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