“Where do you want it?” I ask, looking down at the boy. Our eyes are locked. Mine are unblinking. Unwavering. His are full of moisture.
His chest rises and falls as he struggles to find his voice. It’s nighttime. The lights are off. Our bodies glow pale and blue in his bedroom’s dimness. “In my hole, dad.” When he’d opened his door and greeted me an hour before, he’d affected a gruff, deep timbre. Now he sounds breathy. Light-headed, even. Vulnerable. “I want your daddy dick in my hole.”
“Which one?”
I watch him thinking. Mere minutes ago he might have affected a shrug, or a diffident shake of the head. Now, though, I’ve got his defenses down. Slowly, he reaches down, lifts his hips. It’s with an almost-shy slowness that he pulls apart the lips sheltering his most private place.
I nod. Correct answer. “You want me to fuck your boycunt.” Like so often in this kind of situation, it’s not a question.
“Please,” he whispers. Then he adds, “Daddy.”
I shove two fingers inside. He’s already wet in there. I feel the folds of his skin conform to my knuckles, softly wrapping themselves around the ridges. “You want me to wreck this boy hole.”
“Oh fuck yes,” he says. Then, aware he’s betrayed himself with his eagerness, he adds, “If you want it, sir.”
I kneeling between the boy’s spread legs. My cock is rigid. “Oh, I want it. On your knees,” I order.
He hesitates, then quickly pulls himself up and turns over. He puts his rump in the air, displaying himself for my pleasure. I let my fingertips play in the soft pleats of skin. He jumps and gasps when they graze the nub that gives him the most pleasure. Then I run my hands over his smooth, pale ass, causing him to moan. Those cheeks are still sore from the beating I’d given him, just minutes before.
He’d wanted to be placed over daddy’s lap, to be spanked for being bad. And not just spanked. Spanked hard. He wants my wedding ring to leave welts on his backside that he’ll feel for days. I’ve gladly obliged—first straight out of his underpants. Then with his ass slicked over with a thin layer of lube, to magnify the pain. “Please,” he says, pushing back and presenting to me, like a bitch in heat, despite the soreness.
My cock has been ready for a long time. I find the correct spot with my fingers. Spread the lips. Slide the length of myself down the ass and under. Then the taut surface of my cock’s head parts those flaps of skin and sinks in, inch by inch. The boy’s head jerks back; his jaw drops. He lets out a soundless gasp until all of me is enfolded by his flesh.
His body shudders, then subsides, until all that’s left is the faintest quiver in his loins. I’m stretching him wide. My right hand rests on the base of his spine, keeping him calm, the way an owner soothes an animal on the vet’s table. My left hand reaches under, between his legs, to rub him where he likes best. The quivering intensifies, ebbs, then grows in fervor once again. “Shit,” he curses to the mattress. “Holy shit. This isn’t fair.”
“What’s not fair?” I ask. I’m not thrusting. Not yet. Just easing back and forth, making a home for myself in that sticky, wet tunnel.
“You can’t just—fuck, dad.” He wrenches his head around to look at me. He’s a beautiful boy. Heavy, dark eyebrows. A masculine chin. My left hand travels from his most sensitive spot to the flat planes of his chest, where I trace the hard ridge that delineates his pectorals. Now he’s shuddering. “You just can’t. It’s not fair.”
“It’s not fair I can walk in and make your holes mine?” He’s upheaval from stem to stern, an earthquake made flesh. When he doesn’t reply, I say, “It’s not fair some stranger knows what you need better than you do?”
I can hear the tears in his voice when he finally replies. “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, dad.”
My right hand has been keeping him quiet, but we’re past the need, now. His shaking rattles the bed frame. When I haul off and slap his already-aching butt with my cupped palm, he lets out a yell. “I didn’t hear you.”
“Christ! Yes dad!”
I’m thrusting more of myself in and out of him now. My fingers dance down the flatness of his abdomen, feeling it heave in and out with every breath, to nestle again between his legs. “It’s not fair that I can fuck your boy cunt better than anyone you’ve ever had.”
His forehead is banging against the mattress. “Yes sir!”
“It’s not fair this fuck exceeds your expectations.”
“No!”
“And your expectations are already low to begin with, aren’t they?”
He’s trying to use a vocabulary that’s abating by the second. Even in the dark, even with his face turned away, he can’t hide from me now, though. “I get treated like a . . . like a freak.”
“Instead of the little faggot you want to be.” He grunts. Pushes back. Clinches down on my slippery pole. “Instead of a hot little fuck boy with a sweet pussy.”
“Oh god.” The top half of his body is at a perfect incline, now. His arms are stretched out, his hands clutched into a single fist. He offers up his hole without reserve as I fuck my way in and out of its silky depths. “I don’t even believe in God, but . . . oh god.”
I don’t say a word more. My fingers knead between his legs. My cock slides in and out. I know it’s not going to take long for him to climax. When he does, I pull him up into my arms so that we’re locked together, his back glued to my chest. We’re separated only where his spine arches so he can clamp my cock inside him.
I hold him tightly while his shudders subside. When his head lolls back, my shoulder is there for him. My hands, flat and warm and broad, move up and down his naked torso to smooth the electricity from his skin. The gyration of his hips slows, like a spinning toy top, faltering once, then twice. Then he ceases.
For a long moment I hold him close, and still. He sighs.
But we’re not done. Toy tops are made to be spun more than once. “Don’t stop, daddy.” The whisper cuts through the silence.
“Don’t worry, boy,” I murmur into his ear, and begin the slightest in-and-out motion. “I’m far from done.”
Showing posts with label manhunt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label manhunt. Show all posts
Friday, April 25, 2014
Friday, February 21, 2014
Happy Valentine's Day #2
“I’ve only got until six,” he says the moment I’m in the door. He whirls in place and pads across the living room on bare feet. I guess he trusts me to close the front door behind myself. Around the thickly-upholstered sectional he walks and down the hallway. “Then I’ve got to. . . .” He’s still talking, but already he’s out of earshot.
“What was that?” I say, as I follow the scent of him down the hallway of the ranch-style house. At last I find him in one of the bedrooms. He’s on all fours, ass in the air, the hole squarely pointed at the doorway.
Did I forget to mention he’d answered the door completely naked?
His voice is slightly muffled from the pillow into which he’s buried his face. “I said, at six I have to jet down the Avenue and meet the wife and kids for dinner. Valentine’s day, you know.”
I know. I’d already spent a half-hour in the van with the Landscaper at lunchtime. Since then, the thought of him sucking the head of my dick for the first time has kept my meat three-quarters hard, even during the unerotic tasks of cleaning the cat litter boxes and salting the front walk. It’s been raging for a place to unload ever since, actually. I kick off my boots and start unbuttoning my shirt.
“You don’t have to worry about foreplay with me,” he says in a conversational tone as I undress. “Just drop your pants and fuck it hard if you want. I don’t need to be eaten out or anything. Just been a while since I had a good cock, and you’ve got a hell of a nice one.”
“Thanks,” I say. I’m not enjoying the prattle, exactly. And to be honest, guys who tell me to skip the foreplay aren’t usually going to get the best of my attention. I’m all about the foreplay.
Plus, my dick’s not a broomstick handle. It’s not rigid when I push down my jeans and shorts and let it flop out. Sure, it’s halfway there, but it likes a little attention before I just ram it home. I stagger over to the bedside and pull his head toward my crotch. He opens his mouth again. This time it’s to suck.
The guy’s got a good mouth on him. His hair is long enough to be styled in a kind of retro-seventies feathered way—eccentric for the area, but obviously expensively-done. He’s got the body of a daddy who manages to get in a few workouts here and there, between picking up the kiddies from gymnastics and ferrying them in the family SUV to dance class. He’s young. No more than thirty. But he sucks like he’s been doing it all his life, gobbling down to the root of me and breathing heavily enough to stir my pubes through his nostrils. I’m hard and glistening to spit within moments.
He buries his head in the pillows again. “I was hoping you wouldn’t see much of my face,” he says as I stride around to the foot of the mattress. Too late for that. I saw it in the photo he’d texted me, minutes before I showed up. I’d seen it when he’d answered the door, even though he’d walked off too quickly for me to get a good look. If total anonymity was what he needed, he should’ve backed up that ass to a gloryhole at the Bridgeport adult bookstore.
When I finger his hole, I find he’s greased-up already. I wipe a little of that lube on my cock head, letting it mix with the spit he’s left there.
“Fuck it,” he says. This time he sounds like he’s begging.
I pull him a little closer to the edge, aim at his pucker, and slide in.
He’s not tight. Fucking him feels like fucking pussy; his insides are soft and moist and warm. He offers little resistance to my stiffness as I push inside. From the time my head disappears until the moment my nuts bounce against his for the first time, he begins groaning. “Yes,” he says. “Oh god yes. Yes. This is what I needed.” I start fucking with long, deep strokes, mesmerized by how the flare of my cock head pulls out his ass lips. They roll over the edge, cling to the tip, and on the return trip glide back inside him along with my shaft. “Oh fuck yes. I knew you’d know how to fuck, with that dick.”
I don’t really care that he’s talking too much, or denying me my foreplay. After the charged lunchtime with the Landscaper, I really just need a hole to load. I close my eyes and shut out the domestic artifacts littering the bedroom around me—the eyeglasses, the basket of laundry, the novels on the bedside table—and just enjoy the sensations.
“Give it to me,” he whispers. He’s got his back arched and his forehead resting on his arms, which are clutching the pillow. “Give it all to me. Knock me up. Make me pregnant.”
My eyes open again. He’s looking back over his shoulder at me, showing that face again. Our eyes connect as I fuck him in silence. For a crystal clear moment, we measure each other and render judgment. He and I both know what we’re there for.
Maybe he can sense how his words excite me. He buries his head again and starts repeating them. “Fuck that cunt. Knock it up with your seed, man. Make me pregnant. Knock me up with your babies and make me carry ‘em for you.” My breathing intensifies. I fuck harder. The bedstead rattles from the force of it. “Plant that fucking seed, man. Make that hole yours. Spray that juice so far up me I can taste it in my fucking throat. Damn!” Now he’s beating his head against the mattress. “Do it. Seed it. Fuck me!”
I grunt. I’d already come all over the Landscaper earlier. This load is bigger, juicier, the orgasm even more intense. When I shoot, I’m holding him at the crook of his neck and shoulder, yanking him down onto me to get it in as deep as possible. Once, twice, three times my cock spurts. Then, a moment later, a fourth.
I try to pull out slowly, but he’s already hopping up and dabbing himself off with a hand towel. “Woof,” he says, passing me to get to the bathroom. “Now that was a great fuck. I bet I’m the happiest married man in town, this Valentine’s Day.”
I think of the Landscaper as I tug up my jeans. Second happiest, maybe.
“What was that?” I say, as I follow the scent of him down the hallway of the ranch-style house. At last I find him in one of the bedrooms. He’s on all fours, ass in the air, the hole squarely pointed at the doorway.
Did I forget to mention he’d answered the door completely naked?
His voice is slightly muffled from the pillow into which he’s buried his face. “I said, at six I have to jet down the Avenue and meet the wife and kids for dinner. Valentine’s day, you know.”
I know. I’d already spent a half-hour in the van with the Landscaper at lunchtime. Since then, the thought of him sucking the head of my dick for the first time has kept my meat three-quarters hard, even during the unerotic tasks of cleaning the cat litter boxes and salting the front walk. It’s been raging for a place to unload ever since, actually. I kick off my boots and start unbuttoning my shirt.
“You don’t have to worry about foreplay with me,” he says in a conversational tone as I undress. “Just drop your pants and fuck it hard if you want. I don’t need to be eaten out or anything. Just been a while since I had a good cock, and you’ve got a hell of a nice one.”
“Thanks,” I say. I’m not enjoying the prattle, exactly. And to be honest, guys who tell me to skip the foreplay aren’t usually going to get the best of my attention. I’m all about the foreplay.
Plus, my dick’s not a broomstick handle. It’s not rigid when I push down my jeans and shorts and let it flop out. Sure, it’s halfway there, but it likes a little attention before I just ram it home. I stagger over to the bedside and pull his head toward my crotch. He opens his mouth again. This time it’s to suck.
The guy’s got a good mouth on him. His hair is long enough to be styled in a kind of retro-seventies feathered way—eccentric for the area, but obviously expensively-done. He’s got the body of a daddy who manages to get in a few workouts here and there, between picking up the kiddies from gymnastics and ferrying them in the family SUV to dance class. He’s young. No more than thirty. But he sucks like he’s been doing it all his life, gobbling down to the root of me and breathing heavily enough to stir my pubes through his nostrils. I’m hard and glistening to spit within moments.
He buries his head in the pillows again. “I was hoping you wouldn’t see much of my face,” he says as I stride around to the foot of the mattress. Too late for that. I saw it in the photo he’d texted me, minutes before I showed up. I’d seen it when he’d answered the door, even though he’d walked off too quickly for me to get a good look. If total anonymity was what he needed, he should’ve backed up that ass to a gloryhole at the Bridgeport adult bookstore.
When I finger his hole, I find he’s greased-up already. I wipe a little of that lube on my cock head, letting it mix with the spit he’s left there.
“Fuck it,” he says. This time he sounds like he’s begging.
I pull him a little closer to the edge, aim at his pucker, and slide in.
He’s not tight. Fucking him feels like fucking pussy; his insides are soft and moist and warm. He offers little resistance to my stiffness as I push inside. From the time my head disappears until the moment my nuts bounce against his for the first time, he begins groaning. “Yes,” he says. “Oh god yes. Yes. This is what I needed.” I start fucking with long, deep strokes, mesmerized by how the flare of my cock head pulls out his ass lips. They roll over the edge, cling to the tip, and on the return trip glide back inside him along with my shaft. “Oh fuck yes. I knew you’d know how to fuck, with that dick.”
I don’t really care that he’s talking too much, or denying me my foreplay. After the charged lunchtime with the Landscaper, I really just need a hole to load. I close my eyes and shut out the domestic artifacts littering the bedroom around me—the eyeglasses, the basket of laundry, the novels on the bedside table—and just enjoy the sensations.
“Give it to me,” he whispers. He’s got his back arched and his forehead resting on his arms, which are clutching the pillow. “Give it all to me. Knock me up. Make me pregnant.”
My eyes open again. He’s looking back over his shoulder at me, showing that face again. Our eyes connect as I fuck him in silence. For a crystal clear moment, we measure each other and render judgment. He and I both know what we’re there for.
Maybe he can sense how his words excite me. He buries his head again and starts repeating them. “Fuck that cunt. Knock it up with your seed, man. Make me pregnant. Knock me up with your babies and make me carry ‘em for you.” My breathing intensifies. I fuck harder. The bedstead rattles from the force of it. “Plant that fucking seed, man. Make that hole yours. Spray that juice so far up me I can taste it in my fucking throat. Damn!” Now he’s beating his head against the mattress. “Do it. Seed it. Fuck me!”
I grunt. I’d already come all over the Landscaper earlier. This load is bigger, juicier, the orgasm even more intense. When I shoot, I’m holding him at the crook of his neck and shoulder, yanking him down onto me to get it in as deep as possible. Once, twice, three times my cock spurts. Then, a moment later, a fourth.
I try to pull out slowly, but he’s already hopping up and dabbing himself off with a hand towel. “Woof,” he says, passing me to get to the bathroom. “Now that was a great fuck. I bet I’m the happiest married man in town, this Valentine’s Day.”
I think of the Landscaper as I tug up my jeans. Second happiest, maybe.
Monday, May 27, 2013
Mr. B______, Part 2
“I’m worried,” he tells me. His blue eyes are guileless. When he makes the admission, he sucks on his lower lip.
I’m aware that my load is leaking out of his hole. Tim’s little teen butt is nestled between the bone of my pelvis. Every time he moves, a little more of myself oozes out of him. Since he’s got his cock in his hand and is thrusting back and forth as he stares down at me, he’s moving a lot.
I reach out and remove his hand from his dick. He’s not going to shoot. Not that way. “Why are you worried?”
“I don’t want to turn you off,” he says.
“You’re not going to turn me off.”
“What if I do something wrong?”
“What in the world can you do wrong?” I ask him. I hold his hands as we talk. His fingers twine through mine. I watch as his eyes search the ceiling for an answer. He finds nothing there, and grins a little at himself. “You’re not going to do anything wrong.”
I try to pull him down beside me. This is a conversation best suited for taking place in my arms. He’s a little bit stubborn, though. He remains sitting on my midsection, his knees digging into my rib cage. “What if it hurts?”
“Why in the world—?” Oh, I realize, with a start. He’s not worried about it hurting himself. He’s concerned about me. “Sweetie,” I say. This time, when I pull him down to me, I don’t allow him to put up resistance. My arms surround him. I nuzzle his neck, lay down soft kisses onto his jawline, and stroke the messy curls from his eyes. “I don’t think you’re capable of hurting me. Did it hurt when I fucked you?”
He shakes his head. “Oh hell no,” he says. “I loved it when you fucked me.” Is he trembling at the memory, or from the chill? It was the late afternoon when we slipped out of our clothes and into my bed. It’s past dusk now, and the air cascading down from the window high over the bed makes my skin break out in gooseflesh. With my ankles, I hook the blanket that’s lying crumpled and most of the way onto the floor, and pull it up over us.
We’re in a cozy nest now, cuddled together. A world consisting of us two alone. I continue to stroke his hair with the flat of my hand and look into his eyes. “I just don’t know whether I’ll make a good top for you.”
He’s completely naked for me now. Not just undressed. He’s stripped down, his soul laid bare. We’ve arrived at the unadulterated truth. He’s breathing swiftly and shallowly. Has he ever had to be this nakedly honest before? I doubt it, this early in his sexual career. “You’ve never topped,” I say, laying a palm on his chest. He’s so warm, so vital. So fucking young. “You told me you wanted to try it. Do you still?”
Tim’s afraid to say yes, but he manages to nod.
“Do you want your first time to be with me, still?”
His eyes are filling again. I can see them in the dim of the room, glistening like gems. “Mr. B______, I’ve been jacking off about you for weeks. What if I cum too soon, though?”
I place another hand on him to soothe him, before he becomes too agitated. “Tim,” I say, recalling him to himself. “This isn’t about you being a power top. You’re not being graded here.” He relaxes a little, hoping what I tell him is the truth. “What we’re going to do—if you want to do it, and if you want to do it with me—is about one man and one young man making each other feel very, very good. That’s all that matters. If you enjoy yourself, you’ve succeeded.” I pause to let my words sink in. “So let me make you feel very, very good.”
When I lean forward to kiss him, his neck cranes to meet me. His lips are soft, and slightly puffy. They’re the color of candy. He tastes sweet like candy, too. “Let me be your first,” I urge. “All right?”
“All right,” he says.
When I pull back the sheets, he trembles again. His dick isn’t just hard. It’s hard in that raging, all-encompassing way that teen boys manage at the drop of a hat. I reach for the lube on the bookshelf next to the bed and squirt some in my hand, then cup my fingers around the curve of his cock. He shivers, then bucks at the warmth of my touch contrasted with the lube’s coolness. His lips twitch. His hands dash out to stop me from masturbating him too much. Maybe he is close, like he worried.
“If you feel yourself shooting, just try to go in as deep as you can. It will be fine.” I’m speaking in my dad voice, my teacher voice, the voice of the wise elder imparting both advice and assurance to the young. “Okay?” I ask.
“Okay,” he says, very softly.
Another handful of the lube goes onto and into my hole. I am hardly practiced at lubing myself, but I fake it, shoving two fingers inside myself and getting the cold ointment as deep into me as I can. “Let’s try it this way,” I say, as I roll onto my side. I pull up a leg and leave the other pointing toward the fireplace on the room’s other side. “Just go slow,” I ask him, trying to sound confident and not beg. “It’ll be all right.”
He’s not huge. Maybe six and a half inches. But I’m not the most experienced bottom of late, despite getting my hole stretched by the Russian a couple of times. He’s very sweet about it as he points his cement-hard meat at my hole, though, and nudges it past the hairy outer lips. When he starts fucking the head back and forth just inside my hole, making every micro-movement count, I can tell he was paying attention when I fucked him for the first time a few minutes before.
At least he’s learned from one of the best, right? I’m prepared to have to put up with some pain. I’m expecting to have to bite the pillow and think of England, to have to cover up my discomfort with some acting. But once he’s past the first ring, I’m actually quite comfortable. He’s grunting to himself slightly as he slides in, but he’s got control; he’s opening me like he knows what he’s doing, not like a teen boy topping for the first time. I was never this smooth at his age, that’s for sure.
“You’re good,” I groan out. I really want him in my hole. There’s no endurance here, no covering up my real feelings. England is the last thing on my mind. “Just keep . . . yeah. Like that. Just like that.”
“Is it okay?” he asks. I can hear a little anxiety in his voice, but there’s more urgency than fear.
“Oh god. It’s better than okay.” The deep bass of my guttural voice shocks even me. “Is it okay for you?”
The only answer he makes is his respiration, which is harsh and heavy. My suspicion that he’s all the way in seems to be verified when he starts moving back and forth over me. I turn my head to look. His eyes are closed. He’s got his hands wrapped around his chest, hugging himself like a little boy. His hips have taken over, though. Tim is sliding in and out of me at first tentatively, but then with purpose. His hands drop to my ass, and lightly touch me there. Then he puts his weight onto me, and digs in.
He doesn’t last long. I’m very proud that he actually made it into the hole before he shot, though—a lot of first-timers don’t manage that. He’s in me for about a minute, making my hole hungry for more, when all of a sudden he starts muttering to himself and lunges, sending me sprawling forward a good six inches. “—deep as I can,” I hear him saying to himself.
I realize he’s repeating my advice to him. “Give it to me,” I growl, contorting my leg higher. I want him in there as far as he can go. I need that boy’s cock. He’s setting my hole on fire in a way I haven’t experienced in a long, long time. “Give me all you’ve got.”
My own dick is making a permanent impression in the foam mattress, it’s so rigid. I ignore it, though. This is all about him, and his first time. He sputters when he shoots, showering me with droplets of saliva fine as mist. I can feel his rod jerking and swelling and letting loose inside me. Then, mid-squirt, he slips out.
“Put it back in,” I urge. “Quick.”
He shoves back in, going in at the wrong angle at first, but then shoving his gushing meat all the way back in. I feel like I’ve taken a gallon of his cum; I can feel some of it on the back of my thigh, dripping onto my balls. He’s still jerking and bucking and thrashing, eyes closed, lost in his own little world.
Or so I think. Because he opens his eyes and says in a panic, “What do I do? Pull out?”
“Stay in,” I urge. And I reach up and help him maneuver down to the bed, still in me, until he’s spooning behind me. I tug the blanket over our tangled bodies. His arms reach around and encompass my chest. He squeezes me tightly, and buries his nose against the curve where my neck meets my shoulder.
I’m so happy, at this moment. So happy. And I hope he is too.
After a moment, I’m sure he’s asleep. But then there’s a rumbling in his chest. “I’ve never held a man like this,” he says, his voice wondering.
Of all the firsts this evening, that’s the most remarkable for him. I fold my hands over his, and let him hold me until he sleeps.
I’m aware that my load is leaking out of his hole. Tim’s little teen butt is nestled between the bone of my pelvis. Every time he moves, a little more of myself oozes out of him. Since he’s got his cock in his hand and is thrusting back and forth as he stares down at me, he’s moving a lot.
I reach out and remove his hand from his dick. He’s not going to shoot. Not that way. “Why are you worried?”
“I don’t want to turn you off,” he says.
“You’re not going to turn me off.”
“What if I do something wrong?”
“What in the world can you do wrong?” I ask him. I hold his hands as we talk. His fingers twine through mine. I watch as his eyes search the ceiling for an answer. He finds nothing there, and grins a little at himself. “You’re not going to do anything wrong.”
I try to pull him down beside me. This is a conversation best suited for taking place in my arms. He’s a little bit stubborn, though. He remains sitting on my midsection, his knees digging into my rib cage. “What if it hurts?”
“Why in the world—?” Oh, I realize, with a start. He’s not worried about it hurting himself. He’s concerned about me. “Sweetie,” I say. This time, when I pull him down to me, I don’t allow him to put up resistance. My arms surround him. I nuzzle his neck, lay down soft kisses onto his jawline, and stroke the messy curls from his eyes. “I don’t think you’re capable of hurting me. Did it hurt when I fucked you?”
He shakes his head. “Oh hell no,” he says. “I loved it when you fucked me.” Is he trembling at the memory, or from the chill? It was the late afternoon when we slipped out of our clothes and into my bed. It’s past dusk now, and the air cascading down from the window high over the bed makes my skin break out in gooseflesh. With my ankles, I hook the blanket that’s lying crumpled and most of the way onto the floor, and pull it up over us.
We’re in a cozy nest now, cuddled together. A world consisting of us two alone. I continue to stroke his hair with the flat of my hand and look into his eyes. “I just don’t know whether I’ll make a good top for you.”
He’s completely naked for me now. Not just undressed. He’s stripped down, his soul laid bare. We’ve arrived at the unadulterated truth. He’s breathing swiftly and shallowly. Has he ever had to be this nakedly honest before? I doubt it, this early in his sexual career. “You’ve never topped,” I say, laying a palm on his chest. He’s so warm, so vital. So fucking young. “You told me you wanted to try it. Do you still?”
Tim’s afraid to say yes, but he manages to nod.
“Do you want your first time to be with me, still?”
His eyes are filling again. I can see them in the dim of the room, glistening like gems. “Mr. B______, I’ve been jacking off about you for weeks. What if I cum too soon, though?”
I place another hand on him to soothe him, before he becomes too agitated. “Tim,” I say, recalling him to himself. “This isn’t about you being a power top. You’re not being graded here.” He relaxes a little, hoping what I tell him is the truth. “What we’re going to do—if you want to do it, and if you want to do it with me—is about one man and one young man making each other feel very, very good. That’s all that matters. If you enjoy yourself, you’ve succeeded.” I pause to let my words sink in. “So let me make you feel very, very good.”
When I lean forward to kiss him, his neck cranes to meet me. His lips are soft, and slightly puffy. They’re the color of candy. He tastes sweet like candy, too. “Let me be your first,” I urge. “All right?”
“All right,” he says.
When I pull back the sheets, he trembles again. His dick isn’t just hard. It’s hard in that raging, all-encompassing way that teen boys manage at the drop of a hat. I reach for the lube on the bookshelf next to the bed and squirt some in my hand, then cup my fingers around the curve of his cock. He shivers, then bucks at the warmth of my touch contrasted with the lube’s coolness. His lips twitch. His hands dash out to stop me from masturbating him too much. Maybe he is close, like he worried.
“If you feel yourself shooting, just try to go in as deep as you can. It will be fine.” I’m speaking in my dad voice, my teacher voice, the voice of the wise elder imparting both advice and assurance to the young. “Okay?” I ask.
“Okay,” he says, very softly.
Another handful of the lube goes onto and into my hole. I am hardly practiced at lubing myself, but I fake it, shoving two fingers inside myself and getting the cold ointment as deep into me as I can. “Let’s try it this way,” I say, as I roll onto my side. I pull up a leg and leave the other pointing toward the fireplace on the room’s other side. “Just go slow,” I ask him, trying to sound confident and not beg. “It’ll be all right.”
He’s not huge. Maybe six and a half inches. But I’m not the most experienced bottom of late, despite getting my hole stretched by the Russian a couple of times. He’s very sweet about it as he points his cement-hard meat at my hole, though, and nudges it past the hairy outer lips. When he starts fucking the head back and forth just inside my hole, making every micro-movement count, I can tell he was paying attention when I fucked him for the first time a few minutes before.
At least he’s learned from one of the best, right? I’m prepared to have to put up with some pain. I’m expecting to have to bite the pillow and think of England, to have to cover up my discomfort with some acting. But once he’s past the first ring, I’m actually quite comfortable. He’s grunting to himself slightly as he slides in, but he’s got control; he’s opening me like he knows what he’s doing, not like a teen boy topping for the first time. I was never this smooth at his age, that’s for sure.
“You’re good,” I groan out. I really want him in my hole. There’s no endurance here, no covering up my real feelings. England is the last thing on my mind. “Just keep . . . yeah. Like that. Just like that.”
“Is it okay?” he asks. I can hear a little anxiety in his voice, but there’s more urgency than fear.
“Oh god. It’s better than okay.” The deep bass of my guttural voice shocks even me. “Is it okay for you?”
The only answer he makes is his respiration, which is harsh and heavy. My suspicion that he’s all the way in seems to be verified when he starts moving back and forth over me. I turn my head to look. His eyes are closed. He’s got his hands wrapped around his chest, hugging himself like a little boy. His hips have taken over, though. Tim is sliding in and out of me at first tentatively, but then with purpose. His hands drop to my ass, and lightly touch me there. Then he puts his weight onto me, and digs in.
He doesn’t last long. I’m very proud that he actually made it into the hole before he shot, though—a lot of first-timers don’t manage that. He’s in me for about a minute, making my hole hungry for more, when all of a sudden he starts muttering to himself and lunges, sending me sprawling forward a good six inches. “—deep as I can,” I hear him saying to himself.
I realize he’s repeating my advice to him. “Give it to me,” I growl, contorting my leg higher. I want him in there as far as he can go. I need that boy’s cock. He’s setting my hole on fire in a way I haven’t experienced in a long, long time. “Give me all you’ve got.”
My own dick is making a permanent impression in the foam mattress, it’s so rigid. I ignore it, though. This is all about him, and his first time. He sputters when he shoots, showering me with droplets of saliva fine as mist. I can feel his rod jerking and swelling and letting loose inside me. Then, mid-squirt, he slips out.
“Put it back in,” I urge. “Quick.”
He shoves back in, going in at the wrong angle at first, but then shoving his gushing meat all the way back in. I feel like I’ve taken a gallon of his cum; I can feel some of it on the back of my thigh, dripping onto my balls. He’s still jerking and bucking and thrashing, eyes closed, lost in his own little world.
Or so I think. Because he opens his eyes and says in a panic, “What do I do? Pull out?”
“Stay in,” I urge. And I reach up and help him maneuver down to the bed, still in me, until he’s spooning behind me. I tug the blanket over our tangled bodies. His arms reach around and encompass my chest. He squeezes me tightly, and buries his nose against the curve where my neck meets my shoulder.
I’m so happy, at this moment. So happy. And I hope he is too.
After a moment, I’m sure he’s asleep. But then there’s a rumbling in his chest. “I’ve never held a man like this,” he says, his voice wondering.
Of all the firsts this evening, that’s the most remarkable for him. I fold my hands over his, and let him hold me until he sleeps.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Mr. B______, Part 1
All over his body, his skin is taut. When I drop the ball of a finger on the flat planes of his stomach, his chest, his thigh, I expect to hear a hollow resounding, like a drum. What sparse hair there is around his cock is fluffy and untrimmed. It’s as fair as the messy curls on his head. A narrow trail of it leads to his navel, where it vanishes.
When he raises his legs for me, they’re trembling. His neck strains as he holds up his head and looks me square in the eyes. I recognize the expression on his face. It’s half dick-lust, pure craving and need. It’s half fear. My cock head is wet, shining, and engorged as it nudges against his hole. I let it sniff there like an animal, let it prod apart the sweet lips on the kid’s hole. Already there’s a connection between us. Strands, thick and glistening, of my precum mixed with the lube I’ve already thrust inside there, stretch and droop from my slit to his hole.
His own dick is shaped like a scythe—curved more than the average meat, from base to crown. His hand is wrapped around it, squeezing it until the head is red to bursting. I swat away his hand. I don’t want him shooting too soon. He obeys my unspoken command and puts his hands over his head. His brows knit into expectation. He wants me, I can tell. He wants me badly.
“Why me?” I’m moved to ask. This kid could have anyone.
I can tell he’s been afraid to open his mouth, fearful it would all come spilling out if he did. At my question, his expression softens. His dick lurches. Because of its curve, instead of pointing into the air, it arcs and targets his navel instead. “You want me to list why? You’re unbearably handsome,” he says. “Your smile makes me melt. This is right. You’re right.” He swallows, and his voice drops to a husky whisper. “Fuck me.”
I hesitate. I rarely feel handsome, but his praise makes me glow. My dick swells to proportions even larger than normal. I let the tip wallow in the softness of his outer lips for a moment more. Then I shove. His head snaps back. His back arches. I’m in, and driving home.
Earlier in the year I volunteered some time and some mentoring at the local high school. The amount of raw talent in the area guarantees that the kids in the drama department there put on shows like no other—and the shows are huge, too. This particular one had a cast of over fifty, a number that required some extra adult supervision and participation in the wings. So there I was, among the other parents and volunteers, shoving props in kids’ hands so they could make it onto the stage in time. It was a thankless job, but not without its moments. I confess I had a mild crush on one of the show’s leads, a senior with a lithe waist and a solid chest and ass for days who would regularly race backstage, strip shirtless, and make a sweaty costume change right next to me.
He was dreamy. The night he rested one of his meaty paws on my shoulder for balance, I went home and wrote his name with little hearts and arrows all over my fifth period Trapper Keeper.
About a month after the show was over, I was logged onto Manhunt when I got a message from a nearly-blank profile. I checked it out before opening the email. You know the kind. It’s a vast blue expanse of nothing, with a meaningless tagline like Anyone for fun???, a buttload of Ask mes instead of stats, and a default silhouette instead of a photo. About the only concrete details that I could glean were that the guy said he was 20, and that he was in my immediate area. Still, I’m pretty explicit in my profiles that I don’t reply to faceless, data-less profiles. I was ready to trash it unscanned when I opened it by accident and saw that the message inside read, Are you Mr. B_____? Only instead of the blank was my actual last name.
Intrigued, I wrote back. It turned out that the profile’s owner was an 18-year-old senior from the high school. He’d been in the production I’d worked, he told me, and he’d recognized me immediately from my thumbnails. My heart pounded a little bit when he offered to send me photos. Was he going to turn out to be the lead I’d found so dreamy?
He didn’t. In fact, I didn’t recognize him at all, though I made out as if I remembered him among the faces in the dim backstage.
But the texted photos and videos I received from the kid were fucking adorable in their own right—he was a golden-haired, chin-dimpled young scamp with big blue eyes, a snubbed nose, the faintest traces of freckles on his apple cheeks. Out of the baggy costumes they’d worn on the stage, and lying on his own bed naked in the photos and videos he sent me, his body was fucking amazing: lean-waisted, muscled, and breathtaking.
And now, here he is on my my shaft, with my cock inside him for the first time. His eyes are glazed, whether from pain or the pleasure of what he was feeling, I can’t tell. His curved rod is still rock-hard, though. He can’t be in that much pain. I pause and watch his naked chest rise and fall as he pants heavily. Its center is covered with wisps of golden fur. “Do you want more?” I ask softly. “Do you want it all?’
His eyes flick up to me. They’re glistening with moisture. He nods, slightly at first, then more affirmatively. When I push the remaining inches in, he sucks in air with his lips pursed, as if through an invisible straw.
This isn’t his first fuck. He’s told me that. Some other man had him as a fuck toy for a few times over the course of a year. What I am is the first man he’s ever asked to fuck him. The first one he’s picked.
There’s a difference between letting someone inside you after they’ve put the moves on you, and choosing your own top for the first time. I recognize and honor that fact. I’ll make this special for him. He’ll remember it.
He stirs when I’m all the way inside. He raises his arms helplessly, his fists half-curled. He blinks slowly, and lifts his hips. “Oh fuck,” he whispers. He looks as if he’s waking up from a deep sleep; what he’s really wakening to is discovering how he’s supposed to be opened. He hasn’t experienced such strong and compelling sensations with a cock inside him before. I can tell. I always can.
“You all right?” I ask him.
When he looks at me again, his eyes are puddled with tears. “Is it supposed to feel like this?” he says, confirming my suspicions. I nod, very slowly. I’m sliding in and out. I’ve used plenty of lube in the anticipation of him being extra-tight, but I didn’t need to. He’s relaxing around me moment by moment. “It wasn’t like this before.”
“You like it, right?” He nods vigorously. “If it doesn’t feel like this, the guy’s not doing it right.” I look down at him. My palms are planted on either side of his armpits. My hips have taken over. There’s a motor inside them that keeps them pistoning in and out, but the rest of me is very, very still. “Didn’t your other man take the time to make you feel good?”
He shakes his head, almost as if he’s afraid to betray the guy.
His lips have parted. He gazes up at me, half in rapture, half oblivious to anything save for the sensations my cock’s head makes as it rakes back against his insides. “Didn’t he give you as much pleasure as you gave him?” I ask.
Again, there’s hesitation. Whether it’s with his senses in an attempt to speak, or whether it’s with his inner decency against badmouthing a former trick, there’s a battle going on. “No,” he says at last. “Not like you.”
His little legs are hairy. I grab onto his ankles and drive all the way in. His head lolls. He groans. I can feel my cock head nudging his prostate; it dents the upper side when I get to the base. He’s not having the usual struggles of the near-beginner. His fingers reach down to claw at his little bubble butt, to pull apart the cheeks to give me greater access. He’s adjusting the way his shoulders rest on the pillows in order to push his hips up even higher. Experienced he isn’t, but his body is telling him exactly what to do in order to increase his own pleasure. He’s obeying every dictate.
“Please don’t stop fucking me, Mr. B______,” he whispers.
Fuck. The formality of my address swells my meat. It’s enraged, now. Like a drunken brute on a Saturday night, it’s angry and looking to punish. I turn him over. He looks back over his shoulder at me, almost shyly. The look changes to fear at the size when I drive in, then astonishment at the sensations. Then he’s back to being the horny little shit he is, lifting his hips to take more cock than he’s ever had in his life.
I’m gyrating my hips, grinding even more deeply into him. “Oh shit,” he says. His voice is astonished. “Oh shit. Oh shit, Mr. B______.” Again he’s prying apart his cheeks for me. I push his face down into the pillows and hold him down as I start power-fucking his little hole. “This is . . . I’m . . . I want. . . .”
He can’t talk. It doesn’t matter. I hear him slurp the drool that’s running out of his mouth. He can barely control that, either. “Tell me what you want, son,” I order.
“All I’ve ever wanted . . . your dick . . . Mr. B______,” he manages to huff out. “I always want it like this. Do you want to cum in me?”
“You know I do, boy,” I tell him.
“Then cum in me,” he says. I’m pounding the air from his lungs—I can barely hear what he says. But I know an invitation when I hear one. “Please. Just cum in me. Please. Cum in my butt. Please,” he begs.
He’s still drooling. Tears are running from his eyes, and he’s trying to sniff back against his runny nose. He’s already leaking from every orifice. Soon there’ll be one more.
When the fingers he’s been using to pull apart his cheeks stroke my nuts, I lose it. I let out a mighty roar and start spraying his insides with my load. On and on the orgasm rages, taking me to a place where all I see is black and red as I continue to hose him out with what feels like impossible amounts of semen. By instinct he’s clutching onto my hips. He refuses to let me go, awkward as it is for him. “Don’t pull out,” he begs, when I subside.
“I won’t, son,” I assure him. We turn together, still connected, until we’re lying on our right sides. When I let my hand graze his cock, it’s still rock hard, and still slick with his own wetness. His hand reaches to clutch it. “No,” I tell him, tugging it away by the wrist. “Not that way.”
He doesn’t protest. He’s too weak to put up a fuss. We lie there, panting and returning to our senses, until he speaks a few moments later. “I didn’t know it was supposed to feel good for the bottom dude too.” I say nothing. “I thought the bottom dude was just supposed to wait for it to be over, kind of.”
“Not if it’s done right,” I say in his ear.
We lie there in the half-twilight. He shivers when the passage of my hand draws gooseflesh. “Mr. B______?” he asks.
“You don’t have to call me that,” I say, trying not to laugh too audibly. “I told you my first name.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” I can almost feel the blush of embarrassment spread over his skin. “I guess I’m just used to it.”
“It’s okay,” I say, brushing away the hair from his forehead. “Truth be told, I actually kind of like it when you call me Mr. B______.”
He waits a moment to ask his question. “I don’t bug you when I text you or send you pics and vids and stuff, do I?”
I shake my head. “Not at all. I love your pics.”
“How about when I ask you questions about stuff guys do?”
I shake my head again. “It doesn’t bother me.”
“So. . . .” I’m not sure in which direction he’s heading with the questions. “Can we do . . . it’s okay if you don’t want to . . . everything we talked about? When I sent you pics?”
Oh. That. My dick starts to stir again. “Oh yes, son,” I tell him. I don’t want to pull out, don’t want to disturb this perfect peace we’re sharing. I regret having to slide out of his ass, but I want to look at him, face to face. My load spills out, after I withdraw my dick. The mess is my last concern, though. I turn him over so he faces me, and stare into those blue eyes. “We’ll do it all. Right now.”
And the look of gratitude he gives me as he melts into my hug makes having pulled out worth it.
When he raises his legs for me, they’re trembling. His neck strains as he holds up his head and looks me square in the eyes. I recognize the expression on his face. It’s half dick-lust, pure craving and need. It’s half fear. My cock head is wet, shining, and engorged as it nudges against his hole. I let it sniff there like an animal, let it prod apart the sweet lips on the kid’s hole. Already there’s a connection between us. Strands, thick and glistening, of my precum mixed with the lube I’ve already thrust inside there, stretch and droop from my slit to his hole.
His own dick is shaped like a scythe—curved more than the average meat, from base to crown. His hand is wrapped around it, squeezing it until the head is red to bursting. I swat away his hand. I don’t want him shooting too soon. He obeys my unspoken command and puts his hands over his head. His brows knit into expectation. He wants me, I can tell. He wants me badly.
“Why me?” I’m moved to ask. This kid could have anyone.
I can tell he’s been afraid to open his mouth, fearful it would all come spilling out if he did. At my question, his expression softens. His dick lurches. Because of its curve, instead of pointing into the air, it arcs and targets his navel instead. “You want me to list why? You’re unbearably handsome,” he says. “Your smile makes me melt. This is right. You’re right.” He swallows, and his voice drops to a husky whisper. “Fuck me.”
I hesitate. I rarely feel handsome, but his praise makes me glow. My dick swells to proportions even larger than normal. I let the tip wallow in the softness of his outer lips for a moment more. Then I shove. His head snaps back. His back arches. I’m in, and driving home.
Earlier in the year I volunteered some time and some mentoring at the local high school. The amount of raw talent in the area guarantees that the kids in the drama department there put on shows like no other—and the shows are huge, too. This particular one had a cast of over fifty, a number that required some extra adult supervision and participation in the wings. So there I was, among the other parents and volunteers, shoving props in kids’ hands so they could make it onto the stage in time. It was a thankless job, but not without its moments. I confess I had a mild crush on one of the show’s leads, a senior with a lithe waist and a solid chest and ass for days who would regularly race backstage, strip shirtless, and make a sweaty costume change right next to me.
He was dreamy. The night he rested one of his meaty paws on my shoulder for balance, I went home and wrote his name with little hearts and arrows all over my fifth period Trapper Keeper.
About a month after the show was over, I was logged onto Manhunt when I got a message from a nearly-blank profile. I checked it out before opening the email. You know the kind. It’s a vast blue expanse of nothing, with a meaningless tagline like Anyone for fun???, a buttload of Ask mes instead of stats, and a default silhouette instead of a photo. About the only concrete details that I could glean were that the guy said he was 20, and that he was in my immediate area. Still, I’m pretty explicit in my profiles that I don’t reply to faceless, data-less profiles. I was ready to trash it unscanned when I opened it by accident and saw that the message inside read, Are you Mr. B_____? Only instead of the blank was my actual last name.
Intrigued, I wrote back. It turned out that the profile’s owner was an 18-year-old senior from the high school. He’d been in the production I’d worked, he told me, and he’d recognized me immediately from my thumbnails. My heart pounded a little bit when he offered to send me photos. Was he going to turn out to be the lead I’d found so dreamy?
He didn’t. In fact, I didn’t recognize him at all, though I made out as if I remembered him among the faces in the dim backstage.
But the texted photos and videos I received from the kid were fucking adorable in their own right—he was a golden-haired, chin-dimpled young scamp with big blue eyes, a snubbed nose, the faintest traces of freckles on his apple cheeks. Out of the baggy costumes they’d worn on the stage, and lying on his own bed naked in the photos and videos he sent me, his body was fucking amazing: lean-waisted, muscled, and breathtaking.
And now, here he is on my my shaft, with my cock inside him for the first time. His eyes are glazed, whether from pain or the pleasure of what he was feeling, I can’t tell. His curved rod is still rock-hard, though. He can’t be in that much pain. I pause and watch his naked chest rise and fall as he pants heavily. Its center is covered with wisps of golden fur. “Do you want more?” I ask softly. “Do you want it all?’
His eyes flick up to me. They’re glistening with moisture. He nods, slightly at first, then more affirmatively. When I push the remaining inches in, he sucks in air with his lips pursed, as if through an invisible straw.
This isn’t his first fuck. He’s told me that. Some other man had him as a fuck toy for a few times over the course of a year. What I am is the first man he’s ever asked to fuck him. The first one he’s picked.
There’s a difference between letting someone inside you after they’ve put the moves on you, and choosing your own top for the first time. I recognize and honor that fact. I’ll make this special for him. He’ll remember it.
He stirs when I’m all the way inside. He raises his arms helplessly, his fists half-curled. He blinks slowly, and lifts his hips. “Oh fuck,” he whispers. He looks as if he’s waking up from a deep sleep; what he’s really wakening to is discovering how he’s supposed to be opened. He hasn’t experienced such strong and compelling sensations with a cock inside him before. I can tell. I always can.
“You all right?” I ask him.
When he looks at me again, his eyes are puddled with tears. “Is it supposed to feel like this?” he says, confirming my suspicions. I nod, very slowly. I’m sliding in and out. I’ve used plenty of lube in the anticipation of him being extra-tight, but I didn’t need to. He’s relaxing around me moment by moment. “It wasn’t like this before.”
“You like it, right?” He nods vigorously. “If it doesn’t feel like this, the guy’s not doing it right.” I look down at him. My palms are planted on either side of his armpits. My hips have taken over. There’s a motor inside them that keeps them pistoning in and out, but the rest of me is very, very still. “Didn’t your other man take the time to make you feel good?”
He shakes his head, almost as if he’s afraid to betray the guy.
His lips have parted. He gazes up at me, half in rapture, half oblivious to anything save for the sensations my cock’s head makes as it rakes back against his insides. “Didn’t he give you as much pleasure as you gave him?” I ask.
Again, there’s hesitation. Whether it’s with his senses in an attempt to speak, or whether it’s with his inner decency against badmouthing a former trick, there’s a battle going on. “No,” he says at last. “Not like you.”
His little legs are hairy. I grab onto his ankles and drive all the way in. His head lolls. He groans. I can feel my cock head nudging his prostate; it dents the upper side when I get to the base. He’s not having the usual struggles of the near-beginner. His fingers reach down to claw at his little bubble butt, to pull apart the cheeks to give me greater access. He’s adjusting the way his shoulders rest on the pillows in order to push his hips up even higher. Experienced he isn’t, but his body is telling him exactly what to do in order to increase his own pleasure. He’s obeying every dictate.
“Please don’t stop fucking me, Mr. B______,” he whispers.
Fuck. The formality of my address swells my meat. It’s enraged, now. Like a drunken brute on a Saturday night, it’s angry and looking to punish. I turn him over. He looks back over his shoulder at me, almost shyly. The look changes to fear at the size when I drive in, then astonishment at the sensations. Then he’s back to being the horny little shit he is, lifting his hips to take more cock than he’s ever had in his life.
I’m gyrating my hips, grinding even more deeply into him. “Oh shit,” he says. His voice is astonished. “Oh shit. Oh shit, Mr. B______.” Again he’s prying apart his cheeks for me. I push his face down into the pillows and hold him down as I start power-fucking his little hole. “This is . . . I’m . . . I want. . . .”
He can’t talk. It doesn’t matter. I hear him slurp the drool that’s running out of his mouth. He can barely control that, either. “Tell me what you want, son,” I order.
“All I’ve ever wanted . . . your dick . . . Mr. B______,” he manages to huff out. “I always want it like this. Do you want to cum in me?”
“You know I do, boy,” I tell him.
“Then cum in me,” he says. I’m pounding the air from his lungs—I can barely hear what he says. But I know an invitation when I hear one. “Please. Just cum in me. Please. Cum in my butt. Please,” he begs.
He’s still drooling. Tears are running from his eyes, and he’s trying to sniff back against his runny nose. He’s already leaking from every orifice. Soon there’ll be one more.
When the fingers he’s been using to pull apart his cheeks stroke my nuts, I lose it. I let out a mighty roar and start spraying his insides with my load. On and on the orgasm rages, taking me to a place where all I see is black and red as I continue to hose him out with what feels like impossible amounts of semen. By instinct he’s clutching onto my hips. He refuses to let me go, awkward as it is for him. “Don’t pull out,” he begs, when I subside.
“I won’t, son,” I assure him. We turn together, still connected, until we’re lying on our right sides. When I let my hand graze his cock, it’s still rock hard, and still slick with his own wetness. His hand reaches to clutch it. “No,” I tell him, tugging it away by the wrist. “Not that way.”
He doesn’t protest. He’s too weak to put up a fuss. We lie there, panting and returning to our senses, until he speaks a few moments later. “I didn’t know it was supposed to feel good for the bottom dude too.” I say nothing. “I thought the bottom dude was just supposed to wait for it to be over, kind of.”
“Not if it’s done right,” I say in his ear.
We lie there in the half-twilight. He shivers when the passage of my hand draws gooseflesh. “Mr. B______?” he asks.
“You don’t have to call me that,” I say, trying not to laugh too audibly. “I told you my first name.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” I can almost feel the blush of embarrassment spread over his skin. “I guess I’m just used to it.”
“It’s okay,” I say, brushing away the hair from his forehead. “Truth be told, I actually kind of like it when you call me Mr. B______.”
He waits a moment to ask his question. “I don’t bug you when I text you or send you pics and vids and stuff, do I?”
I shake my head. “Not at all. I love your pics.”
“How about when I ask you questions about stuff guys do?”
I shake my head again. “It doesn’t bother me.”
“So. . . .” I’m not sure in which direction he’s heading with the questions. “Can we do . . . it’s okay if you don’t want to . . . everything we talked about? When I sent you pics?”
Oh. That. My dick starts to stir again. “Oh yes, son,” I tell him. I don’t want to pull out, don’t want to disturb this perfect peace we’re sharing. I regret having to slide out of his ass, but I want to look at him, face to face. My load spills out, after I withdraw my dick. The mess is my last concern, though. I turn him over so he faces me, and stare into those blue eyes. “We’ll do it all. Right now.”
And the look of gratitude he gives me as he melts into my hug makes having pulled out worth it.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Just Like That
“Fucking hotel internet.” He’s leaning over his laptop. It’s no crackerjack of modern technology. The black plastic is all over thumbprints, the screen resolution is lower than an ancient GameBoy. “Is this thing working?” he asks. “Can you hear me?”
“I see you, honey,” says the woman on the other end.
“You see me?”
“No,” says the woman. “But I see your new friend.” He’s peering at the laptop, clearly expecting the camera to be centered at the top of the screen. It’s not. The webcam sitting on the hotel desk at the side is an enormous, archaic plug-in model that looks like the eye-stem of a Dalek, and it’s pointed straight in my direction, where I’m sitting on the bed. I raise my hand, smile, and wave. “Hi there,” she says.
The man I’ve arranged to meet is a muscular black dude in his late thirties. He’s got a great chest and hot arms, and the view of his ass to which he’s treating me right now is unbeatable. But it’s his thighs that are oddly his most attractive feature. They’re hard and toned and the size of tree trunks. He stands back a little and finally remembers where the webcam is. “So you can see me?”
“I can see you,” she replies. I’ve had only the slightest of acquaintance with this woman for the last ten seconds, but something in her tone makes me think, She must be the most patient of wives. “I can see you both.”
The man plops down on the hotel bed next to me, and puts his arm around my shoulders. “What do you think?” he asks.
“He cute,” she says. Now that he’s sitting down, I can see his wife at the other end of the Skype session. She’s a pretty woman with caramel-colored skin and springy hair pushed back and up with a headband. She looks to be a decade younger than her husband.
“You’re cute,” I say, genuinely.
“He flirty, too,” she wisecracks.
The man reaches out to ruffle my hair, as if I’m some harmless, adorable tyke he’s brought home from the orphanage. Then he cups the back of my head and draws me in for a kiss. His lips surround mine like the downiest of pillows. I sink into them without finding the foundation beneath. He tilts back my head, and lets his mouth travel down my neck while he unbuttons my shirt. When my chest is exposed to the cool air of the hotel suite, his tongue reaches out and licks my nipple. I open my eyes. His wife is leaning back in her chair in front of their home computer, arms crossed, head tilted. She’s not wearing the look of the skeptical. She hasn’t assumed an expression of mere tolerance—this isn’t a whim merely of his that she indulges. It’s a game they both plainly enjoy. She’s watching her husband lick his way down my torso with absolute, utter approval. Her head is bobbing back and forth slightly, following some internal rhythm, as she nods with unspoken blessing.
Her husband hooks his thumbs into the front of my jeans and unfastens them. I lift my hips so he can pull them down my legs. While his hands explore the mound between my thighs, I pull off my socks and toss them where my jeans lie in a heap. “Oh, you get bonus points for that,” says the wife, unexpectedly. “I can’t get him to take off his own socks when he come to bed.”
Her husband isn’t paying a bit of notice—and I confess, it’s increasingly tough for me to split my attention between the Skype screen and the sight of this man spreading my legs and pulling down my boxer briefs. I make a decision to focus on what’s happening in front of me, rather than three hundred miles away. His breath is hot on my crotch. He’s licking my balls like a dog cleans itself, right through the cotton fabric. I’m hard as a rock beneath the palms of his meaty hands.
He’s in charge for the moment. He pushes my legs apart, then up. I feel steamy breath on the outside of my hole, as he buries his face in there. I’m balancing on the upper half of my back as he growls like a dog as he chews at my flesh through the shorts. Then I collapse back down onto the mattress. It shudders beneath me, and I shudder too when he pulls down my shorts to release my hard dick.
“Damn, look at that!” I hear the woman’s voice say. “Show me, baby!”
Her husband pushes me at an angle, so I’m facing the cam. I grab my dick and stroke it for her, pumping it lasciviously. I slap it in my hands a couple of times. The husband slithers off the bed as silkily as a negligee, until he’s between my knees. He pushes me down so that I’m lying there, relaxed and legs spread, dick standing straight up while he wraps his lips around it.
“I can’t see!” I hear her say. He drags me around to a better angle, like a sack of seed. “Fuck, baby,” she says. I can hear the desire in her voice. “Suck that big white dick.”
He’s already on that command. He stares up at me while he runs those soft lips up and down my shaft. My nuts contract and pull up from the intensity of the stimulus; they relax and ease down again at the warmth of his breath and the sensation of his hot, sloppy spit dripping onto them. His eyes are lidded, heavy. The gaze he’s giving me is worshipful. Whenever he reaches the base, he lets out the slightest of gulps as his throat grapples to accommodate my girth. He’s totally into his work, and I prop myself up on my elbows and watch him go at it.
“Show me,” she says. I push her husband off my meat and stand to my feet. I lean back, and thrust my hips forward, so that my dick’s a saber slicing across the computer screen. Her arms aren’t crossed any more. She’s leaning back in the office chair, with her hands out of sight. I know exactly where they are, though. “You married?” she asks. I hold up my left hand and let the platinum band speak for itself. “Damn, she some lucky bitch.”
“I’m going to fuck your husband,” I tell her. When I stand up, he puts his head down on the mattress as he tries to get oxygen back into his lungs. He’s standing up bent over, right now.
“You better fuck him,” she agrees. “You better fuck his ass hard.”
“Yeah?” I ask, entering into the conspiracy with her. “You want to see him fucked hard, huh?”
“You better make him yell,” she says.
“You like my dick better than his, don’t you?” I ask her, thwacking it in the palm of my hand.
She grunts approval. “You way bigger.”
The husband’s not that small. He’s seven inches or so. And all seven of those inches are fully erect. He’s jacking himself frantically while his spouse and I talk about him like he’s almost not even in the room. I grab the bottle of lube on the bed and squirt some directly onto his hole. It must be cold, because he flinches. “You like watching a real man top your husband, huh?”
“I like watching a real man top a hot cunt,” she says. Her jaw works from side to side. She’s turned on, I can tell. “You know that’s all he is. A cunt.”
“A cunt for me to cum in, huh?”
“If he worth it. If he earn it.”
I angle the guy so we’re at a diagonal to the camera. I want her to see my entry in. I rub the plum head of my dick against his black hole. Then I push it in. He yelps. “Not so fast,” he begs.
“You shut the fuck up,” she snaps at him. He closes his mouth and whimpers. “You just shove it in, white boy,” she tells me. “Don’t pay no mind to what he do. You listen to me.”
I listen to her. I thrust to the halfway point. He yells. There’s not a lot of resistance to my shove; he honestly can’t be feeling as much distress as he’s letting on. I’ve gathered they’ve done this dance before, many times, though. So I let them set the beat. “Fuck him,” she snaps. “Fuck him all the way.”
I shove the rest in. His head snaps back; his eyes wince closed. There’s a rictus of pain across his face that she clearly can see on the camera. She makes noises of satisfaction to herself, then calls out, “That’s right.”
So I fuck. I grab the guy’s hips and let rip. No buildup, no grinding, no gentle humping. I’m not trying to make him feel good at all. My dick, on the other hand, feels fucking fantastic.
I’m pounding away. Our balls are slapping with every impact. He’s a big hound who’s letting out little puppy yelps every time I stab into him. He starts to keen at the back of his throat, whining like a hit dog. He pretends like he’s in agony, that he’s had enough. His dick tells me otherwise. I grab onto his balls and yank them back, and feel his cock poke hard against my knuckles.
“Ride that cunt!” I hear from behind me.
Oh, I’m riding it. His hole’s juicy and sloppy and slick. Every time I shove in, I’m trying to get a reaction from him. I want him to fucking feel it. I’m probably squeezing his nuts too damned hard, but I don’t really give a fuck about that, either. Every cowboy needs a saddle horn to grab onto. I’m not tearing him a new asshole. His current model is good enough for that. But I am fucking it like I own it, like I have the right to damage it forever if I want to. He’s going to gape once I’m done; that hole is going to try to close, and find itself permanently shaped it to accommodate the contours of my dick.
And she is loving it. Loving it. She’s chanting along in rhythm of my thrusts. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck-him! Fuck-him! Fuck! Fuck!” It’s like some deranged cheerleader’s anthem at the Buggery U homecoming game.
Blood is roaring in my ears when I shoot. I pull him to me and climax, balls-deep, into his hole. It’s one of those orgasms where the expression on my face is just as twisted-up and painful as what he’s going through. He knows what’s happening. His butt raises hungrily to take my seed. He doesn’t want me to pull out. He’d do anything to keep me inside, shooting that sperm, filling him up. I hear her yelling and cursing in the background, but the words aren’t processing through the scarlet tide of blood slowly receding from my brain.
After a moment, I pull out. As I predicted, his hole is gaping. It stays open. Empty. Begging. She can see it plainly on the monitor. I step back from my handiwork. He stays slumped over the bed. There’s cum on the floor and on the front of those muscular thighs—his, it would seem. I don’t know when he shot his load. I don’t really care.
I turn to the computer. “Fuck him like that, you mean?”
“Yeah,” she says, mouth set and severe, but eyes dancing with happiness. “Fuck him just like that.”
“I see you, honey,” says the woman on the other end.
“You see me?”
“No,” says the woman. “But I see your new friend.” He’s peering at the laptop, clearly expecting the camera to be centered at the top of the screen. It’s not. The webcam sitting on the hotel desk at the side is an enormous, archaic plug-in model that looks like the eye-stem of a Dalek, and it’s pointed straight in my direction, where I’m sitting on the bed. I raise my hand, smile, and wave. “Hi there,” she says.
The man I’ve arranged to meet is a muscular black dude in his late thirties. He’s got a great chest and hot arms, and the view of his ass to which he’s treating me right now is unbeatable. But it’s his thighs that are oddly his most attractive feature. They’re hard and toned and the size of tree trunks. He stands back a little and finally remembers where the webcam is. “So you can see me?”
“I can see you,” she replies. I’ve had only the slightest of acquaintance with this woman for the last ten seconds, but something in her tone makes me think, She must be the most patient of wives. “I can see you both.”
The man plops down on the hotel bed next to me, and puts his arm around my shoulders. “What do you think?” he asks.
“He cute,” she says. Now that he’s sitting down, I can see his wife at the other end of the Skype session. She’s a pretty woman with caramel-colored skin and springy hair pushed back and up with a headband. She looks to be a decade younger than her husband.
“You’re cute,” I say, genuinely.
“He flirty, too,” she wisecracks.
The man reaches out to ruffle my hair, as if I’m some harmless, adorable tyke he’s brought home from the orphanage. Then he cups the back of my head and draws me in for a kiss. His lips surround mine like the downiest of pillows. I sink into them without finding the foundation beneath. He tilts back my head, and lets his mouth travel down my neck while he unbuttons my shirt. When my chest is exposed to the cool air of the hotel suite, his tongue reaches out and licks my nipple. I open my eyes. His wife is leaning back in her chair in front of their home computer, arms crossed, head tilted. She’s not wearing the look of the skeptical. She hasn’t assumed an expression of mere tolerance—this isn’t a whim merely of his that she indulges. It’s a game they both plainly enjoy. She’s watching her husband lick his way down my torso with absolute, utter approval. Her head is bobbing back and forth slightly, following some internal rhythm, as she nods with unspoken blessing.
Her husband hooks his thumbs into the front of my jeans and unfastens them. I lift my hips so he can pull them down my legs. While his hands explore the mound between my thighs, I pull off my socks and toss them where my jeans lie in a heap. “Oh, you get bonus points for that,” says the wife, unexpectedly. “I can’t get him to take off his own socks when he come to bed.”
Her husband isn’t paying a bit of notice—and I confess, it’s increasingly tough for me to split my attention between the Skype screen and the sight of this man spreading my legs and pulling down my boxer briefs. I make a decision to focus on what’s happening in front of me, rather than three hundred miles away. His breath is hot on my crotch. He’s licking my balls like a dog cleans itself, right through the cotton fabric. I’m hard as a rock beneath the palms of his meaty hands.
He’s in charge for the moment. He pushes my legs apart, then up. I feel steamy breath on the outside of my hole, as he buries his face in there. I’m balancing on the upper half of my back as he growls like a dog as he chews at my flesh through the shorts. Then I collapse back down onto the mattress. It shudders beneath me, and I shudder too when he pulls down my shorts to release my hard dick.
“Damn, look at that!” I hear the woman’s voice say. “Show me, baby!”
Her husband pushes me at an angle, so I’m facing the cam. I grab my dick and stroke it for her, pumping it lasciviously. I slap it in my hands a couple of times. The husband slithers off the bed as silkily as a negligee, until he’s between my knees. He pushes me down so that I’m lying there, relaxed and legs spread, dick standing straight up while he wraps his lips around it.
“I can’t see!” I hear her say. He drags me around to a better angle, like a sack of seed. “Fuck, baby,” she says. I can hear the desire in her voice. “Suck that big white dick.”
He’s already on that command. He stares up at me while he runs those soft lips up and down my shaft. My nuts contract and pull up from the intensity of the stimulus; they relax and ease down again at the warmth of his breath and the sensation of his hot, sloppy spit dripping onto them. His eyes are lidded, heavy. The gaze he’s giving me is worshipful. Whenever he reaches the base, he lets out the slightest of gulps as his throat grapples to accommodate my girth. He’s totally into his work, and I prop myself up on my elbows and watch him go at it.
“Show me,” she says. I push her husband off my meat and stand to my feet. I lean back, and thrust my hips forward, so that my dick’s a saber slicing across the computer screen. Her arms aren’t crossed any more. She’s leaning back in the office chair, with her hands out of sight. I know exactly where they are, though. “You married?” she asks. I hold up my left hand and let the platinum band speak for itself. “Damn, she some lucky bitch.”
“I’m going to fuck your husband,” I tell her. When I stand up, he puts his head down on the mattress as he tries to get oxygen back into his lungs. He’s standing up bent over, right now.
“You better fuck him,” she agrees. “You better fuck his ass hard.”
“Yeah?” I ask, entering into the conspiracy with her. “You want to see him fucked hard, huh?”
“You better make him yell,” she says.
“You like my dick better than his, don’t you?” I ask her, thwacking it in the palm of my hand.
She grunts approval. “You way bigger.”
The husband’s not that small. He’s seven inches or so. And all seven of those inches are fully erect. He’s jacking himself frantically while his spouse and I talk about him like he’s almost not even in the room. I grab the bottle of lube on the bed and squirt some directly onto his hole. It must be cold, because he flinches. “You like watching a real man top your husband, huh?”
“I like watching a real man top a hot cunt,” she says. Her jaw works from side to side. She’s turned on, I can tell. “You know that’s all he is. A cunt.”
“A cunt for me to cum in, huh?”
“If he worth it. If he earn it.”
I angle the guy so we’re at a diagonal to the camera. I want her to see my entry in. I rub the plum head of my dick against his black hole. Then I push it in. He yelps. “Not so fast,” he begs.
“You shut the fuck up,” she snaps at him. He closes his mouth and whimpers. “You just shove it in, white boy,” she tells me. “Don’t pay no mind to what he do. You listen to me.”
I listen to her. I thrust to the halfway point. He yells. There’s not a lot of resistance to my shove; he honestly can’t be feeling as much distress as he’s letting on. I’ve gathered they’ve done this dance before, many times, though. So I let them set the beat. “Fuck him,” she snaps. “Fuck him all the way.”
I shove the rest in. His head snaps back; his eyes wince closed. There’s a rictus of pain across his face that she clearly can see on the camera. She makes noises of satisfaction to herself, then calls out, “That’s right.”
So I fuck. I grab the guy’s hips and let rip. No buildup, no grinding, no gentle humping. I’m not trying to make him feel good at all. My dick, on the other hand, feels fucking fantastic.
I’m pounding away. Our balls are slapping with every impact. He’s a big hound who’s letting out little puppy yelps every time I stab into him. He starts to keen at the back of his throat, whining like a hit dog. He pretends like he’s in agony, that he’s had enough. His dick tells me otherwise. I grab onto his balls and yank them back, and feel his cock poke hard against my knuckles.
“Ride that cunt!” I hear from behind me.
Oh, I’m riding it. His hole’s juicy and sloppy and slick. Every time I shove in, I’m trying to get a reaction from him. I want him to fucking feel it. I’m probably squeezing his nuts too damned hard, but I don’t really give a fuck about that, either. Every cowboy needs a saddle horn to grab onto. I’m not tearing him a new asshole. His current model is good enough for that. But I am fucking it like I own it, like I have the right to damage it forever if I want to. He’s going to gape once I’m done; that hole is going to try to close, and find itself permanently shaped it to accommodate the contours of my dick.
And she is loving it. Loving it. She’s chanting along in rhythm of my thrusts. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck-him! Fuck-him! Fuck! Fuck!” It’s like some deranged cheerleader’s anthem at the Buggery U homecoming game.
Blood is roaring in my ears when I shoot. I pull him to me and climax, balls-deep, into his hole. It’s one of those orgasms where the expression on my face is just as twisted-up and painful as what he’s going through. He knows what’s happening. His butt raises hungrily to take my seed. He doesn’t want me to pull out. He’d do anything to keep me inside, shooting that sperm, filling him up. I hear her yelling and cursing in the background, but the words aren’t processing through the scarlet tide of blood slowly receding from my brain.
After a moment, I pull out. As I predicted, his hole is gaping. It stays open. Empty. Begging. She can see it plainly on the monitor. I step back from my handiwork. He stays slumped over the bed. There’s cum on the floor and on the front of those muscular thighs—his, it would seem. I don’t know when he shot his load. I don’t really care.
I turn to the computer. “Fuck him like that, you mean?”
“Yeah,” she says, mouth set and severe, but eyes dancing with happiness. “Fuck him just like that.”
Friday, January 4, 2013
Common Language
They live in the poorest section of the city. In a wealthy community, though, this area of modest income is nothing like the poverty-stricken slums of Detroit. There, every day I drove through areas that looked like they’d been bombed out. Areas so bankrupt that I couldn’t imagine anyone living in the homes without roofs, or windows, or even much more than the rotted and weathered bare timber fingers projecting skeletally to the winter skies. But people did live in those monstrosities. Whole families, or groups of men and women would hole themselves up beneath fallen plaster walls or boarded-up fireplaces, hiding in the shadows and waiting for a change in fortune that never comes.
Here, poverty looks a lot like Detroit’s lower middle-class neighborhoods of slightly shabby older homes, tightly spaced to conserve land. None of them have seen updates or coats of paint in years, but none of them are rotted out, or abandoned, or unlivable. If the people in my neighborhood are afraid to drive through here after dark, it’s only because at night there are actual people roaming the street, rather than the deserted sidewalks and empty driveways of suburbia. There are nightclubs in old commercial buildings, and food trucks serving spicy food through their back windows, on the perimeter of the little city park. There’s a bodega bustling with activity on the corner, and a lunchtime rush of cars along Route 1 half a block away. This might not be the pristine and manicured showcase of a street that’s typical of this part of my state, but compared to where I lived for twenty-five years, it’s just a bustling neighborhood of working class people.
One of them is waiting in front for me as I park my car. He stubs out a cigarette a nods. It’s the first time I’ve seen his face—the profile of this couple merely shows a couple of dicks (good-looking dicks, admittedly) and a vague silhouette of two Latin men standing arm-in-arm, muscular shadows without faces against a sunny doorway. But this guy’s quite handsome. He’s a full half-foot shorter than I, and twice as broad in the shoulders and chest. His black hair is full and thick; there’s a trace of a mustache across his upper lip.
As I approach, he extends his hand. Nods. Jerks his head. We walk down the house’s driveway and around the back. When he leads me down a half-flight of cellar stairs to an exterior door there, I understand where we’re going. There are a lot of houses like these, in this neighborhood—old large family homes that have been divided into as many possible rentable rooms and apartments as possible. Even some of the most windowless basement enclosures have been laid with linoleum and crudely drywalled and transformed into miniature dwellings.
That’s where he leads me—into a two-room basement apartment where the ceiling is so low that I can’t stand up straight. He and his boyfriend are both short enough that neither of them have much problem maneuvering around. As I stalk through to the bedroom, doubled over, I feel like Alice, after ill-advisedly munching the cake that says EAT ME, or Gulliver among the Lilliputians.
The other man is less muscular than his boyfriend. He’s softer, slightly more effeminate. Younger, too. He’s not unattractive, but he doesn’t have that rough trade quality the older guy has. He’s sitting at the computer when I enter, prowling through Manhunt profiles. At the sight of me he rises, smiles, shakes my head. They speak to each other in rapid Spanish, then simultaneously gesture me in the direction of their bed.
It’s a king-sized bed wedged into a pint-sized room. I’m grateful to lie down simply to give my craned neck relief. The moment my ass hits the mattress, the two of them silently remove their clothes. Then they go to work on removing mine. The older guy lifts up my shoulders and pulls off my sweater and shirt; the younger removes my sneakers and unbuttons my jeans and pulls them off. We’re all wearing nothing but our socks when they’re done.
The top lies beside me on the bed. He can’t keep his eyes off my cock. I’m twice his size, easily, but his uncut inches are nothing to sniff at. He lets me take it in my hand, squeeze it. His boyfriend is down between my legs, licking at my balls and sucking my dick to hardness. The top reaches down and shoves on his skull roughly, making his mouth take more of me.
Yeah. I can deal with this.
This is one of those situations where I’ve come in not really knowing what to expect. I think it’s the top who’s been communicating with me on Manhunt, but the only word of English in his vocabulary seems to be lookin? In person, they talk to each other in Spanish from time to time. The top barks out sharp commands I don’t understand. The bottom grunts and obeys, sucking on my nuts, or spreading my legs to get at my asshole for a lick, at his partner’s voice. Finally the top says something to me that my vanished high school Spanish classes didn’t cover. When the bottom slithers from the mattress and bends over it with his legs spread, head submissively down, and his ass in the air, though, I’m pretty sure I can figure out what he wants.
The top takes over my vacated spot in the center of the bed. He throws me a bottle of lube. The bottom guy’s hole is already slick, though. There’s no telling how many guys have been in there already, and I have no way to ask. I rub a little bit of the cheap lubricant on my dick and push in. My head pops through immediately with no resistance, and the rest of me glides inside. He’s warm, and juicy. There’s a load in there already—I can tell by the slick sensation and the faintly chlorine smell coming from his hole. The top is stroking himself as he watches me fuck. Our eyes meet and lock. He lifts up his head a little bit, acknowledging the work I’m doing. He’s enjoying the sight of it.
The bottom doesn’t make any noise. Doesn’t complain. Doesn’t let me know his pleasure. He just stands there with his ass up, taking my dick. The top looks at me, stops stroking for a moment. He turns his hands palm-up to the ceiling, curls them into fists. Clenching hard enough to make veins pop on on the undersides of his forearms, he draws his fists in.
He wants me to fuck harder.
So I fuck hard. I bang away. I draw up a foot and place it on the foot of the bed so that I can get some leverage going. The bottom lets out a little gasp, then a grunt. If anything, the rough fucking makes him more submissive. His hips relax and push up; his legs spread even farther apart. His hole seems to deepen, to suck me in with every thrust. The boyfriend has his jaw jutted out and his lips pressed together. This is what he likes to watch, apparently. He likes to see his boyfriend roughed up.
I slap the bottom’s ass. He sighs and groans. The top starts whacking again. Our gazes are locked. Our focus is not on the hole, but on each other. I start fucking hard enough that the bed’s headboard begins banging against the wall. I don’t care who might be in the house to hear it. The frame’s newel post knock against the drywall over and over again, creating a steady tattoo of noise. Then the top leaps up and stands and my side. Again he draws his clenched fists in and makes a tough face. More, he’s telling me. More.
I’m plunging all the way in and out by the time I shoot. The top is whispering obscenities to me in Spanish. I don’t understand the words, but I know exactly what he means. He wants me to use his boyfriend, to slam it into him. When I shoot, it’s balls-deep. The bottom is groaning and clutching the cheap bedspread.
I’ve scarcely released my nut when the top is pushing me aside and shoving his own dick into my sticky load. I climb onto the mattress and kneel there, forcing the bottom to clean his juices off my dick. The top fucks even more roughly than I do; the bed is jumping up and down with each of his invasive thrusts. We’ve each got a dick in his boyfriend’s holes. When the top realizes how completely his boyfriend is filled, he grabs the back of my head and pulls me forward. Our mouths lock in a kiss that tastes of coffee and cigarettes.
This is how we’re all connected when the boyfriend comes with a loud grunt—our dicks in the front and back of his partner, our mouths and tongues grappling to get in the other even more deeply than they already are. His body spasms. Our mouths drift apart, our cheeks graze. Then we’re left standing and kneeling while we stare at each other, completely spent.
They’re anxious for me to leave. I don’t mind. I pull on my clothes, kick back on my shoes, and shake their hands. Then with my head cocked sideways, I make my way out of their makeshift apartment and back out into the busy neighborhood.
We haven’t really exchanged a word. Somehow in the space of a few minutes, though, we found a common language.
Here, poverty looks a lot like Detroit’s lower middle-class neighborhoods of slightly shabby older homes, tightly spaced to conserve land. None of them have seen updates or coats of paint in years, but none of them are rotted out, or abandoned, or unlivable. If the people in my neighborhood are afraid to drive through here after dark, it’s only because at night there are actual people roaming the street, rather than the deserted sidewalks and empty driveways of suburbia. There are nightclubs in old commercial buildings, and food trucks serving spicy food through their back windows, on the perimeter of the little city park. There’s a bodega bustling with activity on the corner, and a lunchtime rush of cars along Route 1 half a block away. This might not be the pristine and manicured showcase of a street that’s typical of this part of my state, but compared to where I lived for twenty-five years, it’s just a bustling neighborhood of working class people.
One of them is waiting in front for me as I park my car. He stubs out a cigarette a nods. It’s the first time I’ve seen his face—the profile of this couple merely shows a couple of dicks (good-looking dicks, admittedly) and a vague silhouette of two Latin men standing arm-in-arm, muscular shadows without faces against a sunny doorway. But this guy’s quite handsome. He’s a full half-foot shorter than I, and twice as broad in the shoulders and chest. His black hair is full and thick; there’s a trace of a mustache across his upper lip.
As I approach, he extends his hand. Nods. Jerks his head. We walk down the house’s driveway and around the back. When he leads me down a half-flight of cellar stairs to an exterior door there, I understand where we’re going. There are a lot of houses like these, in this neighborhood—old large family homes that have been divided into as many possible rentable rooms and apartments as possible. Even some of the most windowless basement enclosures have been laid with linoleum and crudely drywalled and transformed into miniature dwellings.
That’s where he leads me—into a two-room basement apartment where the ceiling is so low that I can’t stand up straight. He and his boyfriend are both short enough that neither of them have much problem maneuvering around. As I stalk through to the bedroom, doubled over, I feel like Alice, after ill-advisedly munching the cake that says EAT ME, or Gulliver among the Lilliputians.
The other man is less muscular than his boyfriend. He’s softer, slightly more effeminate. Younger, too. He’s not unattractive, but he doesn’t have that rough trade quality the older guy has. He’s sitting at the computer when I enter, prowling through Manhunt profiles. At the sight of me he rises, smiles, shakes my head. They speak to each other in rapid Spanish, then simultaneously gesture me in the direction of their bed.
It’s a king-sized bed wedged into a pint-sized room. I’m grateful to lie down simply to give my craned neck relief. The moment my ass hits the mattress, the two of them silently remove their clothes. Then they go to work on removing mine. The older guy lifts up my shoulders and pulls off my sweater and shirt; the younger removes my sneakers and unbuttons my jeans and pulls them off. We’re all wearing nothing but our socks when they’re done.
The top lies beside me on the bed. He can’t keep his eyes off my cock. I’m twice his size, easily, but his uncut inches are nothing to sniff at. He lets me take it in my hand, squeeze it. His boyfriend is down between my legs, licking at my balls and sucking my dick to hardness. The top reaches down and shoves on his skull roughly, making his mouth take more of me.
Yeah. I can deal with this.
This is one of those situations where I’ve come in not really knowing what to expect. I think it’s the top who’s been communicating with me on Manhunt, but the only word of English in his vocabulary seems to be lookin? In person, they talk to each other in Spanish from time to time. The top barks out sharp commands I don’t understand. The bottom grunts and obeys, sucking on my nuts, or spreading my legs to get at my asshole for a lick, at his partner’s voice. Finally the top says something to me that my vanished high school Spanish classes didn’t cover. When the bottom slithers from the mattress and bends over it with his legs spread, head submissively down, and his ass in the air, though, I’m pretty sure I can figure out what he wants.
The top takes over my vacated spot in the center of the bed. He throws me a bottle of lube. The bottom guy’s hole is already slick, though. There’s no telling how many guys have been in there already, and I have no way to ask. I rub a little bit of the cheap lubricant on my dick and push in. My head pops through immediately with no resistance, and the rest of me glides inside. He’s warm, and juicy. There’s a load in there already—I can tell by the slick sensation and the faintly chlorine smell coming from his hole. The top is stroking himself as he watches me fuck. Our eyes meet and lock. He lifts up his head a little bit, acknowledging the work I’m doing. He’s enjoying the sight of it.
The bottom doesn’t make any noise. Doesn’t complain. Doesn’t let me know his pleasure. He just stands there with his ass up, taking my dick. The top looks at me, stops stroking for a moment. He turns his hands palm-up to the ceiling, curls them into fists. Clenching hard enough to make veins pop on on the undersides of his forearms, he draws his fists in.
He wants me to fuck harder.
So I fuck hard. I bang away. I draw up a foot and place it on the foot of the bed so that I can get some leverage going. The bottom lets out a little gasp, then a grunt. If anything, the rough fucking makes him more submissive. His hips relax and push up; his legs spread even farther apart. His hole seems to deepen, to suck me in with every thrust. The boyfriend has his jaw jutted out and his lips pressed together. This is what he likes to watch, apparently. He likes to see his boyfriend roughed up.
I slap the bottom’s ass. He sighs and groans. The top starts whacking again. Our gazes are locked. Our focus is not on the hole, but on each other. I start fucking hard enough that the bed’s headboard begins banging against the wall. I don’t care who might be in the house to hear it. The frame’s newel post knock against the drywall over and over again, creating a steady tattoo of noise. Then the top leaps up and stands and my side. Again he draws his clenched fists in and makes a tough face. More, he’s telling me. More.
I’m plunging all the way in and out by the time I shoot. The top is whispering obscenities to me in Spanish. I don’t understand the words, but I know exactly what he means. He wants me to use his boyfriend, to slam it into him. When I shoot, it’s balls-deep. The bottom is groaning and clutching the cheap bedspread.
I’ve scarcely released my nut when the top is pushing me aside and shoving his own dick into my sticky load. I climb onto the mattress and kneel there, forcing the bottom to clean his juices off my dick. The top fucks even more roughly than I do; the bed is jumping up and down with each of his invasive thrusts. We’ve each got a dick in his boyfriend’s holes. When the top realizes how completely his boyfriend is filled, he grabs the back of my head and pulls me forward. Our mouths lock in a kiss that tastes of coffee and cigarettes.
This is how we’re all connected when the boyfriend comes with a loud grunt—our dicks in the front and back of his partner, our mouths and tongues grappling to get in the other even more deeply than they already are. His body spasms. Our mouths drift apart, our cheeks graze. Then we’re left standing and kneeling while we stare at each other, completely spent.
They’re anxious for me to leave. I don’t mind. I pull on my clothes, kick back on my shoes, and shake their hands. Then with my head cocked sideways, I make my way out of their makeshift apartment and back out into the busy neighborhood.
We haven’t really exchanged a word. Somehow in the space of a few minutes, though, we found a common language.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Pornstache
The thirty-year-old had sent me many photos before we met, all of them so different they might as well have been of different men. There was a shot of him in fishing boots, brandishing a large and glistening catch at the end of a hook, facial hair trimmed into wild-man mutton chops. There was another in party boy attire, sparkling and spangled, clean-shaven, bright-eyed, hair cropped and slicked down, holding aloft a colorful cocktail. There was one of him staring soulfully at a grainy, light-deprived camera in some kind of classic MySpace pose, staring up at the ceiling, his hair long and cascading down to his shoulders, scruff on his face. There was one of him in business attire, almost parodying some kind of Sears Catalog action pose. There were others of him in various stages of undress, showing off his sexy, built body, his handsome face, his round ass. All of them had his hair at various lengths, his facial hair in every configuration, his locale from snowy to summery, in every kind of archetypal pose there is.
He was the reigning Cindy Sherman of Manhunt, pretty basically. When he’d buzzed me in at the street, I had no idea which of his many bewildering identities would answer my knock.
The door opened. He opened it, wearing only a towel. Immediately he lounged against the frame with his forearm pressed against it at head level. “Hey,” he leered, through the thick and bushy growth on his upper lip.
He had a pornstache.
I’ve certainly seen pornstaches before in their natural habitat—when they migrated from the lips of Gene Shalit and the Leatherman of the Village People into the gay porn movies of the late nineteen-seventies and very early nineteen-eighties. I knew they were making a comeback—an ironic, smirky comeback that I’d been hoping was limited somewhat to the hipper neighborhoods in Brooklyn. One young friend of mine in Michigan had attempted one after I vacated the region, but in the photographs I’d seen it didn’t do justice to his round little baby face.
Until that moment, I’d never seen one in the wild.
The guy had some kind of nouveau-eighties hair going on, too; a wild thick wave of long brown hair that had been bouffed up in the front and that spilled down over one side of his head like a frozen waterfall. It wasn’t unattractive—he was a handsome guy, so he made it work—but it surely wasn’t anything one would see walking down the typical street in 2012.
Damn. That pornstache, though. When his lips twitched as he looked me over, it seemed to move as if alive. I couldn’t decide whether I was horrified or aroused. “You look good,” he growled from beneath it. “Wanna come in?”
Rhetorical question. I had two hands full of him and a mouthful of his tongue less than ten seconds later. Our bodies bounced from wall to wall down the narrow apartment hallway and into his studio. If his futon hadn’t already been opened right inside the entrance to the room itself, we would’ve likely fallen to the floor and not noticed. He grappled at me desperately, shoving one down the front of my jeans to get at my cock, while the other tried to pull my T-shirt over my head. His kisses tasted like coffee. His clothes smelled vaguely of cigarettes, but not his mouth; I was guessing it was second-hand smoke. And his pornstache rubbed and ground against my own short-trimmed facial hair, crunching against my beard and prickling my skin like a fine-bristled comb.
“I keep lookin’ at your god-damned cock,” he said. His voice was naturally deep. There was nothing forced about it. “It’s so fucking big. You that big in person?”
“Look and see,” I suggested.
I put my hands over my head and lifted my hips as he wrenched down the denim between him and his prize. I was rock hard when he finally got off my briefs. His hand clenched at my shaft, squeeze so hard that my head grew purple and even more bulbous. He looked at it, let go, studied some more, and looked up at me with his enormous brown eyes. “Oh fuck yeah,” he said. I could feel his hot breath on my rod, he was so close. “Those photos don’t lie, bro.”
He opened his mouth. That pornstache turned into a giant horseshoe with all the luck running out, as he stretched his lips. I grabbed my meat and pointed it away. “You want it?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he grunted, looking up at me. His tongue flicked out and left a wet trail on my nuts.
“How bad you want it?”
The question made those brown eyes widen and fill with longing. “Dude,” he said. It wasn’t an address. It was a plea. “I don’t just want it. I need it.” I still held my dick, throbbing, in my fist. But my jaw involuntarily jutted out at his statement, and I nodded. “I fucking need that big dick. Please,” he said. “Please give it to me, bro. Give me that big dick.”
As he spoke, his lips quested in its direction. I hesitated for a moment, just for show, then finally gave him what he wanted.
He went down on it immediately, engulfing my inches in his hot, wet mouth. And fuck. That pornstache. He put it to good use. Its bristly hairs hung over his upper lip and raked at the top of my shaft as he slid up and down on it. Every time he would move down on the bone, his mouth would open wide and I’d feel a blast of hot breath on it and the underside of my nuts. Then his soft lips would close around the base, and pull down toward the head, following his clinging tongue to the tip. Then the process would start again.
“Fuck,” I murmured. He’d lost the towel in our tussle. It lay beneath him on the futon. His hips ground against the hard mattress; whenever he thrust down, his ass cheeks would clench, then release. Clench, release. The effect was like a hypnotist’s watch. I stared at the beguiling motion, losing track of the time, losing track of the sounds of the traffic outside, of the alternative music playing softly on the speakers. Losing track of everything but the sensation of his mouth on my shaft.
I’m not usually satisfied only by head. But this was doing it for me. That hot man on the bare mattress, the clench and release of his ass, the sensation of those big sensuous lips and the scrape, scrape, of that pornstache . . . it was all working really well for me. Sure, in the back of my mind I kept thinking it was a little bit like getting a blow job from John Oates at the height of his career, but then those lips would part and I’d feel that furnace blast of breath between my tights, and I’d allow myself to be submerged deep into the wet and mindless moment.
I didn’t even know I was close to coming until I found myself coming out of the trance to clutch onto both his shoulders. Then one of my hands raked through his hair—surprisingly soft, for the fact it was motionless—and pulled his throat onto my cock. I held him there while I gasped and swore and spasmed. He looked up at me with something in his eyes: love. Lust. Need. Fucking adoration, that’s what it was. Then I blew. Rope after rope of the good stuff, down his throat. He gagged, but didn’t stop sucking. Desperately he attempted to nurse every drop of it into his gullet, to take it into himself. To make me part of him.
Somehow, though, he got some of it in that pornstache. He had no idea it was there. Though my head was spinning and I felt out of breath, my hand drifted up. My fingers twitched to brush it away. Then I forced my hand there, and let it be. He looked better with it lacing that bristle-broom of an adornment.
It didn’t last there long. He craned his neck up, and pulled me down to kiss him. I tasted the tang of my semen on our lips briefly before it disappeared between us, shared in that long and sloppy kiss.
He was the reigning Cindy Sherman of Manhunt, pretty basically. When he’d buzzed me in at the street, I had no idea which of his many bewildering identities would answer my knock.
The door opened. He opened it, wearing only a towel. Immediately he lounged against the frame with his forearm pressed against it at head level. “Hey,” he leered, through the thick and bushy growth on his upper lip.
He had a pornstache.
I’ve certainly seen pornstaches before in their natural habitat—when they migrated from the lips of Gene Shalit and the Leatherman of the Village People into the gay porn movies of the late nineteen-seventies and very early nineteen-eighties. I knew they were making a comeback—an ironic, smirky comeback that I’d been hoping was limited somewhat to the hipper neighborhoods in Brooklyn. One young friend of mine in Michigan had attempted one after I vacated the region, but in the photographs I’d seen it didn’t do justice to his round little baby face.
Until that moment, I’d never seen one in the wild.
The guy had some kind of nouveau-eighties hair going on, too; a wild thick wave of long brown hair that had been bouffed up in the front and that spilled down over one side of his head like a frozen waterfall. It wasn’t unattractive—he was a handsome guy, so he made it work—but it surely wasn’t anything one would see walking down the typical street in 2012.
Damn. That pornstache, though. When his lips twitched as he looked me over, it seemed to move as if alive. I couldn’t decide whether I was horrified or aroused. “You look good,” he growled from beneath it. “Wanna come in?”
Rhetorical question. I had two hands full of him and a mouthful of his tongue less than ten seconds later. Our bodies bounced from wall to wall down the narrow apartment hallway and into his studio. If his futon hadn’t already been opened right inside the entrance to the room itself, we would’ve likely fallen to the floor and not noticed. He grappled at me desperately, shoving one down the front of my jeans to get at my cock, while the other tried to pull my T-shirt over my head. His kisses tasted like coffee. His clothes smelled vaguely of cigarettes, but not his mouth; I was guessing it was second-hand smoke. And his pornstache rubbed and ground against my own short-trimmed facial hair, crunching against my beard and prickling my skin like a fine-bristled comb.
“I keep lookin’ at your god-damned cock,” he said. His voice was naturally deep. There was nothing forced about it. “It’s so fucking big. You that big in person?”
“Look and see,” I suggested.
I put my hands over my head and lifted my hips as he wrenched down the denim between him and his prize. I was rock hard when he finally got off my briefs. His hand clenched at my shaft, squeeze so hard that my head grew purple and even more bulbous. He looked at it, let go, studied some more, and looked up at me with his enormous brown eyes. “Oh fuck yeah,” he said. I could feel his hot breath on my rod, he was so close. “Those photos don’t lie, bro.”
He opened his mouth. That pornstache turned into a giant horseshoe with all the luck running out, as he stretched his lips. I grabbed my meat and pointed it away. “You want it?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he grunted, looking up at me. His tongue flicked out and left a wet trail on my nuts.
“How bad you want it?”
The question made those brown eyes widen and fill with longing. “Dude,” he said. It wasn’t an address. It was a plea. “I don’t just want it. I need it.” I still held my dick, throbbing, in my fist. But my jaw involuntarily jutted out at his statement, and I nodded. “I fucking need that big dick. Please,” he said. “Please give it to me, bro. Give me that big dick.”
As he spoke, his lips quested in its direction. I hesitated for a moment, just for show, then finally gave him what he wanted.
He went down on it immediately, engulfing my inches in his hot, wet mouth. And fuck. That pornstache. He put it to good use. Its bristly hairs hung over his upper lip and raked at the top of my shaft as he slid up and down on it. Every time he would move down on the bone, his mouth would open wide and I’d feel a blast of hot breath on it and the underside of my nuts. Then his soft lips would close around the base, and pull down toward the head, following his clinging tongue to the tip. Then the process would start again.
“Fuck,” I murmured. He’d lost the towel in our tussle. It lay beneath him on the futon. His hips ground against the hard mattress; whenever he thrust down, his ass cheeks would clench, then release. Clench, release. The effect was like a hypnotist’s watch. I stared at the beguiling motion, losing track of the time, losing track of the sounds of the traffic outside, of the alternative music playing softly on the speakers. Losing track of everything but the sensation of his mouth on my shaft.
I’m not usually satisfied only by head. But this was doing it for me. That hot man on the bare mattress, the clench and release of his ass, the sensation of those big sensuous lips and the scrape, scrape, of that pornstache . . . it was all working really well for me. Sure, in the back of my mind I kept thinking it was a little bit like getting a blow job from John Oates at the height of his career, but then those lips would part and I’d feel that furnace blast of breath between my tights, and I’d allow myself to be submerged deep into the wet and mindless moment.
I didn’t even know I was close to coming until I found myself coming out of the trance to clutch onto both his shoulders. Then one of my hands raked through his hair—surprisingly soft, for the fact it was motionless—and pulled his throat onto my cock. I held him there while I gasped and swore and spasmed. He looked up at me with something in his eyes: love. Lust. Need. Fucking adoration, that’s what it was. Then I blew. Rope after rope of the good stuff, down his throat. He gagged, but didn’t stop sucking. Desperately he attempted to nurse every drop of it into his gullet, to take it into himself. To make me part of him.
Somehow, though, he got some of it in that pornstache. He had no idea it was there. Though my head was spinning and I felt out of breath, my hand drifted up. My fingers twitched to brush it away. Then I forced my hand there, and let it be. He looked better with it lacing that bristle-broom of an adornment.
It didn’t last there long. He craned his neck up, and pulled me down to kiss him. I tasted the tang of my semen on our lips briefly before it disappeared between us, shared in that long and sloppy kiss.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Open Forum Friday: Online Hookup Turn-Offs
Online is how men find each other for sex these days. Sure, it’s still possible to cruise public parks or restrooms to find some occasional dick. One can still head to the bar and pick someone up. Okay, I suppose it’s still possible to meet people at places like the job or while doing things like volunteer work or attending church, but let’s face it. Going online, whether on one of the many sex cruising websites, or Craigslist, or a phone app like Grindr, is these days the fastest and most expedient way for most horny guys looking for man-on-man action to get laid.
That’s one of the reasons I do it. But it’s also so ripe for the mocking that I can’t resist going at it, on occasion.
Which is basically my set-up for saying, I was going to write today about a fuck I had this week that was less than stellar, but then I decided to be an old curmudgeon instead, as if I were starring as a sexed-up Mr. Wilson in a reboot of the Hank Ketcham comic strip called ‘Dennis the Leather Menace.’
So. Without further ado, I present:
4 Things I Wish You Wouldn’t Write Me in Your Hookup Notes
1. UNLOCK
It’s usually a one-word note. Not even that. Just a subject line in an online email, on a site like Manhunt or Adam4Adam. UNLOCK.
What it means is that the guy wants you to flip the switch that permits him to see any private photos you might have that aren’t on view to the general public. Simple enough, right? Sure, there might be more polite ways to ask such a thing. Hey, I find you attractive. May I see your locked pics? comes to mind.
Unlock strikes me as abrupt and imperative, but hey. At least it’s not coy, right?
The thing is that I don’t lock my photos. They’re all out there in the open, X-rated and G-rated alike, shots of my goofy face rubbing up next to photos of my nuts and dick on proud display. (Not in the same single photo. I don't do that any more.)
I know that most guys, particularly in my area, don’t do such a thing. They have either their faces and torsos on display and their gonads behind the lock, or the reverse. Not me. I’ve received email lectures about doing it from local guys who are shocked that I’d be so trashy. Screw ‘em.
Don’t ask me to unlock. I don’t have anything to unlock. You look like a dumbass, saying it. It’s like walking up to a naked man and yelling at him, Take it off!
Note: I do have locked pics on my BBRT profile—but only because the site asks that users lock penetration shots. It’s also the one site where I don’t have people sending me UNLOCK emails.
2. Picture Inequity
I suppose I shouldn’t really complain about notes with twice the number of words as UNLOCK. But I’m gonna complain about this one: MORE PICS?
I do have more pics. I have a lot more pics. I have a decade’s worth of digital shots, dating back to the days when I had a Sony Mavica that recorded photos on floppy disks.
But see, sir, the thing is that while I have—oh, I don’t know—eight or ten photos on my profile, you’ve got exactly zero. Or maybe one. And if you do have one, that one is a particularly small and grainy shot of what could be your chest, or might be your elbow. Again, I don’t know. It’s tough to tell when it’s so blurry and out of focus that it seems to have been shot through a field of dirty beer mugs.
With my old Mavica.
So here’s the thing, guys. If you really want someone to send you more pics, why not make the first and more generous move? Say, I really like your pics. What’s your email so I can send you a few more? Do you have any others to trade, too? Not only does it make you sound as if you’re trying to do the right thing, but it tells the guy that you’re willing to give a little to get a little.
That’s a good thing, because MORE PICS? always gives me the impression that you don’t think my existing pics are good enough for your blurry ass.
3. Are you still interested?
There’s a certain type of personality online that needs constant reassurance. I find that type of personal fucking exhausting.
There’s always a good initial fit, it seems. Mutual interest on both sides. But there’s something that keeps us from getting together right away. That something is usually distance—I’m where I am, and they’re in Pennsylvania, or Boston. Or it could be scheduling—he’s in Manhattan, but he’s only available weekends, and I usually only go into the city on weekdays.
So then will come the barrage of emails. Hi, I thought we were a good match the other day but I need to know if you’re interested in getting together sometime. There still aren’t any concrete suggestions of what to do, on his end. Just a general need to know if I’m interested.
Nothing wrong with that. Once.
But the more extreme types of this personality require constant reassurance. Usually within about ten seconds of me logging on. Are you still interested in meeting sometime? I need to know. Or, I really need to know if you still want to meet.
Dude, listen. I’ve told you I’m interested. I’ve given you ways to contact me. I’ve given you my schedule and probable best days to hook up. The ball’s in your court. We’re not a Victorian relationship with a decade-long engagement; it’s not my responsibility daily to assure you that my intentions have not changed, or that I don’t have my eye on that saucy minx who shows a bit of ankle from under her bustle.
If propping up your fragile ego is becoming a bit of a full-time job, chances are that you’re going to be put on my block list real soon.
4. Lookin
Another one-word note. LOOKING. Or sometimes, LOOKIN. Sometimes with a question mark, often without.
Yeah, I might be lookin’. I might even have found you attractive under other circumstances. But for some reason, those one-word notes, usually no more than a subject line, I find really off-putting.
Or off-puttin’.
If you can’t be bothered to write even a simple note like, I can host and I’m horny, want to come over?, chances are that I really don’t want to meet you. You’re just telling me you’re a lazy fuck, basically. And who wants to labor over a lazy fuck?
Man, apparently I am Mr. Wilson.
So readers, tell me. What’re the notes you dread getting online? Is it the ‘sups, or the UNLOCKS? Is it the constant requests for you to top when you’ve plainly stated you’re a bottom? I declare this Open Forum Friday. Gentlemen, start your engines. And may the best griper win!
That’s one of the reasons I do it. But it’s also so ripe for the mocking that I can’t resist going at it, on occasion.
Which is basically my set-up for saying, I was going to write today about a fuck I had this week that was less than stellar, but then I decided to be an old curmudgeon instead, as if I were starring as a sexed-up Mr. Wilson in a reboot of the Hank Ketcham comic strip called ‘Dennis the Leather Menace.’
So. Without further ado, I present:
4 Things I Wish You Wouldn’t Write Me in Your Hookup Notes
1. UNLOCK
It’s usually a one-word note. Not even that. Just a subject line in an online email, on a site like Manhunt or Adam4Adam. UNLOCK.
What it means is that the guy wants you to flip the switch that permits him to see any private photos you might have that aren’t on view to the general public. Simple enough, right? Sure, there might be more polite ways to ask such a thing. Hey, I find you attractive. May I see your locked pics? comes to mind.
Unlock strikes me as abrupt and imperative, but hey. At least it’s not coy, right?
The thing is that I don’t lock my photos. They’re all out there in the open, X-rated and G-rated alike, shots of my goofy face rubbing up next to photos of my nuts and dick on proud display. (Not in the same single photo. I don't do that any more.)
I know that most guys, particularly in my area, don’t do such a thing. They have either their faces and torsos on display and their gonads behind the lock, or the reverse. Not me. I’ve received email lectures about doing it from local guys who are shocked that I’d be so trashy. Screw ‘em.
Don’t ask me to unlock. I don’t have anything to unlock. You look like a dumbass, saying it. It’s like walking up to a naked man and yelling at him, Take it off!
Note: I do have locked pics on my BBRT profile—but only because the site asks that users lock penetration shots. It’s also the one site where I don’t have people sending me UNLOCK emails.
2. Picture Inequity
I suppose I shouldn’t really complain about notes with twice the number of words as UNLOCK. But I’m gonna complain about this one: MORE PICS?
I do have more pics. I have a lot more pics. I have a decade’s worth of digital shots, dating back to the days when I had a Sony Mavica that recorded photos on floppy disks.
But see, sir, the thing is that while I have—oh, I don’t know—eight or ten photos on my profile, you’ve got exactly zero. Or maybe one. And if you do have one, that one is a particularly small and grainy shot of what could be your chest, or might be your elbow. Again, I don’t know. It’s tough to tell when it’s so blurry and out of focus that it seems to have been shot through a field of dirty beer mugs.
With my old Mavica.
So here’s the thing, guys. If you really want someone to send you more pics, why not make the first and more generous move? Say, I really like your pics. What’s your email so I can send you a few more? Do you have any others to trade, too? Not only does it make you sound as if you’re trying to do the right thing, but it tells the guy that you’re willing to give a little to get a little.
That’s a good thing, because MORE PICS? always gives me the impression that you don’t think my existing pics are good enough for your blurry ass.
3. Are you still interested?
There’s a certain type of personality online that needs constant reassurance. I find that type of personal fucking exhausting.
There’s always a good initial fit, it seems. Mutual interest on both sides. But there’s something that keeps us from getting together right away. That something is usually distance—I’m where I am, and they’re in Pennsylvania, or Boston. Or it could be scheduling—he’s in Manhattan, but he’s only available weekends, and I usually only go into the city on weekdays.
So then will come the barrage of emails. Hi, I thought we were a good match the other day but I need to know if you’re interested in getting together sometime. There still aren’t any concrete suggestions of what to do, on his end. Just a general need to know if I’m interested.
Nothing wrong with that. Once.
But the more extreme types of this personality require constant reassurance. Usually within about ten seconds of me logging on. Are you still interested in meeting sometime? I need to know. Or, I really need to know if you still want to meet.
Dude, listen. I’ve told you I’m interested. I’ve given you ways to contact me. I’ve given you my schedule and probable best days to hook up. The ball’s in your court. We’re not a Victorian relationship with a decade-long engagement; it’s not my responsibility daily to assure you that my intentions have not changed, or that I don’t have my eye on that saucy minx who shows a bit of ankle from under her bustle.
If propping up your fragile ego is becoming a bit of a full-time job, chances are that you’re going to be put on my block list real soon.
4. Lookin
Another one-word note. LOOKING. Or sometimes, LOOKIN. Sometimes with a question mark, often without.
Yeah, I might be lookin’. I might even have found you attractive under other circumstances. But for some reason, those one-word notes, usually no more than a subject line, I find really off-putting.
Or off-puttin’.
If you can’t be bothered to write even a simple note like, I can host and I’m horny, want to come over?, chances are that I really don’t want to meet you. You’re just telling me you’re a lazy fuck, basically. And who wants to labor over a lazy fuck?
Man, apparently I am Mr. Wilson.
So readers, tell me. What’re the notes you dread getting online? Is it the ‘sups, or the UNLOCKS? Is it the constant requests for you to top when you’ve plainly stated you’re a bottom? I declare this Open Forum Friday. Gentlemen, start your engines. And may the best griper win!
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Cherry
We have all the lights on in our twenty-first floor hotel room, and the blinds drawn back. It wasn’t our intention to perform naked for anyone lingering late on a Friday night in the high-rise office building opposite. Twilight falls early in Manhattan, though, and in the blazing lights of the hotel room, we’re plainly on display.
The man slumped in his swivel chair at his windowside cubicle a few floors above us, almost exactly opposite, has been watching us make love for over an hour. His legs are spread, his knees pointed in opposite directions. His hand is down the front of his dark business slacks. A floor up, and over to the east, a torso in a white shirt has been appearing at the window from time to time, a pair of binoculars in his hand, pointed in our direction.
We don’t care. My companion is returning from the bathroom, where he’s retrieved a small bottle of lube. He holds it out to me with both hands. His dark eyes are wide and liquid.
“You are so beautiful,” I tell him.
He truly is. Chester is one of those men so handsome and well-formed that I constantly find myself asking that eternal, nagging question, Why is he so attracted to me? He’s short in height, but perfectly proportioned—a muscular chest covered with a carpet of dark fur, a butt that’s round and gym-worked, a stout and dripping hard dick. His head is completely shaved. Beneath my palms and fingertips, it’s cue-ball smooth to the touch. A thick, briskly-trimmed beard adorns his chin, though. I grab it between my thumb and forefinger and pull him to me so that our mouth touch. Dry as the hotel room is, we both moisten each other’s lips with deep and sensual kisses.
“I love you,” he tell me. I’ve given him permission to say those words. There’s no one but the two of us in that moment, in that hotel room. I’ve forgotten about our spectators across the street, about the binoculars, the jerking office clerk, about anyone else who might be watching. He’s trembling as I take the small bottle of lube in my hands. He’s not cold. We’re both perfectly comfortable in that overheated room.
He’s frightened.
We’re standing in front of the window as I turn him around and kneel down behind him. I rub my chin and beard over his buttocks. He gasps at the shock of the bristles at first, and then moans as he accepts the sensations of them raking down his ass. My mouth and nose alone part his cheeks. When he bends over, clutching for the desk chair so that he won’t fall, the dark brown of his hole appears. It’s covered with fur that I slick down with my own spit. I can tell he’s resisting, though. His hands flail helplessly at his sides. He’s trying to stand upright again.
“Hey,” I say, in a soft, low voice. “Listen to me.” His head is hanging down. He stares at me with tear-filled eyes, upside down. “I give you permission to enjoy this,” I tell him. “You don’t have to do anything but enjoy it. Hear me?”
There’s a pause. He nods. “Okay,” he whispers.
On the bed, I rim him for a long time. A half-hour, forty-five minutes, perhaps. I lick. I suck the hole. I bite his ass cheeks. I get my tongue so deep in him that it seems almost part of his body. The entire time, he hugs one hotel pillow and lets out soft and incoherent pleas into another. There are times when he’s crying, actually letting loose tears. I’ve reduced him to utter dependence upon the sensations I’m providing for him: the constant gnawing at his hole. The warmth of my breath and my tongue in his most guarded of places. When I move my hands from his ass to pull at his distended nipples, his hard cock batters the mattress like an angered rapist. When I blow a column of cool air on his wet hole, he howls like a wolf at the moon.
And yes, he’s crying, because no one has done anything like this for him in a long, long time.
He’s a top, you see. He’s forty years old, one of the most handsome and well-built gentlemen it’s been my pleasure to bed, and he’s spent his lifetime topping. Not even once has he had a cock approach his butt, much less invade it.
But he wants mine.
He’s helpless when I roll him on top of me. I could shake him like a rag doll; his head would loll weakly if I did. His butt settles on my rock-hard dick. I’m not surprised when his hips grind against me.
We look at each other. “You have extraordinary eyes,” he tells me. “They’re the color of heather.” I say nothing. My cock stiffens in his crack. I can feel the heat pouring from him, as if someone has stoked a furnace and left open the door. We stare into each other’s eyes, heather and obsidian. “I really love you right now,” he tells me.
“And I love you,” I whisper.
His hands reach for mine. We lace our fingers together for a few moments, doing nothing more than grinding against each other. His eyes drift to my hair, spilling across his pillow. “I can’t believe that I’m being made love to by Lord Byron,” he says.
“I think that translates into This dude really needs a haircut,” I quip.
“No, no.” The way he stares at me, I know he truly means what he’s saying at the moment. “I just can’t believe you like me.”
“Oh, baby,” I whisper. It’s little more than an exhale. His confession is closer to my own thoughts than I dare to admit. “Listen to me. I don’t care if I fuck you tonight. I didn’t come here with an agenda,” I tell him. “I don’t care what goes where. I don’t care if I cum. I wouldn’t care if we did nothing but this all night, so long as you it made you feel good. Okay?”
“Okay,” he whispers back. Then, a moment later, he swallows hard and says, “Let me just feel the tip.”
I open the bottle of lube he’s given me and spread it on his hot, open hole. I put a little more on my dick, and let him raise his hips so that the two meet. His knees are on either side of me, clutching tight my rib cage, and we clasp hands again.
We don’t speak. We don’t say anything at all for a long time. He merely grinds, taking my head in his hole, bit by bit. I refrain from ramming it home, or from making my dick swell. Our hips don’t stop moving, as if we’re caught up in a sensual tango with no musicians.
“I’m sorry this is such an undertaking,” he says at last.
The words make me grin. “Dude,” I tell him. “I don’t think you realize how much of me you actually have in you.”
I make him reach behind and feel. I’m halfway in. The realization is a shock to him. His mouth forms an O; his nostrils flare. His eyebrows crunch together and his eyes grow very wide. And then, suddenly, I feel his muscles give way. He just slides down onto me.
It’s a shock. The sensation of his clenched asshole opening completely and allowing me in, all in one rush, makes me gasp and clutch at him. He seems equally astounded. His eyes open even more widely and fill with tears. Not, I realize, because he’s in pain. Quite the opposite. “Oh shit,” he says, and then repeats the words over and over again until they trail off into incoherence. I ask if he’s okay, if he’s in pain. He nods to the first question, and shakes his head to the other.
Then I notice his dick. It’s leaking precum over my belly. “You’re stone hard,” I say, astonished.
“Don’t touch me,” he whispers. “I might come. I don’t want to come yet.” He begins rocking back and forth on my dick. “I can’t believe it,” he says. “I can’t believe it didn’t hurt at all. I can’t believe. . . .” Whatever he wants to say hangs in the air between us for a long, long time. When finally the words come out, they’re a whisper, like he’s praying. “I can’t believe I like it.”
I make sure he likes it. Tenderly, solicitously, I ask from time to time how his knees are holding out, how his ass feels. He’s lasting longer than many of the so-called bottoms I fuck. The entire time we fuck, one of my hands holds his. The other might roam over his body, or tweak his nipples, or reach behind to feel where my dick meets his stretched and wrecked hole, but the other connects itself to him, grasp to grasp. Our eyes rarely leave the other’s, though from time to time he gives in to the sensations and allows his lids to fall. Out the window, I can see the cubicle dweller still watching across the street. His hands are cupped and pressed against the window, and he’s leaning against them, blocking out the light and other distractions to watch us.
Idly I doubt he knows the enormity of what’s happening here.
When I shoot, it’s at his urging. He asks me to. He goads me on not with the hunger of a bottom, but like a top. I can picture what he’s like astride a boy’s hole, dicking it with a buddy from the Top’s Lounge. “Let it loose,” he commands me. “Juice me.”
The words push me over the edge. Beneath him I shudder and shake. My cock pulses. I’m too overpowered by my own orgasm to read the satisfaction in his eyes. But I do know that mere moments after my cum floods him, he’s splattering his load over my stomach, my chest, my forehead. It flies high and wide, landing on the pillow beside my head. I can tell he’s shocked by the strength of his orgasm. A worry line furrows his forehead for a few moments, deep and seemingly indelible. “Hold still,” I tell him.
He nods, breathing heavily. It’s several quiet moments later when he pulls off me, legs seeming to creak rustily. My cock makes a wet noise as it slides out of him. He’s shocked by that, too. For a moment, his eyes are wide once again. Then he laughs, and collapses on the bed beside me. “That was just what I wanted,” he says, curling next to me. “It was just what I needed. I’m so happy it was you.”
I can’t say anything. He’s given me a gift, by tracking me down and insisting I flip him. Hot as the fuck was—and it was damned hot—it is nothing in comparison to the tenderness and trust he's sharing. It pales in comparison to his passion and his sweetness, and in how willingly he unfolds to share himself at his most vulnerable. I pull him to me, and cradle that smooth head on my chest, while his breathing begins to settle. I stroke his skin, and press my lips to his forehead.
Across the street, where the man had been watching us from his office, the light blinks out.
The man slumped in his swivel chair at his windowside cubicle a few floors above us, almost exactly opposite, has been watching us make love for over an hour. His legs are spread, his knees pointed in opposite directions. His hand is down the front of his dark business slacks. A floor up, and over to the east, a torso in a white shirt has been appearing at the window from time to time, a pair of binoculars in his hand, pointed in our direction.
We don’t care. My companion is returning from the bathroom, where he’s retrieved a small bottle of lube. He holds it out to me with both hands. His dark eyes are wide and liquid.
“You are so beautiful,” I tell him.
He truly is. Chester is one of those men so handsome and well-formed that I constantly find myself asking that eternal, nagging question, Why is he so attracted to me? He’s short in height, but perfectly proportioned—a muscular chest covered with a carpet of dark fur, a butt that’s round and gym-worked, a stout and dripping hard dick. His head is completely shaved. Beneath my palms and fingertips, it’s cue-ball smooth to the touch. A thick, briskly-trimmed beard adorns his chin, though. I grab it between my thumb and forefinger and pull him to me so that our mouth touch. Dry as the hotel room is, we both moisten each other’s lips with deep and sensual kisses.
“I love you,” he tell me. I’ve given him permission to say those words. There’s no one but the two of us in that moment, in that hotel room. I’ve forgotten about our spectators across the street, about the binoculars, the jerking office clerk, about anyone else who might be watching. He’s trembling as I take the small bottle of lube in my hands. He’s not cold. We’re both perfectly comfortable in that overheated room.
He’s frightened.
We’re standing in front of the window as I turn him around and kneel down behind him. I rub my chin and beard over his buttocks. He gasps at the shock of the bristles at first, and then moans as he accepts the sensations of them raking down his ass. My mouth and nose alone part his cheeks. When he bends over, clutching for the desk chair so that he won’t fall, the dark brown of his hole appears. It’s covered with fur that I slick down with my own spit. I can tell he’s resisting, though. His hands flail helplessly at his sides. He’s trying to stand upright again.
“Hey,” I say, in a soft, low voice. “Listen to me.” His head is hanging down. He stares at me with tear-filled eyes, upside down. “I give you permission to enjoy this,” I tell him. “You don’t have to do anything but enjoy it. Hear me?”
There’s a pause. He nods. “Okay,” he whispers.
On the bed, I rim him for a long time. A half-hour, forty-five minutes, perhaps. I lick. I suck the hole. I bite his ass cheeks. I get my tongue so deep in him that it seems almost part of his body. The entire time, he hugs one hotel pillow and lets out soft and incoherent pleas into another. There are times when he’s crying, actually letting loose tears. I’ve reduced him to utter dependence upon the sensations I’m providing for him: the constant gnawing at his hole. The warmth of my breath and my tongue in his most guarded of places. When I move my hands from his ass to pull at his distended nipples, his hard cock batters the mattress like an angered rapist. When I blow a column of cool air on his wet hole, he howls like a wolf at the moon.
And yes, he’s crying, because no one has done anything like this for him in a long, long time.
He’s a top, you see. He’s forty years old, one of the most handsome and well-built gentlemen it’s been my pleasure to bed, and he’s spent his lifetime topping. Not even once has he had a cock approach his butt, much less invade it.
But he wants mine.
He’s helpless when I roll him on top of me. I could shake him like a rag doll; his head would loll weakly if I did. His butt settles on my rock-hard dick. I’m not surprised when his hips grind against me.
We look at each other. “You have extraordinary eyes,” he tells me. “They’re the color of heather.” I say nothing. My cock stiffens in his crack. I can feel the heat pouring from him, as if someone has stoked a furnace and left open the door. We stare into each other’s eyes, heather and obsidian. “I really love you right now,” he tells me.
“And I love you,” I whisper.
His hands reach for mine. We lace our fingers together for a few moments, doing nothing more than grinding against each other. His eyes drift to my hair, spilling across his pillow. “I can’t believe that I’m being made love to by Lord Byron,” he says.
“I think that translates into This dude really needs a haircut,” I quip.
“No, no.” The way he stares at me, I know he truly means what he’s saying at the moment. “I just can’t believe you like me.”
“Oh, baby,” I whisper. It’s little more than an exhale. His confession is closer to my own thoughts than I dare to admit. “Listen to me. I don’t care if I fuck you tonight. I didn’t come here with an agenda,” I tell him. “I don’t care what goes where. I don’t care if I cum. I wouldn’t care if we did nothing but this all night, so long as you it made you feel good. Okay?”
“Okay,” he whispers back. Then, a moment later, he swallows hard and says, “Let me just feel the tip.”
I open the bottle of lube he’s given me and spread it on his hot, open hole. I put a little more on my dick, and let him raise his hips so that the two meet. His knees are on either side of me, clutching tight my rib cage, and we clasp hands again.
We don’t speak. We don’t say anything at all for a long time. He merely grinds, taking my head in his hole, bit by bit. I refrain from ramming it home, or from making my dick swell. Our hips don’t stop moving, as if we’re caught up in a sensual tango with no musicians.
“I’m sorry this is such an undertaking,” he says at last.
The words make me grin. “Dude,” I tell him. “I don’t think you realize how much of me you actually have in you.”
I make him reach behind and feel. I’m halfway in. The realization is a shock to him. His mouth forms an O; his nostrils flare. His eyebrows crunch together and his eyes grow very wide. And then, suddenly, I feel his muscles give way. He just slides down onto me.
It’s a shock. The sensation of his clenched asshole opening completely and allowing me in, all in one rush, makes me gasp and clutch at him. He seems equally astounded. His eyes open even more widely and fill with tears. Not, I realize, because he’s in pain. Quite the opposite. “Oh shit,” he says, and then repeats the words over and over again until they trail off into incoherence. I ask if he’s okay, if he’s in pain. He nods to the first question, and shakes his head to the other.
Then I notice his dick. It’s leaking precum over my belly. “You’re stone hard,” I say, astonished.
“Don’t touch me,” he whispers. “I might come. I don’t want to come yet.” He begins rocking back and forth on my dick. “I can’t believe it,” he says. “I can’t believe it didn’t hurt at all. I can’t believe. . . .” Whatever he wants to say hangs in the air between us for a long, long time. When finally the words come out, they’re a whisper, like he’s praying. “I can’t believe I like it.”
I make sure he likes it. Tenderly, solicitously, I ask from time to time how his knees are holding out, how his ass feels. He’s lasting longer than many of the so-called bottoms I fuck. The entire time we fuck, one of my hands holds his. The other might roam over his body, or tweak his nipples, or reach behind to feel where my dick meets his stretched and wrecked hole, but the other connects itself to him, grasp to grasp. Our eyes rarely leave the other’s, though from time to time he gives in to the sensations and allows his lids to fall. Out the window, I can see the cubicle dweller still watching across the street. His hands are cupped and pressed against the window, and he’s leaning against them, blocking out the light and other distractions to watch us.
Idly I doubt he knows the enormity of what’s happening here.
When I shoot, it’s at his urging. He asks me to. He goads me on not with the hunger of a bottom, but like a top. I can picture what he’s like astride a boy’s hole, dicking it with a buddy from the Top’s Lounge. “Let it loose,” he commands me. “Juice me.”
The words push me over the edge. Beneath him I shudder and shake. My cock pulses. I’m too overpowered by my own orgasm to read the satisfaction in his eyes. But I do know that mere moments after my cum floods him, he’s splattering his load over my stomach, my chest, my forehead. It flies high and wide, landing on the pillow beside my head. I can tell he’s shocked by the strength of his orgasm. A worry line furrows his forehead for a few moments, deep and seemingly indelible. “Hold still,” I tell him.
He nods, breathing heavily. It’s several quiet moments later when he pulls off me, legs seeming to creak rustily. My cock makes a wet noise as it slides out of him. He’s shocked by that, too. For a moment, his eyes are wide once again. Then he laughs, and collapses on the bed beside me. “That was just what I wanted,” he says, curling next to me. “It was just what I needed. I’m so happy it was you.”
I can’t say anything. He’s given me a gift, by tracking me down and insisting I flip him. Hot as the fuck was—and it was damned hot—it is nothing in comparison to the tenderness and trust he's sharing. It pales in comparison to his passion and his sweetness, and in how willingly he unfolds to share himself at his most vulnerable. I pull him to me, and cradle that smooth head on my chest, while his breathing begins to settle. I stroke his skin, and press my lips to his forehead.
Across the street, where the man had been watching us from his office, the light blinks out.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Architectural Digest
The apartment building in Stamford is pretty unassuming from the outside. The chalky white stucco exterior has either chipped away on its own through the years to reveal the red brick wall underneath, or else it’s been artistically distressed to make it look as if it has. I can’t tell, either way. I text the number I’ve been given. It’s only a couple of minutes before he emerges from one of the doors in the lowest level, beneath the fragile-looking black iron fire escapes that hang onto the building tenuously, like fallen eyelashes cling to a cheek.
He’s not as young as his photos, I notice with a little dismay, and he’s probably shaved a decade for his online age. It’s the fib that niggles at me, not his looks. He’s a handsome guy. He’s got a strong jawline, and blue eyes for which a movie star would kill. It’s not his age that bugs me, either, though he has to be pushing sixty. He and I are definitely not the exact same age, though, despite what he would have the world think.
He’s wearing a hoodie and a pair of loose and flowing basketball shorts. When I hop out of my car, his mouth spreads into a wide grin. He puts his hand on his narrow hips. I can see from the crown of his head loosely traced in his shorts that he’s wearing no underwear. “I like what I see,” he says, once I’m within earshot.
Those teeth of his are pearly white. I’m almost blinded by their brilliance. “That’s a good greeting,” I tell him, smiling. I offer my hand. We shake. His skin is leathery, but warm.
“Oh, I haven’t greeted you yet,” he chuckles to himself, as he swings open the apartment building door.
It seems a good promise to me.
We walk over cheap linoleum floors and up to the second landing. The difference between the hallway and the apartment’s interior couldn’t be greater. It’s obviously this guy has invested a fortune in upgrading his home. The floors are a shiny hardwood, the furniture polished and gleaming. There’s a collection of expensive crockery in a glass cupboard in the kitchen where we’re standing, and a gleaming countertop of pink stone. An aluminum hood covers the extra-wide six-element professional cooktop; the backsplash is a colorful mural of tomatoes and eggplants and a bowl of pasta. It’s a spread from Architectural Digest.
He’s got hold of my hand again, and gives it a squeeze. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this,” he says, “but you look way way better than your photographs.” At my raised eyebrows and parted lips, he hastily adds, “Not that your pics look bad or anything. You’re just . . . way sexier in person.”
“I’m not going to put up an argument, I tell him.” I pull him close to me. Our lips meet. He’s not a great kisser. He’s one of those men who feels that all he needs to do is press his lips against mine and open his jaw. There’s no spark, no push or pull, no greedy tongue or devouring mouth. I’m not going to be the one to teach him, either.
The kiss is aborted when I hear a click-clack against the floor. An Italian greyhound skitters into the room. Its legs are toothpicks, and its tail vibrates back and forth faster than a hummingbird’s wings.
“Hey there,” I coo, and kneel to greet the man’s pet.
“Let me put her in the bedroom,” he says, scooping up the little dog and making away with her. “She’ll be all into our business if I don’t.” I look around while he’s gone and wonder where he intends for us to fuck, if he’s ceding his pet the bedroom. It seems as if every bit of the apartment is unsuitable for sloppy lovemaking. Surely he’s not intending us to screw on the fine leather sofas of his living room, or for me to throw him down upon the spindly-looking, ornately-carved dining table. The sheer amount of wax alone would make one of us slide off of it. But he’s back, and guiding me from the kitchen by the hand into the living room, past the designer stereo system and the delicate bookcase filled with art and photography books, around the glass-topped coffee table.
He stops there, and lets go of his pants. They fall to the floor and pool around his ankles. “Is this what you wanted?” he asks, displaying his butt.
It’s a handsome ass. Like the rest of his body, it’s nicely muscled. It’s obvious he spends time in the gym, working on it. I nod, and lick my lips. My dick starts to stir when he unbuttons my jeans and lets them fall to my ankles, but he makes no move to remove my shoes or shirt. “Oh yeah,” he breathes, when he’s got my cock in his hand. He kisses the head. “I like it.”
“Suck it, then,” I whisper.
He goes to work. Long, swift strokes, more lips than tongue, no teeth. His eyes cross as he tries to look at the enormous dick he’s sucking, then return to normal as he looks up at me. I nod at him, letting him know he’s doing a good job.
I can’t really move much. He’s placed me between tightly-arranged furniture, so that I have a white leather sofa behind me, grazing my calves. There’s the big coffee table banging against my right shin. He’s crouched down between a leather arm chair, his chest extending over the coffee table’s glass top. I don’t want to flop down, not on the leather, not without his say-so. I stand there and let him do the work.
Then he’s up on his feet, licking his fingers, wetting his hole. He turns around and bends over. That muscular ass parts, exposing the pink hole hidden by the cheeks. My dick is still slick from his spit, but I add to it, and pull his hips back until we’re aligned.
I’m in, slowly, an inch at a time. I can feel that tight ass parting with every pound of pressure I put against it. He’s shaking. His hips are buckling. He’s got his jaw dropped, and a sound is emanating from deep within, wordless, without syllables, but I know every nuance of what he’s telling me. I continue to press in until I’ve reached the bottom of his shaft, and then I push forward a little more. “You’ve got it all, now,” I tell him.
He nods. He knows. Trust me, his body knows exactly how much of my dick it holds inside him.
The fucking is awkward. I can’t really move my feet any further apart than they already are; the table and sofa prevent that. I have visions of him losing his balance and crashing onto the table. His feet are firmly planted on the hardwood floor, though, and my hard wood seems to be keeping him firmly in place. My dick swells from branch to log as I begin to slide in and out of that slick wetness.
I can’t move, but he can. He grinds his hips and fucks himself onto me, tentatively at first, but then with increasing vigor. My hipbones begin rebounding from his thrusts. His hands clutch behind, at first to pull wide his ass cheeks, and then to grapple with my hips, to pull me in deeper, harder. The man’s eyes are closed. He’s lost in a world of sensation, adrift and blindly navigating. He knows the geography well, though. Every one of his thrusts is making me gasp and grunt, even as my shinbone knocks audibly against the table.
He comes first. I don’t even know it’s arriving until he lets out a mighty roar and I look down to see semen spattering the floor. There’s a hefty glob of it swinging from the head of his dick. On one of his thrusts—he doesn’t stop thrusting, not even as his ass is clenching onto my meat for dear life—it swings back and briefly clings to my nuts.
I shoot not long after that. My hands grab at him and hold him still, my dick plunged deep inside. He can’t be comfortable, but he holds the position until the tenseness eases. Then he pulls forward so that I slop out of him.
He’s running to get towels, and is back quickly, dabbing at my dick, rubbing at his own ass. He’s on the floor wiping up his own load, so that it doesn’t leave a mark. Then he’s checking the table, making sure there’s no trace of fluid.
I don’t have much to do to get dressed—just pull up my pants and go, really. “Next time I want to see if I can get two loads out of you,” he tells me.
“Next time,” I tell him, “we’re using the bed.”
He’s not as young as his photos, I notice with a little dismay, and he’s probably shaved a decade for his online age. It’s the fib that niggles at me, not his looks. He’s a handsome guy. He’s got a strong jawline, and blue eyes for which a movie star would kill. It’s not his age that bugs me, either, though he has to be pushing sixty. He and I are definitely not the exact same age, though, despite what he would have the world think.
He’s wearing a hoodie and a pair of loose and flowing basketball shorts. When I hop out of my car, his mouth spreads into a wide grin. He puts his hand on his narrow hips. I can see from the crown of his head loosely traced in his shorts that he’s wearing no underwear. “I like what I see,” he says, once I’m within earshot.
Those teeth of his are pearly white. I’m almost blinded by their brilliance. “That’s a good greeting,” I tell him, smiling. I offer my hand. We shake. His skin is leathery, but warm.
“Oh, I haven’t greeted you yet,” he chuckles to himself, as he swings open the apartment building door.
It seems a good promise to me.
We walk over cheap linoleum floors and up to the second landing. The difference between the hallway and the apartment’s interior couldn’t be greater. It’s obviously this guy has invested a fortune in upgrading his home. The floors are a shiny hardwood, the furniture polished and gleaming. There’s a collection of expensive crockery in a glass cupboard in the kitchen where we’re standing, and a gleaming countertop of pink stone. An aluminum hood covers the extra-wide six-element professional cooktop; the backsplash is a colorful mural of tomatoes and eggplants and a bowl of pasta. It’s a spread from Architectural Digest.
He’s got hold of my hand again, and gives it a squeeze. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this,” he says, “but you look way way better than your photographs.” At my raised eyebrows and parted lips, he hastily adds, “Not that your pics look bad or anything. You’re just . . . way sexier in person.”
“I’m not going to put up an argument, I tell him.” I pull him close to me. Our lips meet. He’s not a great kisser. He’s one of those men who feels that all he needs to do is press his lips against mine and open his jaw. There’s no spark, no push or pull, no greedy tongue or devouring mouth. I’m not going to be the one to teach him, either.
The kiss is aborted when I hear a click-clack against the floor. An Italian greyhound skitters into the room. Its legs are toothpicks, and its tail vibrates back and forth faster than a hummingbird’s wings.
“Hey there,” I coo, and kneel to greet the man’s pet.
“Let me put her in the bedroom,” he says, scooping up the little dog and making away with her. “She’ll be all into our business if I don’t.” I look around while he’s gone and wonder where he intends for us to fuck, if he’s ceding his pet the bedroom. It seems as if every bit of the apartment is unsuitable for sloppy lovemaking. Surely he’s not intending us to screw on the fine leather sofas of his living room, or for me to throw him down upon the spindly-looking, ornately-carved dining table. The sheer amount of wax alone would make one of us slide off of it. But he’s back, and guiding me from the kitchen by the hand into the living room, past the designer stereo system and the delicate bookcase filled with art and photography books, around the glass-topped coffee table.
He stops there, and lets go of his pants. They fall to the floor and pool around his ankles. “Is this what you wanted?” he asks, displaying his butt.
It’s a handsome ass. Like the rest of his body, it’s nicely muscled. It’s obvious he spends time in the gym, working on it. I nod, and lick my lips. My dick starts to stir when he unbuttons my jeans and lets them fall to my ankles, but he makes no move to remove my shoes or shirt. “Oh yeah,” he breathes, when he’s got my cock in his hand. He kisses the head. “I like it.”
“Suck it, then,” I whisper.
He goes to work. Long, swift strokes, more lips than tongue, no teeth. His eyes cross as he tries to look at the enormous dick he’s sucking, then return to normal as he looks up at me. I nod at him, letting him know he’s doing a good job.
I can’t really move much. He’s placed me between tightly-arranged furniture, so that I have a white leather sofa behind me, grazing my calves. There’s the big coffee table banging against my right shin. He’s crouched down between a leather arm chair, his chest extending over the coffee table’s glass top. I don’t want to flop down, not on the leather, not without his say-so. I stand there and let him do the work.
Then he’s up on his feet, licking his fingers, wetting his hole. He turns around and bends over. That muscular ass parts, exposing the pink hole hidden by the cheeks. My dick is still slick from his spit, but I add to it, and pull his hips back until we’re aligned.
I’m in, slowly, an inch at a time. I can feel that tight ass parting with every pound of pressure I put against it. He’s shaking. His hips are buckling. He’s got his jaw dropped, and a sound is emanating from deep within, wordless, without syllables, but I know every nuance of what he’s telling me. I continue to press in until I’ve reached the bottom of his shaft, and then I push forward a little more. “You’ve got it all, now,” I tell him.
He nods. He knows. Trust me, his body knows exactly how much of my dick it holds inside him.
The fucking is awkward. I can’t really move my feet any further apart than they already are; the table and sofa prevent that. I have visions of him losing his balance and crashing onto the table. His feet are firmly planted on the hardwood floor, though, and my hard wood seems to be keeping him firmly in place. My dick swells from branch to log as I begin to slide in and out of that slick wetness.
I can’t move, but he can. He grinds his hips and fucks himself onto me, tentatively at first, but then with increasing vigor. My hipbones begin rebounding from his thrusts. His hands clutch behind, at first to pull wide his ass cheeks, and then to grapple with my hips, to pull me in deeper, harder. The man’s eyes are closed. He’s lost in a world of sensation, adrift and blindly navigating. He knows the geography well, though. Every one of his thrusts is making me gasp and grunt, even as my shinbone knocks audibly against the table.
He comes first. I don’t even know it’s arriving until he lets out a mighty roar and I look down to see semen spattering the floor. There’s a hefty glob of it swinging from the head of his dick. On one of his thrusts—he doesn’t stop thrusting, not even as his ass is clenching onto my meat for dear life—it swings back and briefly clings to my nuts.
I shoot not long after that. My hands grab at him and hold him still, my dick plunged deep inside. He can’t be comfortable, but he holds the position until the tenseness eases. Then he pulls forward so that I slop out of him.
He’s running to get towels, and is back quickly, dabbing at my dick, rubbing at his own ass. He’s on the floor wiping up his own load, so that it doesn’t leave a mark. Then he’s checking the table, making sure there’s no trace of fluid.
I don’t have much to do to get dressed—just pull up my pants and go, really. “Next time I want to see if I can get two loads out of you,” he tells me.
“Next time,” I tell him, “we’re using the bed.”
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
An open letter to local online cruisers
Dear gay and/or bisexual men of the tri-state area with online profiles,
I am a visually-oriented person.
Now, I know what you think that means. You’re assuming I’m telling you I need porn to get off. A hot movie playing on the TV, or a magazine with sticky pages sitting on the side of the bed. Maybe some good old-fashioned homemade nasty photos waiting to be flicked through on your iPhone. Yeah, that. Well, no. Not that at all.
What it really means is that my memory is shot. If you want me to keep track of who you are, I kind of need to know what you look like. That’s it.
I know you’ve got a really memorable profile name fashioned from letters and numbers that may seem random to me—like cbtg432—but make perfect sense to you. Or maybe you’ve chosen a name like nybottom123 to distinguish yourself from the hundred and twenty-two New York bottoms who boldly tread before. You’ve made a lot of effort to keep your profile cryptic, with all your Ask Mes and Not Answereds. I get it. You like that veil of mystery that lures the guys in. You really, really want them to ask you. It’s not just that you overlooked the questions. I understand.
But you know, there’s something about those profiles in which they all start really to run together, somehow. It’s not that after a while all the names start to look like a big ol’ steamin’ bowl of Campbell’s Pornographic Alphabet Soup. It’s not simply that all the Ask Mes begin to mesmerize me into a hypnotic trance. It’s the fact that you’ve left your photos blank—or that you have uploaded them, but locked them all and never offer to unlock them—that drives me around the bend.
I'm old. I'm really old. I'm practically senile. I need a little help here, and you're not giving it to me.
Case in point: the guy with the minimal profile who, by way of seductive technique, unlocks his photos for him in lieu of saying hello. It might be true that I viewed your photos and said, Hey, thanks for unlocking. You’re a handsome dude. And it might be true that I replied in the affirmative when you suggested we get together some time in the future. But when you immediately relock those photos and email me two weeks later to ask if we are ever going to get together, I’m sorry. I’m not going to remember you by your profile name of ctbottom001. I’m not going to clue in on what words we might’ve exchanged from your minimal profile. If you showed me your photos again—ah, yes. Then I would remember. If you left them displayed all the time, certainly I would. I am a visually-oriented person. I need that photo of your face to associate all your Ask Mes with a real person.
Hell, even that blurry photo of your hip that you flashed me might trigger some kind of recall. Because your sorry profile isn’t doing the trick.
Case number two: Mr. BBRT profile without an unlocked photo or description, thanks for informing me that you and I talked on Manhunt. Helpful! Except it’s not, because apparently your cryptic name on BBRT is different from whatever name you chose on Manhunt. If you’d told me the other site’s profile name, or unlocked your photo so I’d recognize it, or given me some kind of clue as to whom you might be, maybe I’d have more patience and actually reply to your emails after you didn’t seem to pick up on the hint I gave you when I responded, I have no idea what you look like. Why would I meet?
Of course, after I ignore you for a solid three weeks, when you finally unlock your photos and I discover you’re the asshole from Manhunt who stood me up not once, but twice, making me wait over an hour each time before I found out you were going to be a no-show, I can kind of understand why you were reluctant to identify yourself.
So gentlemen. Let’s recap. Want me to remember you? Have some kind of photo in your profile—something visible. Don’t make me ask you to unlock, every time. Even a picture of your fucking kneecap is going to be more memorable than a standard icon of a lock. I’m not going to meet you because of that kneecap alone, but at least instead of thinking Huh? Who dat? I’ll think, Well hey, it’s that weirdo who doesn’t show anything more than a kneecap. Howdy, stranger.
And also, if you stand me up twice, don’t be surprised I’m not all that anxious to give you a shot at doing it a third time.
But that’s ancillary to my point. Which is: I am a visually-oriented person.
Yours truly.
I am a visually-oriented person.
Now, I know what you think that means. You’re assuming I’m telling you I need porn to get off. A hot movie playing on the TV, or a magazine with sticky pages sitting on the side of the bed. Maybe some good old-fashioned homemade nasty photos waiting to be flicked through on your iPhone. Yeah, that. Well, no. Not that at all.
What it really means is that my memory is shot. If you want me to keep track of who you are, I kind of need to know what you look like. That’s it.
I know you’ve got a really memorable profile name fashioned from letters and numbers that may seem random to me—like cbtg432—but make perfect sense to you. Or maybe you’ve chosen a name like nybottom123 to distinguish yourself from the hundred and twenty-two New York bottoms who boldly tread before. You’ve made a lot of effort to keep your profile cryptic, with all your Ask Mes and Not Answereds. I get it. You like that veil of mystery that lures the guys in. You really, really want them to ask you. It’s not just that you overlooked the questions. I understand.
But you know, there’s something about those profiles in which they all start really to run together, somehow. It’s not that after a while all the names start to look like a big ol’ steamin’ bowl of Campbell’s Pornographic Alphabet Soup. It’s not simply that all the Ask Mes begin to mesmerize me into a hypnotic trance. It’s the fact that you’ve left your photos blank—or that you have uploaded them, but locked them all and never offer to unlock them—that drives me around the bend.
I'm old. I'm really old. I'm practically senile. I need a little help here, and you're not giving it to me.
Case in point: the guy with the minimal profile who, by way of seductive technique, unlocks his photos for him in lieu of saying hello. It might be true that I viewed your photos and said, Hey, thanks for unlocking. You’re a handsome dude. And it might be true that I replied in the affirmative when you suggested we get together some time in the future. But when you immediately relock those photos and email me two weeks later to ask if we are ever going to get together, I’m sorry. I’m not going to remember you by your profile name of ctbottom001. I’m not going to clue in on what words we might’ve exchanged from your minimal profile. If you showed me your photos again—ah, yes. Then I would remember. If you left them displayed all the time, certainly I would. I am a visually-oriented person. I need that photo of your face to associate all your Ask Mes with a real person.
Hell, even that blurry photo of your hip that you flashed me might trigger some kind of recall. Because your sorry profile isn’t doing the trick.
Case number two: Mr. BBRT profile without an unlocked photo or description, thanks for informing me that you and I talked on Manhunt. Helpful! Except it’s not, because apparently your cryptic name on BBRT is different from whatever name you chose on Manhunt. If you’d told me the other site’s profile name, or unlocked your photo so I’d recognize it, or given me some kind of clue as to whom you might be, maybe I’d have more patience and actually reply to your emails after you didn’t seem to pick up on the hint I gave you when I responded, I have no idea what you look like. Why would I meet?
Of course, after I ignore you for a solid three weeks, when you finally unlock your photos and I discover you’re the asshole from Manhunt who stood me up not once, but twice, making me wait over an hour each time before I found out you were going to be a no-show, I can kind of understand why you were reluctant to identify yourself.
So gentlemen. Let’s recap. Want me to remember you? Have some kind of photo in your profile—something visible. Don’t make me ask you to unlock, every time. Even a picture of your fucking kneecap is going to be more memorable than a standard icon of a lock. I’m not going to meet you because of that kneecap alone, but at least instead of thinking Huh? Who dat? I’ll think, Well hey, it’s that weirdo who doesn’t show anything more than a kneecap. Howdy, stranger.
And also, if you stand me up twice, don’t be surprised I’m not all that anxious to give you a shot at doing it a third time.
But that’s ancillary to my point. Which is: I am a visually-oriented person.
Yours truly.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Buddy
While I've been settling into my new home this week without much in the way of internet access, I've been re-running some old journal entries for your entertainment. This piece never appeared in my blog, but it is a journal entry from 2009 or 2010. It appeared last year in issue 3 of Anal Magazine.
Here’s my address, I typed in my email to him, following it with my street number. I’m gonna be sitting in my living room. House lights out. Front door unlocked. Pants down. Just stroking. Come on in and stroke with me. Or whatever, buddy.
HOT, BUDDY. I’ll be there in five, he wrote back, barely seconds after I’d hit the ‘send’ button.
The guy had contacted me a couple of times before, stressing each time that he was just looking to jerk off with a dude, if I was cool than that. He just liked to show off what he had, he’d said, and my meat looked really good to him. The guy had always nurtured a fantasy about walking up to a buddy’s house at night and finding him stroking on his back porch, then helping him out.
When he’d written, he’d used that calculatedly casual, frat-boy speak that some gay guys use as a shorthand to convey their masculinity. I replied in kind.
All the photos he’d sent were of him wearing baseball caps, muscle shirts, sunglasses, showing off his lean and muscled body. The one photo that displayed him at his best had been taken from below, his dick inches away from the camera lens, his meaty fist wrapped around it, his forearms bulging like Popeye’s, as his upper lip curled in a sneer that practically seemed to touch the carefully tattered brim of his cap. It was a hot sight—there was no denying that. But he was the kind of 29-year-old muscle man I try to keep away from, out of the simple fear that I won’t measure up. I look trim, though, and he lived less than a quarter of a mile away, so I figured, what the fuck?
He was at the house in two minutes. I watched from the sofa as he parked his car across the street and stumbled across the snow and ice up the front steps. He hesitated a moment before pulling open the screen door and turning the front door knob, but then he was into the house, stamping the cold from his feet and looking around for me. As promised, I sat on the sofa wearing a tight gray T-shirt. My jeans were around my ankles, my cock hard. He stood there for a moment, transfixed, his glance darting between what I stroked with a backhand motion, and my eyes, trying to make out my features in the near-perfect dark.
“God damn. Yeah, bud,” he whispered. Then, without hesitation, he took off his jacket, kicked off his athletic shoes, and let his sweatpants fall. Beneath he only wore a pair of gray briefs and a white, square-cut tank that clung to his pecs and his narrow waist as if it had been spun around him. He lifted the tank top slightly and ran his enormous hand over the flat planes of his stomach, then plunged it down into his shorts. When he hooked both thumbs into the waistband and let them fall, I could see that he was hard already; his meat curved outward, jerking in the air for attention. “Fuck yeah,” he whispered.
I just sat there, stroking.
Without moving, after a moment he joined in, spitting in his hand first, then cupping it around his cock and covering it with the moistness. Twice, three times he spit, until his dick glistened in the blue-gray gloom. Like me, he held his fist backwards, thumb down against the hipbone, as he slid his hand back and forth over his inches. After a moment, I spat into my own hand, then began echoing the slick sound he was already making.
Neither of us beat ourselves quickly. The moment was all about showing off for each other, and making as much noise as possible with our sticky hands and penises. He leaned back on his haunches, thrusting up into the air and drawing his fist back and forth slowly, slowly, watching my reaction the entire time. I let my eyes narrow to hard-looking slits as I kicked off my jeans and spread my legs and feet as wide as they would go, leaning back on the sofa and rubbing my left nipple as I continued to flaunt myself.
His whisper cut through the silence. “Hey. You hear how quiet it is?” he asked. “Listen.” We both stopped moving our hands. Over the steady, accelerated thump of my pulsing blood, there was nothing but stillness and the sounds of our labored breathing. “So damn quiet.” I nodded, agreeing with him. Then, after enjoying the hush for a moment, his hand moved again. He spat in it, then curved his fingers around his dick once more, masturbating nosily. After the silence, the sound of sex and self-pleasure sounded twice as nasty as before. He paused only to pull up his tank and flip the material around the back of his neck, so that I could admire his muscular, slightly hairy chest and ripped abdomen.
I stood up, spread my legs, and towered over him, continuing to stroke. He stared at me. “Big dick,” he finally said. I simply nodded, pointing it at him. After a hesitation he reached up and stroked it with the back of his wrist—because a real bud doesn’t go for a buddy’s dick with an open hand, apparently. I made my cock jump, and then put pressure with it onto the back of his hand. Finally I just grabbed his arm, uncurled his hand, and wrapped it around my meat. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he hissed with pleasure, sucking in breath as he began working both of our cocks in unison. I was dripping by now; the extra moisture just added to the spit-slickness.
He kept bringing his face closer and closer, examining me close up. After a few moments, I spoke my first words. “Help me out, buddy,” I told him. He looked up at me, pretending uncertainty. “C’mon,” I repeated. “Help a buddy out.”
He didn’t need any further encouragement. His mouth opened, lip reaching out hungrily to take me in. He wasn’t clumsy at all; instead, he sucked me gently, deliberately, working first the head and then moving in to take as much of me as he could without choking. “Damn, buddy,” I said, genuinely aroused. “You are good.” He must have liked the praise, because he doubled his efforts. I grunted with every downstroke until at least I feared shooting too soon. I backed him off. “Stand up and let me get a taste of yours,” I commanded.
I perched my ass on the sofa’s edge and leaned forward, while he stood and delivered his cock to my face. It was just as big and well-proportioned as in his photographs. When I wrapped my hand around it, he shuddered, then threw back his head and clasped his hands behind it. His baseball cap fell off to the floor, revealing his shaved head. He didn’t bother to pick it up. “Oh god,” he moaned, as I opened my mouth and huffed warm air on him. Then, once I’d gotten my lips to the bottom of the shaft, I closed my mouth again and let him feel the warm, wet interior all at once. His knees began to buckle; he grabbed onto my shoulders for support. “Not so fast,” he begged, before I’d barely made my way up and down the length of it.
We stood or knelt for each other for long minutes until one of us would get too close. Then we’d back off and swap. After the fourth or fifth time, when I stood up, he didn’t get to his knees. Instead, his hands on my hips, he looked me in the eyes, and then rested his forehead on my shoulder. He smelled of soap. I let my cheek rub against the sharp stubble of his head, then brushed my lips against his brow. His neck moved back, pliant, his face turned upright. I could see him look at me, waiting for what I’d do next.
I leaned down and let my lips touch his. Just a little bit. His own lips parted slightly in response. I kissed him again. He resisted, like a masculine buddy apparently does, but when I grabbed the back of his head and pulled him into me, his mouth opened and engulfed mine, sucking in the lips and tongue as if hungry. Onto the sofa we fell, making out ravenously, our cocks pulsing and grinding into each other. He was moaning as I kissed him, and let out a cry as I rubbed and pinched his nipples. When I tore my mouth away from his and began chewing on the nipple that seemed more sensitive, he gasped, and then panted out, “I never do this, bud!”
I was too aroused to pay attention to his weak protests, though. I’d already spit in my hand again and slapped my fingers on his ass. His hole was tight, I could tell—tighter than the professional bottoms-in-denial that I’m accustomed to. I wondered if he might not be the real thing. As we returned to our furious kissing, however, I slipped the tip, and then the entire first joint of my middle finger inside him. He yelped inside my mouth. Once he was used to it, I slid the rest of my finger home, until all of it was inside his hole. “Fuck, buddy,” he groaned, digging his forehead into my chest. His cock had never been harder. As I twisted my finger back and forth inside, I continued to slide my hand back and forth over the length of him. “It’s too much,” he said. “It feels too fucking good.”
I’d put some supplies on the coffee table, just in case. With my finger still inside him, I covered my cock with a handful of cold, slick lube. He didn’t protest at all when I pulled up his legs and parted them further, hooking one underneath my arm and pinning the other to the sofa’s back. When I started to slide into him, his hands and elbows flew over his head; his head banged against the sofa’s wooden arm. As with a lot of guys who claim they’re only into jerking off with a buddy, this is what he’d really come for. He simply didn’t want to compromise his masculinity by having to ask for it.
I didn’t go in too quickly. He was very, very tight. But I did go all the way in. The moment I hit bottom, he started to convulse. His hole spasmed, clenching and relaxing and then clamping down so hard onto me that in a fuck-panicked moment, I thought he might be trying to squeeze it off. But no, he was only coming. He cried out loudly, then thrust and upward, shooting an enormous stream of seed into the air. It arced over his head and landed, I later discovered, onto the base of the floor lamp behind him. A second shot landed on his face, and a third a little lower down, below his collar bone. “What the fuck are you doing to me!” he cried. Then again, in a whimper: “What are you doing to me?”
Somehow I understood he wasn’t protesting the act itself, but marveling at the intensity of his climax. He shuddered for a few moments more after he’d finished shooting, then lay there limply. After what seemed like an appropriate period, I began to slide out again. “Don’t,” he said. Then his arms shot up around my neck, pulling me down to him. I once more put my mouth against his. This time, our kisses were long and languorous; he rubbed his face against my beard, and then brushed his sharp stubble over my forehead. For ten minutes more we kissed, until at long last he leaned back, stretched like a cat as I slid out, sighed, and then laughed slightly. “Damn, buddy,” he said. “Day-umn!”
I nodded. My head was still spinning from the intensity of it. “Yeah,” I said, laughing.
“That was the best orgasm I ever had in my life. My entire fucking life, man.”
“Thanks,” I said, accepting the compliment, but not really believing it.
“You didn’t come, though.” I told him it was all right. “You sure?” he asked. I nodded.
We both relaxed for a minute more, clearing our heads. “We’re doing this again, right?” he finally said. He pulled his tank up and over his head, then down the concavity of his body. “Don’t tell me this is a one-time thing, buddy.”
“Oh, we’ll definitely do it again,” I promised him.
After he dressed, he leaned into me again and put his arms around me. We made out for a minute more. “Thanks,” he whispered. Then in a normal voice, he said, “I left my wallet and keys in the car in case you turned out to be some kind of freak. Then all I’d have to do was run the hell out.” I hesitated in my response, uncertain whether I should be a little embarrassed that I’d potentially sounded like an axe murderer, or touched at his candor. “But I didn’t run out,” he finally murmured in my ear, tipping my decision to the latter. He rubbed his face against my neck. “You know?”
“No,” I said, giving him one long, last kiss. “You didn’t run out.”
Here’s my address, I typed in my email to him, following it with my street number. I’m gonna be sitting in my living room. House lights out. Front door unlocked. Pants down. Just stroking. Come on in and stroke with me. Or whatever, buddy.
HOT, BUDDY. I’ll be there in five, he wrote back, barely seconds after I’d hit the ‘send’ button.
The guy had contacted me a couple of times before, stressing each time that he was just looking to jerk off with a dude, if I was cool than that. He just liked to show off what he had, he’d said, and my meat looked really good to him. The guy had always nurtured a fantasy about walking up to a buddy’s house at night and finding him stroking on his back porch, then helping him out.
When he’d written, he’d used that calculatedly casual, frat-boy speak that some gay guys use as a shorthand to convey their masculinity. I replied in kind.
All the photos he’d sent were of him wearing baseball caps, muscle shirts, sunglasses, showing off his lean and muscled body. The one photo that displayed him at his best had been taken from below, his dick inches away from the camera lens, his meaty fist wrapped around it, his forearms bulging like Popeye’s, as his upper lip curled in a sneer that practically seemed to touch the carefully tattered brim of his cap. It was a hot sight—there was no denying that. But he was the kind of 29-year-old muscle man I try to keep away from, out of the simple fear that I won’t measure up. I look trim, though, and he lived less than a quarter of a mile away, so I figured, what the fuck?
He was at the house in two minutes. I watched from the sofa as he parked his car across the street and stumbled across the snow and ice up the front steps. He hesitated a moment before pulling open the screen door and turning the front door knob, but then he was into the house, stamping the cold from his feet and looking around for me. As promised, I sat on the sofa wearing a tight gray T-shirt. My jeans were around my ankles, my cock hard. He stood there for a moment, transfixed, his glance darting between what I stroked with a backhand motion, and my eyes, trying to make out my features in the near-perfect dark.
“God damn. Yeah, bud,” he whispered. Then, without hesitation, he took off his jacket, kicked off his athletic shoes, and let his sweatpants fall. Beneath he only wore a pair of gray briefs and a white, square-cut tank that clung to his pecs and his narrow waist as if it had been spun around him. He lifted the tank top slightly and ran his enormous hand over the flat planes of his stomach, then plunged it down into his shorts. When he hooked both thumbs into the waistband and let them fall, I could see that he was hard already; his meat curved outward, jerking in the air for attention. “Fuck yeah,” he whispered.
I just sat there, stroking.
Without moving, after a moment he joined in, spitting in his hand first, then cupping it around his cock and covering it with the moistness. Twice, three times he spit, until his dick glistened in the blue-gray gloom. Like me, he held his fist backwards, thumb down against the hipbone, as he slid his hand back and forth over his inches. After a moment, I spat into my own hand, then began echoing the slick sound he was already making.
Neither of us beat ourselves quickly. The moment was all about showing off for each other, and making as much noise as possible with our sticky hands and penises. He leaned back on his haunches, thrusting up into the air and drawing his fist back and forth slowly, slowly, watching my reaction the entire time. I let my eyes narrow to hard-looking slits as I kicked off my jeans and spread my legs and feet as wide as they would go, leaning back on the sofa and rubbing my left nipple as I continued to flaunt myself.
His whisper cut through the silence. “Hey. You hear how quiet it is?” he asked. “Listen.” We both stopped moving our hands. Over the steady, accelerated thump of my pulsing blood, there was nothing but stillness and the sounds of our labored breathing. “So damn quiet.” I nodded, agreeing with him. Then, after enjoying the hush for a moment, his hand moved again. He spat in it, then curved his fingers around his dick once more, masturbating nosily. After the silence, the sound of sex and self-pleasure sounded twice as nasty as before. He paused only to pull up his tank and flip the material around the back of his neck, so that I could admire his muscular, slightly hairy chest and ripped abdomen.
I stood up, spread my legs, and towered over him, continuing to stroke. He stared at me. “Big dick,” he finally said. I simply nodded, pointing it at him. After a hesitation he reached up and stroked it with the back of his wrist—because a real bud doesn’t go for a buddy’s dick with an open hand, apparently. I made my cock jump, and then put pressure with it onto the back of his hand. Finally I just grabbed his arm, uncurled his hand, and wrapped it around my meat. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he hissed with pleasure, sucking in breath as he began working both of our cocks in unison. I was dripping by now; the extra moisture just added to the spit-slickness.
He kept bringing his face closer and closer, examining me close up. After a few moments, I spoke my first words. “Help me out, buddy,” I told him. He looked up at me, pretending uncertainty. “C’mon,” I repeated. “Help a buddy out.”
He didn’t need any further encouragement. His mouth opened, lip reaching out hungrily to take me in. He wasn’t clumsy at all; instead, he sucked me gently, deliberately, working first the head and then moving in to take as much of me as he could without choking. “Damn, buddy,” I said, genuinely aroused. “You are good.” He must have liked the praise, because he doubled his efforts. I grunted with every downstroke until at least I feared shooting too soon. I backed him off. “Stand up and let me get a taste of yours,” I commanded.
I perched my ass on the sofa’s edge and leaned forward, while he stood and delivered his cock to my face. It was just as big and well-proportioned as in his photographs. When I wrapped my hand around it, he shuddered, then threw back his head and clasped his hands behind it. His baseball cap fell off to the floor, revealing his shaved head. He didn’t bother to pick it up. “Oh god,” he moaned, as I opened my mouth and huffed warm air on him. Then, once I’d gotten my lips to the bottom of the shaft, I closed my mouth again and let him feel the warm, wet interior all at once. His knees began to buckle; he grabbed onto my shoulders for support. “Not so fast,” he begged, before I’d barely made my way up and down the length of it.
We stood or knelt for each other for long minutes until one of us would get too close. Then we’d back off and swap. After the fourth or fifth time, when I stood up, he didn’t get to his knees. Instead, his hands on my hips, he looked me in the eyes, and then rested his forehead on my shoulder. He smelled of soap. I let my cheek rub against the sharp stubble of his head, then brushed my lips against his brow. His neck moved back, pliant, his face turned upright. I could see him look at me, waiting for what I’d do next.
I leaned down and let my lips touch his. Just a little bit. His own lips parted slightly in response. I kissed him again. He resisted, like a masculine buddy apparently does, but when I grabbed the back of his head and pulled him into me, his mouth opened and engulfed mine, sucking in the lips and tongue as if hungry. Onto the sofa we fell, making out ravenously, our cocks pulsing and grinding into each other. He was moaning as I kissed him, and let out a cry as I rubbed and pinched his nipples. When I tore my mouth away from his and began chewing on the nipple that seemed more sensitive, he gasped, and then panted out, “I never do this, bud!”
I was too aroused to pay attention to his weak protests, though. I’d already spit in my hand again and slapped my fingers on his ass. His hole was tight, I could tell—tighter than the professional bottoms-in-denial that I’m accustomed to. I wondered if he might not be the real thing. As we returned to our furious kissing, however, I slipped the tip, and then the entire first joint of my middle finger inside him. He yelped inside my mouth. Once he was used to it, I slid the rest of my finger home, until all of it was inside his hole. “Fuck, buddy,” he groaned, digging his forehead into my chest. His cock had never been harder. As I twisted my finger back and forth inside, I continued to slide my hand back and forth over the length of him. “It’s too much,” he said. “It feels too fucking good.”
I’d put some supplies on the coffee table, just in case. With my finger still inside him, I covered my cock with a handful of cold, slick lube. He didn’t protest at all when I pulled up his legs and parted them further, hooking one underneath my arm and pinning the other to the sofa’s back. When I started to slide into him, his hands and elbows flew over his head; his head banged against the sofa’s wooden arm. As with a lot of guys who claim they’re only into jerking off with a buddy, this is what he’d really come for. He simply didn’t want to compromise his masculinity by having to ask for it.
I didn’t go in too quickly. He was very, very tight. But I did go all the way in. The moment I hit bottom, he started to convulse. His hole spasmed, clenching and relaxing and then clamping down so hard onto me that in a fuck-panicked moment, I thought he might be trying to squeeze it off. But no, he was only coming. He cried out loudly, then thrust and upward, shooting an enormous stream of seed into the air. It arced over his head and landed, I later discovered, onto the base of the floor lamp behind him. A second shot landed on his face, and a third a little lower down, below his collar bone. “What the fuck are you doing to me!” he cried. Then again, in a whimper: “What are you doing to me?”
Somehow I understood he wasn’t protesting the act itself, but marveling at the intensity of his climax. He shuddered for a few moments more after he’d finished shooting, then lay there limply. After what seemed like an appropriate period, I began to slide out again. “Don’t,” he said. Then his arms shot up around my neck, pulling me down to him. I once more put my mouth against his. This time, our kisses were long and languorous; he rubbed his face against my beard, and then brushed his sharp stubble over my forehead. For ten minutes more we kissed, until at long last he leaned back, stretched like a cat as I slid out, sighed, and then laughed slightly. “Damn, buddy,” he said. “Day-umn!”
I nodded. My head was still spinning from the intensity of it. “Yeah,” I said, laughing.
“That was the best orgasm I ever had in my life. My entire fucking life, man.”
“Thanks,” I said, accepting the compliment, but not really believing it.
“You didn’t come, though.” I told him it was all right. “You sure?” he asked. I nodded.
We both relaxed for a minute more, clearing our heads. “We’re doing this again, right?” he finally said. He pulled his tank up and over his head, then down the concavity of his body. “Don’t tell me this is a one-time thing, buddy.”
“Oh, we’ll definitely do it again,” I promised him.
After he dressed, he leaned into me again and put his arms around me. We made out for a minute more. “Thanks,” he whispered. Then in a normal voice, he said, “I left my wallet and keys in the car in case you turned out to be some kind of freak. Then all I’d have to do was run the hell out.” I hesitated in my response, uncertain whether I should be a little embarrassed that I’d potentially sounded like an axe murderer, or touched at his candor. “But I didn’t run out,” he finally murmured in my ear, tipping my decision to the latter. He rubbed his face against my neck. “You know?”
“No,” I said, giving him one long, last kiss. “You didn’t run out.”
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