After two encounters in a row, within a couple of days of each other, that ended up as a poopy mess, I have to confess that I was a little gun-shy about hooking up again. With anyone. But when my local Puerto Rican fuckbuddy, the sexy, muscular furniture mover, messaged me last Thursday night, I couldn’t help but feel the stirrings of longing down in my pants.
sup lover?, he asked.
I was sitting in a Taco Bell at the time, having a solitary early dinner. I had the evening to myself, and didn’t have either the inclination to cook or to spend that much time or money on my meal. I’d planned to head home and work on a couple of projects I have cooking. But this sounded better. How are you, sexy man? I wrote back.
let me have your big dick my love, he texted. i got my own room now we can meet.
That was right. I hadn’t seen my little Rican lover in a few weeks because he’d been in transition. He’d been living with his sister—along with her husband and her husband’s mother and her two daughters—in a cramped two-bedroom apartment when I’d first met him. Since the new year, he’d found a place of his own, which would make getting together easier.
Let’s do it, I texted, after a moment’s hesitation. Those projects at home could wait. My dick was hard, and needed a place to unload.
I picked him up in front of his sister’s high-rise a very few minutes later. He’d been having dinner there. He hopped into my car and, to my surprise, gave me a big kiss on the lips right then and there. His hand went straight to my thigh, and squeezed. The street was dark and its sole lamp was at the far end, but I could tell my mover looked good. He wore a pair of sweatpants that fit tight around his round rear, and hung slack over his muscular legs and thighs. His pecs were barely contained in a wife-beater scooped low enough that I could see the religious tattoos inked on his chest. “Papi,” he breathed, as he put his hand on the back of my head and pulled my face down to him.
I had hastily to put my car into park so that I wouldn’t lose control of it during our kiss.
His new place was only two blocks away. (“Remember the ice cream store and that is my street. Now when you think of ice cream you will always think of me!” he said with delight, on the drive over.) I followed his directions and parked the car in front of an auto shop that was closed for the night. We walked up the street, and paused in front of a large bungalow that had definitely seen better days. He stopped right when we’d stepped through the uneven swinging front gate that needed a coat of paint. “Stay here, papi, while I check to see if it is clear,” he told me.
I was a little taken aback when finally he came back and snuck me through the front door and down the stairs into the basement, past a vibrating washing machine and through a door at the cellar’s far end. When he meant he’d gotten a room, he meant a room. It was a square box of a room with no bathroom, no sink, no kitchen. Just a small window set high near the ceiling, a mattress on the floor, a TV propped on a plastic milk crate, and a closet full of his overalls and casual clothes. On the mattress was spread a fleece bedspread printed with a giant picture of Jesus, holding up a pair of fingers either to bless someone, or perhaps test which way the wind was blowing.
My mover smiled at me with delight. “Now we can be alone when we like, my love,” he said, pushing me down onto the floor and the mattress. “And I get your beautiful cock all to myself.”
When he put it that way, there wasn’t much to which I could object. Right?
Personal confession time. One of the things I rarely write about is how bad my eyesight really is. I usually wear contact lenses, but a couple of times a week I’ll switch things up with my glasses, which are spectacularly nerdy and (I think) rather cool, but without which I’m pretty damned helpless. I was wearing my glasses that night. But I have to admit—once my mover had gently removed them from my nose and ears and folded them up in a safe place on the floor, I wasn’t paying attention to the shabbiness of that room anymore. Nor to the fact that he was removing my clothes while someone from upstairs was sorting their laundry not four feet on the other side of the locked door, or that he was holding down my hands over my head and licking out my pits right there on Christ’s face.
“This is my dick,” he kept saying, after it was loose and free. He put it into his mouth and sucked it all the way down before coming back up for air. “This dick belongs to me, right, pa? All for me?”
“All for you,” I murmured dreamily. Not being able to see him put me into something of a dream state. I just allowed myself to enjoy the sensations, to ride the crest of the wave of pleasure.
“All for me,” he agreed. He had a small bottle of lube on the deep window sill high above the bed. He spread some on his hole and then a little more on my dick, surrounding it with his fist. Then he straddled my hips with his knees and slowly lowered himself down onto my. My eyes opened when I felt the tight ring of his hole surround my flared head. They opened further when he settled right down onto me and slid to the base.
His hips wriggled as he reached bottom. He leaned forward, forced my arms above my head and held them there once more, and kissed me.
We fucked like that for a long time. I would thrust up, and he would grind down. It was slow, and unhurried, and languorous, like a summer afternoon’s fuck. When we came, it was together—him slightly ahead of me, as he jerked his uncut dick until it spewed droplets of clear fluid all over my chest, me only a little behind, with his ass still contracting around my meat. Then we remained connected together as if the orgasms hadn’t happened, for a very long time, still grinding, still moving our hips in their circular orbits around each other’s suns.
When he finally rested on his knees and lifted himself up, he went for the windowsill again. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but after a moment I felt something cold and wet and soft on my dick. He had a packet of baby wipes that he was using on my dick and balls, and he cleaned me off so sweetly and thoroughly that all I could do was sigh and dream and enjoy the sensations against my dick, my pelvis, my balls, my taint. Even if he had been dirty (and I don’t think he was) that was the way to take care of it after.
“I want a photo of you inside my ass, love,” he whispered, when he was done.
I was game. I shrugged and told him sure.
He ran to his closet and a moment later emerged with a battered digital SLR camera. I was a little surprised at how expertly he fiddled with the lens, but I should have remembered he’d told me he’d gone to an art school, in Puerto Rico. “Can I?” he asked, pointing between my legs.
I relaxed. “Okay,” I said. Then with pleasure, I watched as his blurry outline knelt down on the floor, pointed the camera at my three-quarters-hard dick, and snapped a shot.
“Let me take pictures of you, love,” he whispered. “So I can remember.”
Normally I’m wary about letting guys snap photos of my body and face after sex, because I’m not that convinced I’m porn material above the waist. There have been also a couple of times in the past when I’ve seen photos of myself that men have snapped that make me seem as if I’m nothing but a big dick and a couple of huge cavernous nostrils, or who manage to make me look as if I have the worst outbreak of acne possible, even on days my complexion is clear. But my mover was so sweet, and what I could see of him naked and crouched before me was so sexy, that I just held my dick in my hand until it was hard again, pointed it up for the camera, and posed.
The shutter clicked, over and over again. He eased me back against Jesus and shot photos of me smiling at him, my hair wild and crazy. He lifted my legs until my knees pointed at the ceiling, and took shots of me masturbating for him. He cuddled down next to me and made out with me while he held the camera at arm’s length and captured the moment. He took photos of me sucking his dick, of him sucking mine. And he had me take the camera and point it at his hole while I slid into him. Then he would grab the device and look at the photos while we fucked again.
I didn’t see any of the photos. He showed them to me, to his credit. But I simply couldn’t see them. My mover would hold out the viewfinder at arm’s length, and flip through the shots. “That is a good one, my love,” he’d say. Or he’d hiss with pleasure and murmur, “Oh, yessssss. I like that. So beautiful.”
But I couldn’t see them, because my eyesight is simply that bad without my glasses. I would have had to pull the camera down and peer at it through one eye, two inches away, to see anything sharply. My vanity couldn’t stand that indignity.
Or maybe, just maybe, I didn’t really care what the photos looked like. If he was happy, I was happy. I like to think that’s the reason I just lay there, and listened to his grunts and watched his smiles from up close, as he reviewed our moments together.
“How many photos did you take?” I asked, two and a half hours later, when I was pulling on my socks.
I was sitting on the corner of his mattress, legs spread, naked, disheveled. He was standing. He looked at his camera. “Forty-nine,” he said.
“Make it an even fifty,” I told him.
He grinned wide, and pointed the camera at me, so he could take another photo of me in that unglamorous pose—hair hanging down in front of my face, knees spread, cock hanging so low that the tip almost scraped the floor. Then he said, “One more.” And he reached down, and smoothed away my hair, and lifted my chin high in the air. “Like that,” he breathed, backing away. I heard the shutter click a final time.
Fifty-one photos. None of which I actually saw. And you know what? For now I’m good with that.