Thursday, November 3, 2011

Franco: Part 2

Writing about the readers I meet is a difficult thing. I've had to do it several times, now, and I'm finding it never gets easier.

I recognize that for many people it takes an act of courage to reach out and write an email to a stranger, much less offer him sex. I respect that act of bravery. I don't generally question the motives of the people who read me and decide they want to appear in an entry. There have been some I've thought were simply starfuckers—albeit of a very low-achieving type, considering I'm really nothing to brag about to one's friends. There've been a few who seem to think I'll fix what's broken in them, and it's usually very apparent that something is very, very broken.

The vast majority who reach out, however, do so because it seems that they feel they can connect with me on a fundamental level. They seem to indicate that I've struck a chord with them that resonates through many of my entries. They feel they know me. And yes, they very well might know one facet of my personality very well. The intimacy they feel after reading me is enough to make them feel they want me, that they can offer me something I need and would appreciate it. I suppose it's the power of the written word.

That kind of power was one of the reasons why I paused, that moment I stepped into Franco's bedroom and saw all the hand-printed signs on the furniture. Those written words, those expressions of an intimacy desired—the ultimate intimacy, in a lot of ways—simply took my breath away. I knew right then I wanted to make the afternoon special for him.

These entries, too, I wanted to be special. I always want that, after I've met a reader. I want him to know what the time we spent was like from my perspective. I have to be honest. They can call me on bullshit easily, if I were inclined to fabricate. So I write these things down and try to make them as representative of reality as I can.

Each time it seems almost futile. What's beautiful blossoms fully only when it's planted in the moment. Trying to sketch it in words is like plucking the flower and being forced to watch it wither, second by second. When I'm done writing, I might be left with petals dried to a certain hue, and a faint scent on my fingertips. But it's not what was in the moment, and I despair.

There's so much I want to capture about the afternoon and evening I spent with Franco, and so little I'm likely to do well. But if I were to attempt it, I'd do it as a series of sensations. Because with that mask on his head, with its thick leather strap blocking off most of his hearing as well, sensations were what I gave him, one after the other.

Not talk. Not poetry. Just the raw sensations of touch, and smell, and taste. Sex reduced to the most primal basics. The most declarative of sentences. The slap of my hands on his muscular, round ass, and the way the sound reverberated over the music of the living room. The echoes of his surprised, helpless moans, at every impact.

The taste of his hole, his sweet, pink flesh so clean and soapy, as I dove deep in and rimmed him.

His wordless cries, as he squirmed and tried to twist away from my relentless attention on his hole with my chin and lips and tongue, yet also made it easier to continue my assault.

His surprised gasps at the columns of cool air I would blow on the parts of him I'd made slick with spit.

The gentleness of his mouth, as he nuzzled at my cock with his lips and struggled to take it all in his throat, to maximize my pleasure.

The determined manner in which he would dig his chin deeper and harder into the place where my leg joined my hips, as if rooting like dog.

The way that, when words weren't available to him, he spoke to me through kisses. Soft and lingering, or hard and rough and angry.

The speed with which he divested himself of his jock, when I tugged at the hem, and the silly, little-boy-like way his feet became tangled in the elastic and he blindly attempted to kick them off until I calmed him and removed the jock from around his heels.

That silent hush, when he realized that he was face-down and that my knees were between his thighs, and that I was reaching for where the bottle of lube lay at the head of the bed.

An even more profound silence that followed, so quiet that it sounded as if someone had turned off the volume controlling the entire city, when I pressed the head of my dick against his hole.

I want to remember the feel of his ass around my cock, the way he would open fully, then clench and push back, panicked, as he realized how thick I am, how long, how quickly he was taking me in without me even thrusting.

The words he said when I hit bottom, and held him around his chest, nodding my head side-by-side with his to let him know how well he was doing: You're in me. You've actually got your cock inside me.

The grinding of his hips and the strength with which he clutched at me, trying to pull me in more deeply.

How he turned his head to kiss me for the first time after penetration, as he suddenly remembered I was more than my dick, and that the rest of me was still there with him, as close as the two of us could possibly be.

How over and over he repeated the words he'd traced onto those sheets of paper, urging me to let loose of the load that had been accumulating for ten long days. The sweet and touching way he expressed his disappointment when I pulled out, to turn him onto his back—and the warmth and need with which he received me when I entered him with his legs over my shoulders.

The savage oath he whispered as he tried hard to work my dick with his hole and to give me even more pleasure than I was taking for myself: I want you to regret any ass after mine.

The way he urged me on as I grew close to coming, thrusting back as hard as he could when I was close, and opening deep to receive the load when it came. How when my head cleared I looked down to discover he'd shot all over himself—buckets, gallons, it seemed, that covered his chest, his arm, even the leather of his mask, with milky-white sperm.

And then, after, when we both were laughing, how he mildly complained about the fact that I'd been too involved in my own orgasm to witness how violent and drenching his own had been.

I want not only to remember all of these things, and the hours of togetherness and talking and more fucking that followed, but I need to wrap them up in a pretty little package and present them back to him. To let him know that I wasn't just there, but that I was present, and relishing every moment of our time together. To give back to him what he gave so sweetly to me. That's all I want to do for any reader who meets me, and gives to me.

I do so knowing that there's no way I can capture fully an afternoon's sweet scent, or the vibrant scarlets and hot pinks of its blossoming.

But I do my humble best, and hope it's well received


  1. Good just became even more sexy than I had thought...

  2. I loved every moment of this, and you made me feel, although I could not be further away from your vantage point, what you felt. For entire paragraphs you also somehow managed to switch off my "Must Question & Understand" button.

    I'm glad you had this perfect day.

  3. Oh my! You have more than out done yourself today. I was captivated, holding my breath the entire time. Simply beautiful. I could almost feel each touch and hear every sigh. Well done, a wonderful way to honor your time together. I can't even begin to imagine what Franco feels reading this.


  4. So, I'm curious (and I'm an ocean away so it's pure curiosity, except in fantasy). If you meet a reader...well, fuck a reader... is it a given you will write about it? Or is that negotiable? Inquiring minds want to know.



  5. Parts of this post brought me back to my own time spent with you (and the way I look forward to future time with you) and other parts made me want to have a bit of Franco myself, an urge I have already admitted to you. Even when all I knew about him was what his pictures showed to me, I knew he was special. Your posts today and yesterday have done so much to demonstrate the beauty and...what's the word? Beauty and humanity of the meeting. Your writing catches my breath here, and your Franco deserves high praise for being your muse. Thank you for sharing this with us.


  6. Throatlock,

    Maybe I should reserve comment until I find out how sexy (or how little sexy) you thought me before? :-)

  7. Countess,

    Thank you! Turning off people's centers of higher function is exactly what I aim for. (I think.)

  8. CoreyJo,

    Thanks very much! I know what Franco feels after he read it, because he already texted me. It was positive.

  9. Jamie,

    I write about the vast majority of my sexual encounters in my blog, so yes, I'd definitely write about meeting a reader. I'd do the same for a reader as I do for anyone I encounter—change names, particularities, and other details that might give away an identity. But yes, I'd write about it. For 99% of my readers, I'd think that would be the big attraction of meeting a blogger, wouldn't it?

    I can see that I wouldn't write about it under a couple of circumstances—if it happened to be a dud meeting, maybe, or if he had some really compelling reason to beg me not to. But that hasn't happened yet.

  10. Ace,

    Thank you. I have one point I'd like to emphasize, though: everyone I meet is special.

  11. Rob my friend,
    That post was even better that hte one yesterday. I capture every words that you wrote and felt every wich one of them. You have the facility to wrote all the sensations that you had and the one the other person felt and you make us think that it's us in there. I know that you had a very nice time and tender moments with him and hope that you will see him again. I want to thank you for those two amazing post that you just gave to us, your readers and i can say that these were the two best posts that i read in a long time.


  12. Yves,

    Thanks. You're always so nice to me.

  13. Rob,
    What can i say more. You are an amazing writer and peoples are enjoying reading you that much. I only say what is true to my eyes and i think that people with agree with me. Thank you for everything you gave us so far.


  14. You are an incredible poet, Rob. This was powerful and passionate, filled with beauty ... exactly like the gift you shared with Franco. ... Marky

  15. Rob,

    You're right, of course. You and I and a few others I read are lucky enough to see what makes the people we are with special, why they all deserve our attentions, and so much more besides. That sense is what makes you a gifted writer, lover, and human.


  16. The whole thing did sound special. Each was their for their own pleasure but also to make sure the other person also received their own pleasure.

    At times to many 'meetings' of the top/bottom kind turn out in the Top only getting the pleasure he needs and not caring what the bottom may need. It's in/cum/out the door for some who don't care about anyone else's pleasure. While that may be ok for some, but other can be let down on that type meeting.

  17. After throughly enjoying your posts, I am getting out my sign making kit. hal

  18. Hal,

    I like those magic markers scented like blueberries. That'd be awesome. And Hello Kitty paper. Thanks!

  19. Gah! I can't say what I need to say, damn you! I'm going to start looking like a simpering sycophant soon.

  20. Kevin,

    Maybe you could express it with interpretive dance?

  21. No dancing. But I'll make another attempt.

    Rob wrote: "everyone I meet is special"

    And therein lies the crux of your attractiveness for many of us. You may label yourself as "really nothing to brag about to one's friends," but the way you interact with people reveals something different.

    Most of us (and by that I mean humans in general) need at least a little external validation, even those of us who are generally well centered. Your ability to zero in on the things that makes each person you encounter unique to you is an opportunity that few self-aware people would turn down without a second thought.

    From my point of view, the single most intersting thing about you is the opportunity to see myself through a set of open and accepting eyes, attached to a brain that can communicate those impressions.

  22. Kevin,


    I guess I'll have to settle for your interesting insights, though. It's true that I'm open and accepting for those who don't come at me with behaviors I find repellant—condescension, for example, or a certain type of humor that relies on putting down others for the sake of bolstering a shaky ego. If someone's friendly and honest and open about what he'd like from an encounter, I'm excited to meet him. And then to share my impressions in a way that honors the spirit of the time we spent.

    When I've written about men I didn't enjoy, or entries that have fallen under the Department of Bad Encounters (or Weird Encounters) tag, it's because those men usually came at me with an agenda, or some social malfunction, or were determined to establish themselves as superior at my expense. Or, for a couple, I was simply in a bad mood. It happens.

    I make a lot of generalizations sometimes. I'll cast out a wide net and say that all bottoms do something, or all tops are one way, or all male flute players are gay. But at heart I truly believe we're all special in one way or another, and discovering how is part of the delight of meeting new people.

  23. The dry spell is broken!! I'm sure I felt an odd tremor of the earth from the east...

  24. Glad you were able to breed Franco and the amazing climax that each of you had is very well described I can picture it in my mind after I read this post.

  25. what a tender + touching tribute...

    i love the sensations you wonderfully described.

    im inspired to write now...