Tuesday, September 4, 2012
From the Archives: Perigee Moon
(I'm nearly back from my vacation, but in the meantime, enjoy this story from the archives.)
When he steps through my front door, he avoids looking at me. Instead, he turns away and removes his thin wool hoodie, barely enough to keep his narrow frame warm on a cold night like this. Though the room is dark and the shades are drawn, the perigee moon has risen just above the rooftops across the street. Its brilliant, blue-white light reflects from his pale skin, giving it the iridescence of pearl.
Down drop his ragged khakis, puddling around his ankles, followed by his shorts. When finally he turns, I can barely make out the familiar tattoos covering his young skin. The insides of his forearms arms are trellises for vines of roses, thickly flowering and studded with thorns. There’s a crest in the center of his chest, just above the sternum, elaborate, heraldic, and covered with scrollwork. His biceps are decorated with curlicues and intricate designs. On his shoulder is a dark splotch of a design—a Celtic cross, it would seem. And on the outside of a thigh, a woman’s face, surrounded by hair.
There was no question we’d do it any way other than in the dark. This twenty-year-old boy, Jason, and I have still never seen each other’s faces directly. The many times we’ve played have been in restrooms around the county, where I’ve only seen the extended shape of his lips around my dick, beneath a metal partition. Once I had him over to my house. As on this night, I invited him over late, after dark. I’ve turned off all the house’s lights, save for the porch light over the address plate. I’ve drawn all the shades and curtains. The house is already on a silent street with very little light. Tonight, it’s as dark as it gets.
I’m sitting on the sofa, waiting for him, my inches hard and ready in my right hand. He shuffles across the oriental rug in his socks and kneels down before me. After a deep, deep breath, he impales his mouth on his dick. There’s not timid preparation, no licking or kissing or slow entry. He throws himself down on it like a disgraced samurai upon his own sword, taking it to the hilt and letting out a deep, groan from his diaphragm when it can go no farther. My head lolls back on the sofa’s cushions, resting there. I feel his saliva dripping down my nuts, and then trickling beneath my sac.
Though his skin is almost luminescent in the moonlight, I can’t really see anything of his face. I’m fine with that. All I need to know is that the boy wants me, and is doing his best to make me feel good. He’s not trying to get me off, here. He’s wetting me up, getting me slick for his ass. To accentuate the point, when I reach down between his legs to grab his stiff cock, which already has a tip that’s wet and getting slicker, he grabs my wrist and yanks it down, down between his legs. His fingers press mine against his hole, which opens and closes around the tips.
He’s already lubed down there, but I want to taste him, first. I shove the boy onto the sofa and take his place on the floor, where I spread those perfectly round twenty-year-old cheeks and bury my face between them. He gasps at the roughness of my beard against his tender skin. I can hear him muffling his cries in the cushions before at last he lets his forehead rest on their back. “Fuck me,” he begs in a soft voice. “Stick that big daddy dick in me and ram the fuck out of me. Please.”
His boyhole is tight. Very tight. I’ve had the forethought to put a small bottle of lube on the coffee table. I squirt a glob of it onto his hole and work it in roughly, making him cry out and squirm, as I spread more on my meat. When I go in, it’s with a savage push. I know he likes it to hurt.
His head flies up. His jaw opens wide. The cry he lets out is at first soundless, a phantom scream that makes no noise, though its presence cannot be missed. He twitches, and shudders, and finally relaxes. When he lets out a noise, it’s only the word yes, sibilant and long, deep and in the chest.
I hold it there until he completely relaxes, then begin pumping. “Let me sit on it,” he begs after a moment. “I need to sit on that daddy dick.”
He’s used to sitting on me that way. In every restroom where we’ve fucked, he’s had me push my knees and legs beneath the stall so he can straddle my dick and ride. That’s what he does now—lowers his tiny frame on my outsized dick until it reaches the bottom. Then he begins to ride. He bounces, and thrashes, and squeezes that super-tight hole around me as our lips meet. We’re making out when he shoots, spraying semen all over his chest and mine. The spasms of his hole drag me kicking and screaming over the edge; my release is sweet, and deep, and silent.
When he at last stands up, my load slides from his hole and lands on my shin. I grab my T-shirt and wipe it up, then mop him down. He takes the T-shirt from me and catches the spots I’ve missed, then hands it back. I sniff the soaked garment, then shrug and pull it on.
He dresses facing away from me, not wanting me to see his face, or for himself to see mine. His legs are still shaking like a newborn calf, attempting to walk for the first time, but he manages to step back into his khakis and pull on his shirt. “All right, dad,” he mumbles at the last. “Thank you, sir.”
“Be careful,” I tell him, and then let him out the door.
I can only see his back, through the blinds, as I watch him stumble to his car. He’s walking almost bow-legged—a slip of a boy sneaking back home, by the light of the perigee moon.