sketches, your T-shirt hanging off a shoulder. Your smile at the sight of me lit up the room. I don't even remember how I got to your chair, on the floor below.

But I do remember the lightning bolt on your right arm, the creation of ink and skin that ran from your elbow to nearly the wrist. You played with my hair, washed it, massaged the scalp, and trimmed away too many months' worth of overgrowth. All the time, that blue-black jagged bolt, looking as if it should be the logo of some superhero from a child's comic book, danced around my head. I watched in the mirror with my long, wet hair coiled on top of my head as you began to cut. Lightning—the symbol of raw power, sure, but also of a precisely-focused energy. Just like your hands as you removed the straight razor from its leather case, folded it open, and began to trim.

I loved watching you work. Carefully you'd partition my overabundant tresses. Then, after stretching them sideways between your fingers into a thin layer, the razor would do its work. Skritch, skritch, skritch. The sharp edge would dance through the wet locks with a precision I couldn't measure, though I could see it reflected in your eyes. Your lips moved silently as you cut, as if you kept going some internal monologue about what you were seeing as you cut. This wasn't the typical haircut I was used to, in which in a flat fifteen minutes I was shorn and done. This was the work of an artist. A sculptor. A man at the top of his craft, who knew what he wanted, and wanted it done well.

I'd already known I could trust you with my hair. But when I saw that look of intense concentration and focus in your eyes, I trusted that I could relax completely. I let the lightning bolt do its work.

Then afterward, when I'd admired myself over and over again in the mirror, and you'd collected your bag, we stepped into the tiny elevator together. The door closed. You turned. Your arms surrounded me as your palms pressed flat against the back wall. You brought your face close, so that I could smell the hair-product scent of you. As I'd hoped, your lips closed over mine.

For eight stories we kissed as we descended. I knew that your lips would be as soft and sensual as I'd imagined. I knew that you'd leave me breathless after. What I didn't know is that you'd taste so damned good. Like vanilla, and honey, and the promise of something more to come.

We separated only when the door slid open, what felt like an hour later. You loped out with your arms and legs working confidently. I stumbled behind, dizzy and short of oxygen, feeling like a schoolboy, and blinking as if it might clear the fog in front of my eyes. It didn't.

We jostled together on the uptown train, pressed body to body by the crowds. I could smell you that entire time. I kept thinking, I've just made out with that man. I tried very hard to get Aerosmith's "Love in an Elevator" out of my mind. It didn't quite work.

That particular earworm vanished, though, once we hit the streets and began walking to an eatery in Hell's Kitchen. Talking to you face to face was a luxury. I haven't made many friends since I've moved to the east coast. I felt as if I'd known you for years. Being able to ask questions without having to type them, without having to wait for an indefinite internet reply . . . well, I wallowed in it. I probably asked you too much, went too deep, nosed around more than I should. But you didn't mind, and gamely replied to everything I asked.

"Let's walk," you said, after I'd gotten the tab. I tried to match my step to yours as we navigated northward, weaving past tourists and shopkeepers and open cellar doors, uneven sidewalks, and local residents with puppies on leashes.

"Not that I'm inviting myself," I said carefully, "but how far is your apartment from here?'

You turned to look at me then, eyebrows raised. "Where else do you think we're going?", you asked.

The answer made me happy.

X., you were so worried that I'd find your apartment messy. It might have been. I don't know. I didn't have eyes to notice. At some other time I might investigate your wall of CDs, your movie collections, the books you had stacked on your desk. Maybe then I'll check out your midtown closet space, your bathroom, and evaluate your real estate deal. Maybe I'll give the shelves the white glove test then.

All I know is that afternoon, in the couple of hours before my friend's play, all I had eyes for was you.

You lay me down on the bed, soft, your eyes boring into mine. Then you straddled me. I remember sighing and raising my lips to meet yours. My back arched as you slipped your hand beneath me to draw me close. My cock strained in my trousers. We kissed, deeply and without inhibition. You grunted with arousal whenever my tongue entered your mouth; I sighed and stirred whenever you would press your lips to my neck. Wide awake though I was, that long make-out session made me feel sleepy, as if I were immersed in the best dream ever. I never wanted to wake up from it.

We kissed like teenagers at a basement party, desperate and hungry, as if that was all we knew how to do. Sometimes you lay atop me. Sometimes I weighed you down. Most of the time, though, we lay side by side on your bed, the sounds of the city just outside your sunny window, our limps tangled as we pressed our bodies tightly together. Your hands slipped beneath my shirt, touching my back, my sides. I stroked you softly, my fingertips eliciting sighs with every pass.

But we didn't undress. I was afraid to unleash your cock, honestly. I knew if I did, I wouldn't be leaving your apartment until late, late at night—and I'd promised to see that play. I teased you, though. I moved down your body to the place where your pants leg bulged, and felt the enormous, hard meat underneath the frayed denim of your jeans. I worked it with my mouth, feeling the thick width, the incredible length. I saw your jaw tighten and clench as you pushed hard against my face, trying to get relief.

Then you flipped me over, and put your mouth to my butt, through my pants. Through the layer of gray cotton and the trunks underneath, I could feel your breath, hot and moist, on my hole. Again my back arched as you grabbed me and pulled my hips to yours, so that you could grind against my ass with the hard length in your jeans. You pushed me down so that my face was in the pillow, and rotated your hips so that they nailed me to the bed.

I wanted you inside me, then. It's tough for me to admit. But it's all I could think about, through the haze of my waking dream. I wanted you to be part of me. I wanted to surround you with warmth, and wetness, and to make you feel a fraction as good as you were making me feel at that moment.

But we kept our clothes on, and our dicks in our pants. I think we both knew there'd be no turning back, if they were unleashed.

Leaving your apartment was one of the hardest things I've done. But you were sweet to walk the eleven blocks with me to the theater where my friend's play was taking place—and it afforded me a few more precious minutes to get to know you better. And then, when we parted, you did the unexpected. Right there in the middle of 42nd Street, a block from Times Square, in the last of the daylight, as tourists and theatergoers milled around in search of their destinations, you took my shoulders in your hands, looked me in the eyes, and kissed me. Slowly. Softly. Deeply.

I felt an electrical charge passing between us when our lips met for a final time. A lightning bolt. Everyone could have been watching, or no one. I didn't notice, either way. All I knew was that as good as you'd made me look, earlier that afternoon, nothing could compare to the way you'd made me feel.

You were gone when the daze finally faded from my eyes, and I made my way inside to the play. But that smile, X, the smile you left on my face? That didn't disappear for hours. And whenever I want it, all I have to do is reach down deep inside, think of your handsome face, your gentle touch, and the sweet taste of your kisses, and bring it back up again.

I hope when you read this, you smile, too. Happy birthday, my dear X. Having met you makes me happy.


  1. You are very charming when you are smitten! I feel as if I were one of the tourists in the crowd watching. (You wouldn't have noticed.) So good you're happy.

  2. Wow. Amazing on several levels. 'Lightning Striking Again' ques up on the karaoke machine... Brings back memories of New York, and serendipity, and passion. Happily two of those are quite current in my life, too, so New York gets by with nostalgia.

    Maybe Universe Gift Delivery, Ltd. decides that any address accepting gifts is a good place to forward a share of the neglected and refused ones.

  3. Countess,

    Of course I'm smitten. When one is open to the universe and the many wonderful people in it, one can be smitten every day.

    Thank you.

  4. RedPhillip,

    My falsetto isn't high enough for that track.

    It's like I said to Countess, above...the world is full of great people and great experiences to be had. Accepting those gifts means getting up and out, meeting people, and admiring them for the wondrous creations they are. Not everyone does that.

    Fortunately, it's a facility that can be trained with practice.

  5. Thanks for sharing. It's good to see people touching each other so positively.

  6. Kevin,

    Thank you, and thanks for commenting again. This entry wasn't supposed to go live until this morning. :-)

  7. (laughing) Ooh, I got a scoop! Probably not worth quite as much as an iPhone leak.

    I have sufficient flaws in my memory to have assumed I failed to press the button to confirm the comment.

  8. Kevin, you did get the scoop. Actually, I got your comment last night and I was like, "How can he be commenting on an entry that I thought I postdated to tomorrow?"

    So apparently I have sufficient memory flaws of my own.

  9. I have to admit, that was an amazingly beautiful post. And I also have to admit to a bit of jealousy. I NEVER feel that comfortable with ANYONE who has cut my hair. In fact, I hardly talk to the stylists at all. I don't know why, I'm just that nervous.

    Oh, and I'm jealous you met such a sexy man and had such a fun day. Hopefully you get to do it again!


  10. Beautifull! I enjoyed this one very much. I read it out loud to literally hear you say the words and as if trying to grasp that magical (still) innocent moment, in which the sex tension is being built and not consumed (yet).... Well done! ;-)

  11. Rob,

    If I were to say that a posting in which there was no actual sex could be far more erotic than a posting with explicit sex, I know I would sound a bit like those assholes who are forever saying that old movies full of flirtation and possibility are more alluring, in their way, than movies today where couples get naked and go right to it on the screen. But of course it's true that old movies, with their subtlety and their ability to make us wonder at every moment what that electricity between these people consists of and where it will take them, actually are better a lot of the time than movies where you see it all.

    And so it is with your posting today. I loved every word of it. I loved the arc of the plot, so to speak. I loved the way we truly didn't know where it was going. And I loved seeing you engage with New York, and show that you were looking at the streets and the energy of it and beginning to get what makes it not like anyplace else. X, as befits his name, was a cipher, albeit a beautiful one, but I felt as I read it that he was also a kind of metaphor for you and New York --you are finding it incredibly attractive but you are holding yourself back from plunging all the way in, at least for now.

    I'm afraid I can't cut your hair, but it would be fun to help you deepen your relationship to the city.



  12. I'm one of those readers you talked about last week, the ones who never comment, but read every entry you write and appreciate every word.

    But when reading your post today, I found myself with an unprecedented urge to comment on a piece of writing that left me with a deep sense of warmth that I haven’t felt in some time. A longing, that I too might find someone who leaves me dazed after we kiss or has my attention so fully that the world moves on around me without my noticing. It’s been far too long since I’ve experienced those feelings and I thank you for the gentle reminder of the possibility.

    Another piece of great writing and congrats on being the first blogger to leave me with an uncontrollable desire to break the habit of a lifetime and comment! You never know, now I’ve done it once…..


    P.S. if I lived nearby, I would totally be your friend. Look me up if you ever move to Scotland :p

  13. The allusion to the piano keyboard has made "Ebony and Ivory" the song that's stuck in my head now...!

  14. Esteban,

    Oh, I wish I could've heard you read it aloud. Make a video of that, sometime, would you?

    Thank you, my friend.

  15. PJ,

    Yes, absolutely, you are totally the best reader ever for recognizing that I meant the entry as a metaphor for New York itself. Because I am deep and meaningful and able to do things like that instead of letting them come about by happenstance.

    Yes. Totally. Not happenstance at all, nosiree.

    Thank you for the compliment, though. And take me out to karaoke. That'll deepen my relationship.

  16. Stewart (what a good name for a Scotsman, right?),

    I really do appreciate you piping up. I know it takes an effort, and even if I never hear from the guy again, I really do remember and appreciate the effort.

    I hope you have a kiss like that in your future. It'll feel even better than how you've made me feel by commenting. And that's pretty darned good.

    I've never been to Scotland. I ought, since it's the land of my ancestors.

  17. Throb,

    Between Aerosmith, Lou Christie, and you, we've got the AM radio dial covered.

  18. I enjoyed this immensely but I sure as hell hope there is a continuation in the future.

  19. That was great. Thanks, Rob. - MisterSpinnaker

  20. MisterSpinnaker,

    I'm happy you enjoyed it, and thank you.

  21. Great post. It turned me on on many levels. I discovered your blog a few weeks ago and I started reading through all your psotings. It took me some time but it was thoroughly enjoyable.
    Unfortunately I seem to have some problem emailing you. Shame. I had something I wanted to share.

    Creative from Sweden

  22. Hello Rob,

    I've read your writings periodically and every time I come back, I spend far more time going through your entries than I really had but I've always found it so rewarding I really didn't worry about the other thing I was supposed to be doing...

    Case in point, X... Lightning Bolt... Sigh...
    I actually can't read anything else tonight as your romantic adventure can not be topped by anything else... And I can't bear the thought of diluting the intense pleasure you've given me with unexciting dribble that's out there on the Net or on TV...

    Can I thank you for igniting my imagination with the beauty of your encounter? Rob, this was so beautiful I found myself in your shoes and willing the adventure to continue...

    And I echo the comments of PJ and Stewart also in saying that this, for me, is the sexiest and most erotic post I can remember reading or hearing about in a long, long, long time...

    I have encountered one man who kissed so well I wanted to follow him across the world but he was already partnered... Lips so soft and luscious that kissing him was almost like biting into a peach... And he loved kissing back too...

    I find myself hoping to hear that you are able to meet X again... This is so beautiful, Rob...

    And I love that you wrote him on his birthday... So sweet... (And his birthday is the day before mine...)

    Thanks for re-igniting the spark, the romance and the passion...

    I hope to read that you are able to meet X again and kiss and actually get your clothes off... ;)


  23. Creative,

    I'm glad you're enjoying the entries. Thank you.

    What's happening when you try to email me? Are you using the yahoo address in the sidebar? Because I get a LOT of mail every day and haven't heard from anyone else that it's not going through.

  24. Derek,

    Thanks for the sweet comments. I feel happy not only to have titillated you, but to have triggered some of your own memories and associations as well. That's a big honor.

    I talk to X daily. I'm sure we'll be meeting again very soon for more.

  25. What an absolutely beautiful story - and an amazing birthday gift. X is a lucky man indeed.

    As much as I loved the story, and that moment in front of the theater that left a smile on my face as well, what spoke to me most was what you said in response to comments: "When one is open to the universe and the many wonderful people in it, one can be smitten every day." as well as "the world is full of great people and great experiences to be had. Accepting those gifts means getting up and out, meeting people, and admiring them for the wondrous creations they are."

    You put into words what I have discovered and begun to cultivate in my own life here in SF - thank you for that, sweet handsome man.

    Tom (nakedsf)

  26. Tom,

    I know you're one of the people who life your life that way, and it makes me glad that you do. It's always genuinely heartening to know people who try to live happy and rich lives, rather than wallow in creating misery for themselves and others.

  27. Thanks for replying to my comment... Rob
    I'm really intrigued by you and X together...
    Much love...