So this guy’s sexy. Latin. Short—maybe five-three, five-four. Twenty-five. He’s got thick black hair that’s been swept in a wave up over his forehead. It glistens with pomade. Thick coal smudges for eyebrows. Dark eyes that bore into me when he opens the door of his third-floor walk-up. “Hi,” he says, with a thick accent.
“‘Lo,” I tell him, as I step into the kitchen.
“You’re hotter than your photos,” he tells me.
I smile and accept the compliment. Then I reach down, tilt up his jaw, and hold it in my hand as I kiss him deeply. The guy’s a hot kisser. His lips are loose, and soft, and wet; his tongue dips eagerly into my mouth. Mine slithers deep into his, invading his tiny lips and reaching to the very depths. A taste of things to come.
The apartment is immaculate. He’s not one of these guys who expects me to fuck in a shithole. The sofa’s white leather. The chair’s white leather. The rug on the living room floor is white and furry. The bed’s the only furniture in the room beyond. It’s fussily made with a half-dozen pillows at the top. There’s a crucifix hanging over the wrought iron headboard.
He lets me lower him to the mattress. I press my knees on either side of his hips. Straddle him. Let the weight of my chest press down. Crush him, a little. He’s breathless and purring with desire. His hands are everywhere—on my hair, running down the sides of my beard. His legs reach up and wrap around my waist, pulling me into him. We roll, entwined, until he’s on top of me. His fingers fumble to undo the buttons of my shirt. Once my skin is exposed, he covers me with soft little kisses.
I lift his head, pull his face to mine. Again we kiss deeply. My dick is rock hard from making out with this sexy little fucker, and it’s straining in my shorts. He knows it, too; he’s grinding his hips against me. Making me want him. I intend to have him. Make him mine. He’s bringing out the conqueror in me. I’m going to plant my flag at his summit. Make my mark on him.
Down he goes, sliding down my torso and off the bed. I feel hot breath through layers of fabric. There’s pressure as he unbuttons my shorts. I lift my hips for him, so he can pull them down. He yanks at the elastic of my shorts. My dick—thick, full, already beaded with precum—flops out. I hear the percussive sound it makes as it strikes my abdomen.
“Oh, papi,” he croons as his hands clasp around the shaft. “So sexy. I want this big dick so bad.”
“It’s yours, son,” I say, as I softly stroke his hair. “All yours.” I lift up my chin to encourage him. “Suck it.”
Then I lay back to enjoy.
I feel the heat of his mouth. The softness of his lips. The velvet wetness of his mouth as he closes it around my inches.
And then I feel some of the worst pain I’ve experienced on this side of the kidney stone I had a few years back. I mean, seriously. It feels like fucking razors on my shaft. Or like I’ve stuck my dick into a warm tankful of hungry fucking piranhas. It takes a second or two for my brain to realize that my dick’s being subjected to rough treatment, but once I’ve made that connection, I’m springing up from the bed and trying to get my dick out of that house of horrors. “What what what?” I yell. He looks up in surprise. “What the fuck are you doing?” I shout.
“I want your dick, papi,” he says.
“You want it, what, to be a bloody stump? Chrrrrrrist!” I examine my dick. It’s still hard, though wilting slightly from the torture it’s been through. His teeth have really done a number right underneath the crown. I can actually see the scrapes his incisors have left. The skin’s broken; there are dark ovals of a darker purple than the angry red of my arousal. “Holy fuck,” I say.
“I’ll kiss it better,” he says, trying to grab my dick back.
“The hell you will,” I say, annoyed. I try to modulate my anger, though. I’m not normally so pissy. But this is my dick in question. The fuck? Who gives the kind of blow job that feels like thrusting one’s meat into a sprung bear trap, and then expects the guy to like it? Who chews on a guy’s dick? That’s not just bad technique. That’s a crime against the good will of tops everywhere. I wore clunky metal braces for two and a half years in my teens, sucked hundreds of dicks with them on, and never once nicked a guy. “Just get out,” I tell him, waving my hands and shooing him away.
It takes me a minute, as I pull my pants back up and put on my shirt again, to realize that I’ve sent the guy packing from his own bedroom. And even more surprisingly, he’s let me. He cowers back a little as I limp out of the bedroom. The motherfucker between my legs stings.
“Maybe you’ll come back sometime?” he asks, as he lets me out.
“Maybe,” I say. But it’s in the same probability range as maybe someday I’d like to bend over and let Pat Robertson from The 700 Club sodomize me with a spiked baseball bat.
It’s been four days and my dick’s still out of commission. It’ll get there, with some ointment and time.
But damn, boys. God gave you lips for a reason: to shut up and wrap around your teeth when you suck so that nobody gets hurt.