Sunday, May 24, 2015

Sunday Morning Questions: Bluto Edition

Every once in a while I’ll write a blog post that seems to touch a nerve. My recent entry about giving head to a man in his seventies opened up a floodgate of private emails—I’m still getting them, in fact. Most of the notes I received were of a celebratory nature, either from older gentlemen happily involved with younger guys: “I’m older than the man you sucked and I have a thirty-three-year-old boyfriend and I couldn’t have a better sex life!”, or “I’m in my late sixties and involved with a guy who’s twenty, and most of the time I’m the one wearing him out!”

Congrats on that, guys. I think it’s awesome when an intergenerational relationship blossoms so fragrantly.

A minority of my correspondence, though, came from men who seemed to have a good thing, but didn’t understand why—or felt that they were unworthy of it. “I’m seventy-four and seeing a young man in his late twenties,” wrote one. “He gets aroused with me, that’s for sure, and he always leaves me satisfied . . . and then some! But I can’t understand what he sees in me. I’m not anywhere near as attractive as him. I’m only of average size. I know I’m being stupid, but every time we meet I’m not enjoying myself fully because I’m thinking more about why in the world he associates with a guy like me instead of with hot guys his own age.”

Another wrote, “I’m just an average-looking college guy who loves, loves, loves daddies. The older the better. If I see a sexy older man all I can think of is the kinky sexual shit I want to do with him. But if I try to talk to one I freeze up because I know they’re not going to take me seriously. Older guys have their shit together. I don’t even know what classes I’m taking next semester. I don’t want to be attractive just because I’m young. What are they going to see in me? I want to be able to bring something to the table.”

I think all of us have experienced these inadequacies at times. Haven’t we? I’ve always been upfront about my own feelings of unworthiness—the multiple times I’ve felt that guys are out of my league, the times I’ve felt I’m not sexy enough, not wealthy enough, not muscular enough. When I was younger, I felt that I was too young for the older guys I desired. At my current age, I sometimes worry I’m too old for anyone who still has his own teeth.

The thing is, though, that it’s fruitless to try to micromanage other people’s desires. If a man of any age tells you that he finds you attractive, why question it? What’s the profit, there? If he’s seen you in a bar or in a social situation, he’s had plenty of time to size you up and decide that the two of you should spend time together. If you’ve communicated online or on an app, and the photos he’s seen are good representations of you (and genuinely are of you and not your favorite porn star), why waste your time trying to pick apart his professed attraction?

Ultimately doubting someone because he’s into you is an insult to the guy in question. You’re not only doubting his taste, but you’re giving him no credit whatsoever to make his own adult decisions. Let him be the one to decide if you’re the one right for him. Don’t dump him because you’ve decided you’re not right for him. Don’t distance yourself in case you suspect he doesn’t know what he wants. Don’t refuse to meet him because you worry he’s not got a clear perception of who you really are. Let the guy choose. He might surprise you.

I think it’s always important to keep in mind that when we’re meeting a man for sex, we’re not just meeting his penis. We’re meeting all his insecurities, all the vulnerabilities he’s been carrying around, all the doubt he’s had in the last two hours when he’s readied himself in the mirror just to meet you. That’s one of the reasons a little kindness goes a long way—it’s a salve to all the stings and hurts in our lives. If someone’s being kind to you . . . please allow him.

Let’s get to a few reader questions, shall we? (And if you’ve got questions you’d like to ask, feel free to email me.)

Would you rather fuck the Fellowship of the Ring in an orgy, or hit them all one at a time, or (with your penchant for 'ugly-sexy') just pass over the whole lot and make your way through Sauron's army?

That’s quite the question, there. If you’d asked me before those Peter Jackson movies had come out, my answer would’ve been quite different. I would’ve gone with Sauron’s army all the way, because bad boys are always more fun.

After sitting through the movies though? Well, I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit that the only thing that got me through it was having some man-on-hobbit fantasies involving some Sam on my dick. Oh, that’s right. I said it, my precious. Breeder and Samwise Gamgee, gettin’ it on. Girls, you can keep your Orlando Blooms, your Viggos, your Elijahs. I’ve got my eye on something a little tastier, and together we’re going to put the ‘mount’ in Mount Doom.

Please notice that I did manage to avoid a joke about ‘one cock ring to rule them all.’ You’re welcome.

Do you have any real conception of how many people you help with your blog? I’ve been reading you for several years and it’s remarkable how much you’ve changed my own perceptions about sex in general and my own sexual desires in particular, but I don’t get the impression that you understand how you affect people. I would have hung up my hat and retired from sex a long time ago, but you’ve helped me understand that I can have fun the way I want without apologizing for who I am and what I desire.

Thank you. I am honored, and genuinely touched, by your compliment.

I get people writing in a lot to tell me how much reading me has changed their lives. It’s not such an everyday occurrence that I’m blasé about it. In fact, every time someone shows me his appreciation in that way, I hug it to myself for a while because it’s such a blessing. Really.

The thing is, I don’t write to affect lives. It’s not my primary purpose. I write to share my sexual experiences with the world—the encounters I have, the bulletins I have from the leading edge of the sexual frontier, the reflections I have on my past. I’m just one guy sharing a solitary perspective on sex. If occasionally I hit a universal theme that resonates with another person, it’s simply a fortunate byproduct. I’m too modest a person in my everyday life to perceive myself as a life-changing guru.

I’m happy when it happens, though.

I’ve noticed you haven’t been writing as much lately. Is everything okay?

Everything’s good. I’ve been very happy the last several months, honest!

There have been a few times in the last couple of years when I’ve had to contemplate whether or not I wanted to continue writing this blog. Although I’ve gotten a lot of joy out of it in the more than five years I’ve kept it, and although I’ve met a hell of a lot of incredibly great guys because of it, sometimes the hassles seem to overshadow the fun parts.

I’ve had stalkers, troublemakers, psychos, name-callers, game-players, and guys who feel because I share parts of my life freely that they don’t have to observe any of my boundaries whatsoever. I’ve had men whose need for validation and attention is so great that they don’t really seem to care that there’s a real person behind the blogger. Even this last week I had someone whose need for attention was so great that he stayed up for hours one night leaving potty-mouthed comments on dozens of entries across my blog.

The compromise I’ve had to make with myself to keep writing is that I write when I want to. I write when I have a story that I really want to share. I’m not obligating myself to interact when the impulse isn’t there; I’m not trying to force myself to write a given number of times a week, just to keep the posts coming. If I share a story, it’s because I really, really want to.

I know that means I’m writing less this year than in previous years. I’m sorry for those of you who wish I’d post more frequently. But I think you can concede it’s better that I post once in a while, because I want to, than it is that I post multiple half-hearted entries . . . or post none at all.

I always laugh when you post about the losers you encounter. Any good ones lately? Thanks for the posts!

Well, I did have one who managed to flabbergast me with the sheer size of his ego, not that long ago.

There’s a local guy—name and profile link provided upon request, because he managed to piss me off so badly by being such an fuckwad!—who’s lived several places in my vicinity over the past four years. He started out a good few dozen miles west down the highway, then migrated closer and closer until he lived right in my town. I’m not going to deny his profile is hot. I mean, the guy’s a stud, judging from his photos. He’s one of those hairy muscle-ass types whom bears like to claim as being of their own tribe . . . he looks a bit as if Popeye’s nemesis, Bluto (or Brutus, depending on your generation) were a furry bareback porn star who’d not only eaten his spinach every day and grown muscles all over, but had knocked over Popeye to steal his spinach so that his muscles could grow muscles of his own.

He’d been hitting me up ever since I moved here. The problem, however, wasn’t distance. I was willing to drive out to see him in the days he lived a good hour away, and I’ve certainly been willing to drive the eight or nine miles to his current home ever since he took up residence here. The problem is that he would come online, hit me up strong and hungry, and then disappear for fucking months at a time.

The other problem is that we’d make a date to connect, and he’d never keep it. Every time he’d show up online, after being AWOL for an entire season, he’d tell me that we’d have to fuck man, fuck, man, we have to fuck! I’d leave him ways to contact me—my email, my phone number. I’d ask if he was free on Thursday—I had all Thursday off and was willing to come see him. Sure, man, he’d call me Thursday, sounds good, it’s definite . . . he promised he wouldn’t flake, man. Then Thursday would roll around. No call.

This happened so many times that I gave up on the guy. What’s more, he did it to several other guys I know in the area. My best friend attempted to hook up with him several times. “He’s going to tell you he’ll keep a certain day clear just for you,” I warned him. “But then that day will come and he won’t be around.” My friend, I think, was convinced that I was too cynical and this hairy muscle-ass guy wouldn’t disappoint him the way he’d consistently disappointed me.

When my friend was inevitably ditched and dismayed, though, it managed to piss me off even more than the multiple times when the guy had done it to me.

So I was done with him. I just ignored the guy when he’d log on. I’d read his mails, but not respond. I didn’t want to play the game any longer.

One day in April, though, after I declined to interact with the asshole, I got this email from him:

Okay man.... When the hottest Bottom in the room offers someone like yourself his ass, you are clearly intimidated (for good reason) or you are clearly not a Top. Confessing your a bottom certainly doesn't make you less of a Man, Look at me... Fortunately there are a lot of less fortunates in the room to for you to play with. Cheers...

I confess my jaw dropped. Really, this guy was lumping everyone else into the category of ‘the less fortunates’ just because he thinks he’s the hottest bottom in the room? Damn. That takes some gall. I wrote back the following response, waited until he’d read it, and then blocked him:

I have given you both my email and phone number in the past. You've never used either. When we've talked before and I've given you times I'm available, you've claimed you would hit me up....and never did. Multiple times. 
You're attractive. Sure. But assuming that you're the hottest bottom 'someone like myself' could pull is both egotistical and wildly incorrect. 
I'm glad you consider yourself fortunate. I hope your good fortune continues. Perhaps in the future you'll also be fortunate enough to realize that your looks aren't always going to compensate for poor behavior.

Somehow I’ve managed to get by, all these years, without being the recipient solely of pity fucks or charity sex. Sometimes I find the ‘less fortunates’ to be better lovers—and better people—than those who can only bring muscle to the table.

Sometimes I’ve even the hottest top in the room. But I manage not to be an asshole about it.

Wednesday, May 20, 2015


His apartment building is in a rough part of the town where I grew up. When I was a kid, my parents would never, ever have let me venture there. Thirty years ago it had a reputation of being marginally safe by day, but a free-for-all at night—the kind of neighborhood one drove through in a hurry with the windows rolled up, hoping that the traffic lights would all stay green.

I park my car on a street of neatly-manicured turf, next to a spanking-new modernist brick set of condos, and across from a set of old row houses so completely refurbished that they look like they’ve descended from the future. Nowadays, of course, the area is gentrified. Young couples are walking on the streets pushing strollers. Medical students are streaming from their shifts at the hospital down Broad Street, back to the condos and new-construction apartments and renovated spaces. The building I’m looking for is an old tobacco warehouse. Its only tie to the past now is the plaque over what used to be its front entrance, stating its construction date sometime after the Civil War. Everything else remotely period has been erased with double-paned plate glass windows and dark alloy trim.

He’s waiting for me inside the lobby. Looks just like his Scruff photos. Skinny little thirty-one-year-old hipster shit with ear plugs and a thick, bushy beard. He obviously pays a lot of attention to that beard. It’s a thick curtain that covers most of the much-washed, distressed t-shirt advertising a band I’ve never heard of. I can see his nipple rings protruding beneath the shirt’s thin fabric. He’s leaning against one of the massive circular sofas, waiting for me. His thumbs are hooked beneath elastic red suspenders holding up his ratty jeans. He’s got some beat-up old Chucks on his feet. At the sight of me through the glass, he springs forward and opens the locked door. “Well hey,” he says, with a soft Southern drawl.

“Hey there,” I tell him. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same here!” There’s genuine enthusiasm in his voice, and he puts a hand on my biceps. “So . . . there’s a little bit of a problem.”

Oh, fuck, I’m thinking. The guy had been after me for two days. I’d gone to sleep the night before grinding a permanent dent into my childhood mattress, thinking about nailing this skinny little hipster’s hole. And now he was going to flake out on me? After I’d gone to the trouble to tell my dad I was going to be out for a few hours, ‘catching up with an old school friend’?

“My roommate was supposed to be out for the weekend, but now she and her fiancé have decided to spend the weekend at home.”

“Oh,” I say. Already in my head I’m thinking that I have to stay out for at least a couple of hours before I head back home. I guess I could just part ways and grab a coffee somewhere, or hit one of the city’s couple of gay bars. It’s evening, but still daylight; I could even grab my camera from my bag and get some shots of the downtown skyline in.

“Yeah, but I was thinking. . . .” His words yank me back from my quick alternative plan making. “There’s a men’s room off the gym down the hall, there. . . .” I follow his glance, down a stone-tiled corridor leading past the fancy gas fireplace and the glassed-in lounge off the lobby.

“Is it quiet?” I ask.

He nods. “No one ever uses it.”

I pause for a moment, considering the offer. “I’ll fuck anywhere,” I say at last.

He grins, relieved to have salvaged a bad situation, then takes my hand in his. Without a word more I follow him. He leads me out of the lobby and down the hallway, tugging me impatiently toward our goal.

The bathroom’s one of those enormous wheelchair-accessible rooms, tiled with black stone on the floors and walls. He ushers me in gallantly, like a gentleman, then steps in behind me. The door closes automatically. He pushes the button to lock it. Now we’re alone.

He’s already apologizing. “Okay, so it’s not ideal—“

I push him against the black tiles so hard that he lets out a whuff of surprise. I plant my lips on his and shove my tongue inside his mouth. It tastes sweet, fruity, like cherry Kool-Aid. He responds to the rough kiss by going limp against the wall, as if I’ve thrown him there. His beard grates against mine. His hands reach up and cup my face, drawing me closer. I’m so much taller than he that he’s having to lift his hips to grind against my own, hardness against hardness.

I grab his suspenders and attempt to yank them from his shoulders. One of them is pinned by his weight against the wall. It snaps down suddenly and stings the side of my hand. He shoves me away, roughly, stares me in the face, and then pulls off his tee by crossing his arms and yanking it over his head. It flies through the air and lands in the sink. Then he’s on me again. This time it’s he who pushes me back so that I’m stumbling the long way to the opposite side of the bathroom, our mouths furiously gnawing at each other.

When my shoulder blades connect against the cold stone of the wall, I shove my hands down the back of his pants. He’s wearing a jock. I play with the straps as he grinds against me. His muscular globes rotate beneath my cupped hands. The kid’s a good kisser. I don’t want this part to end. But he’s already tugging at my jeans. He’s got the button fly undone and is pulling them to the floor.

Before he kneels, he digs off the Chucks with his feet and kicks them to the side. He skims his narrow waist out of his jeans. His Bike jock used to be white, I’m thinking, but it’s seen a lot of use since then. It’s a tattletale gray, worn around the edges. The elastic looks chewed. Knowing this little pig, maybe it has been. He’s already on all fours on the floor, knees against stone, ripping down my jeans the remaining way and slobbering over my shorts.

“Is this what you want?” I ask, pulling out my erection. No, not pulling. Yanking. I haul out that thing like it's a weapon and slap it in my hand, showing it off. Keeping it at bay. The slap is louder than my voice, but he can hear the command my volume belies. My waistband forces my ball out, but the dick is standing straight up all by itself, the skin a deep red from the pressure I’m keeping around the base.

“Yes sir.” His brown eyes are big. He’s got hair falling into them across his forehead. He opens up his mouth. It’s a small, wet hole in an expanse of beard.

Next question. “Are you gonna treat it right?”

“Yes sir,” he rasps. His voice is heavy with sexual need.

“Show me.”

He gives good head, this hipster kid. He doesn’t start with tentative tonguing, or little licks or slight attention to the tip. He goes whole hog, opens his throat, and takes it all down. I’ve got that beard grinding against my groin; it’s chafing my balls as it cups them like a bird’s nest holds eggs. When he withdraws, my inches slither out, wet, glistening in the florescent light.

“C’mon,” I say, goading him. “Suck it like you mean it.”

One of his hands is gripping the handicapped bars so tightly, his knuckles are whitening. He’s learning forward to suck me, his shoulders bent back, his neck straining to extend as long as possible. He looks like an awkward bird, a fledgling attempting to spread his wings. I take pity on him. I grab his chin, lift him to his feet, then lead him over to the john. My own pants are still strangling my ankles, so I kick them off. They join his clothing in the corner. Then I sit down on the john, spread my legs, and let him kneel down once more.

“You probably wanted this all along,” I tease, a slight sneer in my words. “Oh, my roommate and her fiancé didn’t go away for the weekend. You knew I’d come over and you’d lure me in here because you’re nothing but a hungry restroom cocksucker.”

“No sir.” He takes his mouth off my dick and looks up at me, breathing heavily. His hunger has stripped away all pretense. There’s nothing but sincerity in his eyes. I know he’s telling the truth.

“Shut up and suck,” I tell him. He obeys. “Restroom whore, sucking on some stranger’s cock. Trying to get some stranger’s cum down his throat.”

Once again he pulls away. “Yes sir. I mean, no sir. I don’t want cum down my throat.”

“No?” I ask, my cock jumping. His was the correct response. “Where do you want it, then?”

“In my hole, sir.” He’s been so focused on cock that he needs to sniff deeply to clear his sinuses. “I want your cum up my butt.”


He nods. This hirsute little hipster has been reduced to a naked little boy, begging the neighborhood bully for his favorite toy. “Yes, please.”

“Big raw cock up your sweet little ass?”

He’s pulled out his cock sometime during his sucking. It protrudes over the loose elastic of his jock, red and thick and uncut. It bounces at my words. “Oh god, please.”

I stand up. Nod at the toilet. “Then bend over,” I tell him.

Without question he stands where my feet have just been. He grips the bar behind the toilet, and bends. Then he spreads his legs to lower himself. His hole lies beyond a dense thicket of fur; it’s like a black eye, winking at me when he contracts his ass muscles. I hadn’t thought to bring lube. In one of his texts the day before, the hipster had sent me a photo of the bottle of poppers and lube that he’d bought in preparation of our fuck. I guess he’d left them upstairs. No matter. I’ve got his spit as a base layer on my skin, and a thick outpouring of precum atop that. I work up some saliva, transfer it to my cock via my fingers, and spread it around. He’s good to go.

I can feel the warmth of him even before I’m in—it’s like bending over with a dish in hand and getting the blast from a preheated oven. He gasps as my big, blood-filled head shoves inside. I can tell he’s already opening for me, though. It has nothing to do with his experience, nothing to do with preparation. He’s just ready. His hole’s in heat, and I intend to take advantage.

“That’s right,” I tell him as I glide in. He resists and starts to push me out. “Arch your back,” I order. He obeys, and the resistance disappears. “Take it,” I tell him.

He doesn’t dare disobey.

When I’m in, he sighs. I can see him letting go. I’ve forgotten we’re in a public restroom. I know he has. He lets his weight hang from his hands, as they clutch onto the handicapped rail at waist level. His feet brace against the floor; his back arches even more, presenting his hole to me.

Like I need presentation. I’m already ram-rodding the thing. Between the two of us there’s more than enough juice to keep things slick. I didn’t need that new bottle of lube at all. This isn’t making love. This is fucking. Man-to-man carnality at its finest. No dinner, no date, no need to whisper sweet words in his ear. Just pants-off primal dick-in-hole fucking with one goal in mind.

“I want that cum,” he grunts, gripping and squeezing with his ass.

I haven’t been looking to shoot that quickly, but under the circumstances, maybe it’s better. “Right up your shitter?” I ask. “Is that where you want it?”

“I need it,” he begs. His head is hanging. His beard is horizontal to the ground, scraping his chest. His eyes are closed. He whips his head back and forth as if trying to shake off a night’s sleep.

“What do you need?”

“I need your cum,” he growls. He sucks his lips in to wet them. “I gotta have that cum. You gotta breed me. Breed me, sir.”

“Yeah?” My thrusts are full-bodied, now. I’m putting all my weight in them as I slam in, pull out to the tip, and plow back in again. “You deserve that?”

“Don’t care if I deserve it. I want it.” He’s wheezing like an angry pig now. “Please give it to me. Please—oh fuck!“

He can tell I’m shooting not by the noises I make. I keep the noise level down low instinctively—I grew up fucking in public restrooms, after all. He can tell by the way my dick swells as it releases the first jet of seed into his guts.

“Is that—? Shit.”

He seems surprised to have gotten what he asked for. “You wanted a breeding,” I growl.

“Fuck yes. Fuck!” He’s talking softly, but he’s accenting the words by whipping his head back and forth. There’s a snarl on his lip. His hand reaches for his dick; he starts beating himself furiously. “Breed that hole. Make it yours.”

The last of my load squirts out. My dick ebbs and swells a couple more times. I stay in, though, still hard. “Fucking restroom whore,” I grumble, thrusting.

His forehead is resting on the toilet’s hardware. “Fuck yes I am,” he whispers. “Just a fucking restroom whore.”

“You get what you wanted?”

“Yes sir.”

“Thank me for it, then,” I command. “Come on.”

“Thank you, sir,” he whispers. “Thank you, sir. Thank you. Thank you, sir.” The litany grows softer and softer the more he repeats it. “Thank you for your fucking gift of seed, sir.” He lets out a soft choking noise. Cum spews from his uncut meat and hits the tile with an audible splatter. “Christ,” he swears. Then he takes up the prayer once more. “Thank you. Thank you, sir.”

I wait until his muscles stop their spasms. “You’re welcome.”

When I pull out, my dick is sloppy. Sperm spills from the hole and trickles down his taint. Slowly he stands. When he looks over his shoulder, his beard leads. “So. . . .” he says, exaggerating his Southern drawl. “It wasn’t optimum, but. . . .”

“We made it work,” I conclude for him. I step into my jeans, then into my sneakers.

He’s collecting his clothes without shame. I watch him dress in the mirror as I wash my hands and rinse my face. We don’t speak again until we’re both ready to leave. “Okay?” I ask. He nods. I open the locked restroom door, look both ways down the hall, and step out. He follows.

It’s still sunlight when I exit the old tobacco warehouse. I look at my watch. Yeah, I’m going to have to kill some more time. Maybe I’ll grab a cup of coffee. Maybe I’ll get a Krispy Kreme. Maybe I’ll just drive around and see some of the old sights.

Then back home with a story or two for my dad about the ‘school friend’ I’ve spent the evening catching up with.

Monday, May 4, 2015


“My wife says great things about you,” he tells me. I’m unsnapping his buttons. One by one they pop through the crisp pressed cotton of his shirt. As they release, I see more and more of his skin. “She says you’re great to work with.”

My glance flicks up to meet his, from the thatch of thick white hair that covers his chest. The man’s eyes are a gentle blue. Still staring at him, my hand reaches in to hold his ribs, caught between warm flesh and the second, button-down skin I’ve never before seen him shuck. He gasps; my fingers might be a little cool. His lips part. At no point do his eyes break the stare. I can see an emotion stirring behind his quiet. Anticipation, perhaps. Uncertainty.

I withdraw my hand so I can pull the last two buttons through their holes. His shirt drapes back against the multiple throw pillows of the guest bed. He is, in a word, breathtaking. Though over the years his skin and fur have coarsened, the muscles grown a little less taut, the man still carries the physique of an athlete. He lies there, half-disrobed, and watches me as I look at him.

“You should have seen me in my prime,” he says.

There it is, that emotion I couldn’t quite pin down. His tone is half-joking, but the other half is worry. He’s afraid he won’t measure up—that the difference between our age will be too insurmountable. I fix him with another stare. “I’m pretty sure I’m seeing that right now,” I tell him.

The words sound slick, but my sincerity comes through. He reddens, looks down, abashed, and then permits himself to grin. “You don’t have to say that.”

“Oh, I know I don’t.” My knees are digging into the mattress as I reach down to unbuckle his belt, then tug at the metal fastener of his khakis. “Doesn’t mean I can’t.”

He’s blushing furiously now. He can barely bring himself to look at me. He definitely can’t bring himself to look as I pull apart the opening of his pants and expose the hardness that lies beneath his Hanes. “I’m an old man,” he protests.

I’m curious. “How old are you?”


Fuck. I hope I’m half that foxy at his age. The man has movie-star looks—a thatch of fine, silver hair that falls over his forehead in a swoop. Eyes as blue as a pool of unspoiled water. A dimple in the center of his strong chin. His features are all uniform perfection until one’s eyes reach the tip of his nose, where it swells into a small, comical bulb that tilts slightly to one side. It’s an adorable quirk that brings the symmetry of the rest of him into absolute focus. “I know it’s probably too old for you—“

I blink slowly, trying to conceal the fact I’m rolling my eyes. When I open them again, I say to him, “We’re alone in your home. We’re in one of your bedrooms. You’re fucking around on your wife. I’ve got you half-undressed. I intend to get all of your clothes off. If you haven’t figured out by now that I find you very, very attractive. . . .”

He lets out the tiniest breath of a laugh. The heel of my hand rubs at the dick that strains at the fabric of his shorts. I watch as, for a moment, the last of his fear evaporates, leaving behind only hard desire. “I hope this won’t make things awkward for you around my wife. . . .”

I cut him off with a shake of my head. I get him to lift his rump, and I pull his pants down, leaving behind only his underwear and black socks.

“I didn’t think we’d ever do this,” he says, watching me fold his slacks. “I mean, I fantasized . . . I just didn’t think you. . . .”

“I knew there was something between us the first time we met,” I say. “Didn’t you?”

“As far back as that?” he asks, genuinely astonished. He doesn’t even seem to notice I’m easing off his shirt, laying him back in the nest of pillows.

I nod. I remembered that evening well. We both had sported the proper red, white, and blue of a well-to-do suburban cocktail party—red wine, white shirts, blue blazers. Upon our introduction, he’d squeezed my hand a little too hard. He’d stared a little too long. He’d spoken a little too close to my ear, a little too intimately. Was I supposed to miss his lingering stares, over the last couple of years? The conspiratorial winks, when he’d pass by? Was I supposed to ignore those intimacies, and pretend not to know what he was really thinking? Then he didn’t know me very well.

His breath catches as I hook my fingers into the elastic of his waistband. He seems astonished to find himself nearly naked. As if he’s inhaled what evaporated earlier, the fear returns to his eyes. “How long has it been?” I ask, softly. “With a man?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says. It’s difficult to tell what emotion is closer to the surface—anxiety or need. “Years. Years and years. With my wife—“ I shake my head once more. I don’t need to know about his wife. I don’t want her specter in the bedroom with us. His voice trails off. “Even longer.”
The thought that this handsome man has been doing without saddens me. “Let me take care of you,” I tell him.

Once again his mouth parts. He nods slightly, his eyes shifting focus to various areas of my face, as if struck for the first time by our close proximity. He lifts his hand to touch my forehead, to brush the backs of his knuckles against my cheek. He puts the ball of his thumb to my mouth, and drags down my lower lip. It snaps back, upon release.

And then I move in. My mouth closes on his. I feel his chest heave; I can pick out the tattoo of his heart against his ribcage. His eyes close as he melts into me. He smells of aftershave . . . something old-fashioned, but expensive. The faintest antiseptic aftertaste of Listerine lingers in his mouth when my tongue breaks inside. His breath blasts through his nostrils like a steam whistle.

When I break away and plant kisses on his chest, he stares as me as I move steadily downward. He’s helpless when I pull back the band of his shorts. His cock springs out—thicker and longer than I expected. Much thicker, in fact. The guy is probably easily six and a half to seven inches around. He’s got a super-fat seven and a half incher with a classic mushroom head. My astonishment must show, because he speaks. “What?” he asks. “Is it not big enough?”

“Christ,” I say. “Are you serious?” He shakes his head, not getting it. “You’re fucking huge.”

His meat swells at the praise, but he’s not confident enough to take the appropriate pride. “Really? It’s not bigger than yours. On Manhunt—“

“It’s not as long as mine. It’s a hell of a lot thicker, though.” I wrap my fingers around the meaty handful and squeeze, making the skin on the head shiny and smooth. “Fuck, how do you pack all this in those Brooks Brothers slacks of yours?”

He’s so pleased by the praise—by any praise at all, maybe—that he looks like he wants to crow. In the softest, shyest voice possible, he whispers, “I’m glad you like it.”

He needs me to like it. So it’s time to show him how much.

I open my jaw to the maximum and allow my lips to slide down the shaft. His skin is pliable and warm; the taste of him is mildly salty, mildly soapy. He’s already making mild protests, telling me I shouldn’t, telling me I don’t have to . . . but mere seconds later he’s urging me on. I feel his hand, soft against the top of my head. He strokes me like me might a kitten.

I’m embracing his around his midsection. My arms curl around the outside of his hips; my hands rest on his torso. My chin scrapes the near-hairlessness of his nuts. My jaw’s already feeling stretched to the max. I can tell this blow job is going to test me. He’s pushing down on my head now, hoping I’ll go deeper, that I’ll take more. I don’t need the encouragement. I already want this man in every way possible, and possibly in more ways that he’s ready to try. For now, though, I want to be the best cocksucker he’s had. I want to be the cocksucker he deserves.

Because it’s obvious he hasn’t been sucked in a very, very long time. Every little thing I try elicits a response. The sensation of my breath against his spit-slick skin makes his groan. When I loosen my hand and stroke my fingers up and down his perineum, I feel gooseflesh spread down his thighs and across his chest. He shudders when I reach the base of his dick; his hips buckle and strain when I lightly tickle the sides of his nuts. He’s quite easily the most responsive man I’ve been with in a very long time.

When I encircle his cock with my thumb and forefinger and let it travel tightly up and down the shaft with my lips, he acts as if he’s never felt anything so intense and wonderful before. Maybe he hasn’t. I increase it to two fingers, three, then the whole fist as the feelings of pleasure multiply exponentially. Soon he’s trying to pull my mouth from his meat—trying not to climax too quickly. I’m determined, though. I don’t care how quickly he shoots. I don’t care about his agenda. Mine is to get his load into my stomach, ASAP.

I don’t have long to wait. When he comes it’s with an actual shout, somewhere between the pain from a long-suppressed release, and the unexpected joy of getting exactly what he wanted. It’s so loud that there’s a flash of echo from the empty rooms of the rest of the house. His sperm floods my mouth as he holds my head down. The load is bitter like coffee, and thick like pudding, but I’m grateful for it. I swallow quickly and milk the big head of its last few drops. Then I lie there still, a dog with a much-desired bone in its mouth.

It’s a few minutes before I release him. I’m still clothed; he’s naked save for the socks. He stares at me, motionless, as if I were a baby deer and he’s afraid of frightening me. “Do you have to go?”

I shake my head. “Do you want me to go?”

He laughs, but it’s only slightly. “If you suck cock like that, I don’t know why anyone would ever let you go.”

“You liked?”

“Oh yes.” His voice is soft. He puts an arm around my shoulder. “I liked it very much.”

I allow myself to settle into the crook of his arm. He smells good, like fresh laundry and a clean medicine cabinet. For a moment I revel in the soft touch of his hand as he strokes my hair.

“Do I get to kiss you again?” he asks finally, his voice a rumble where my ear rests against his chest.

I prop myself up on an elbow. Brush the shock of silver hair from his forehead. Then very slowly, very deliberately, I show him that indeed, he gets to kiss me again, as much as he desires.