The Pimp

“Your brother told me you had a big dick,” said the man. My jeans were half-off , the waist clinging to my thighs just above the knee. I had a pair of black trunks on. Their elastic band still clung to my left hip. He’d pulled down the right side, though, exposing my cock. “He was right.”

I was still stiff from the last half-hour, during which we’d wrestled for dominance on his bed. We’d kissed, and pinned down each other’s arms and attacked each other’s necks and lobes and chins with our mouths and tongues. We’d ground our privates against each other until they hurt. I’d been pumping out precum during that entire time. I could feel the cold wet patch against the skin of my leg. “My brother’s not a liar,” I said, by way of not seeming to want to be big-headed and agree with him.

“Fuck,” he said, going down on me. His mouth was full of my dick for several long moments before he came up for air again. “I’m glad he told me to get in touch with you.” He was about to go down on me again, but he paused. “Does he pimp you out like this often?”

One of the things that Mikey will do, from time to time, is to run across some guy online that he thinks of as absolutely perfect for my tastes. After all, who knows me better? There’ve been a few occasions when he’ll simply give me a profile name to look at and leave it at that. But most of the time, he seems to know that I prefer to be the pursued than the pursuer, and he’ll go straight to the guy and extol my virtues. I haven’t had the privilege of actually reading any of these missives, but I kind of imagine they’re a lot like my agent writes when she’s trying to sell one of my works. Fantastic strength! Broad appeal! Available cheap!

I know it’s happened when I get an email out of the blue. Hey, it’ll be titled, or I know this sounds weird. Then the first line will be, Your brother contacted me on here and he said you and I should get together.
Yeah. Mikey pimps me out pretty often.

He has a good eye, too. He’s hooked me up with slutty boys who haven’t yet outgrown their abuse of Axe body spray, and sexy silver foxes who make me weak the knees. He’s hooked me up with piggy bears I’ve found super-attractive, and handsome muscle gods whose attentions made me nervous, but who were so turned on by one brother pimping another that they couldn’t resist giving me a try.

When they contact me, these men, I always feel obligated to apologize first. Oh jeez, I’m sorry, I’ll say. He really shouldn’t do that. He’s just trying to look out for me, especially now that we’re a thousand miles apart. Apologies seem to be unnecessary, really. Most men find it perversely hot, or at least don’t mind that Mikey’s pointed them in my direction.

An agent would take her fifteen percent, of course. When I lived in Michigan, close to Mikey, his cut would be the pleasure of hearing me replay the encounter for him in person, when we were alone and exchanging confidences. If he could, he’d try to get into the guy’s pants himself. This year, though, he has to be content with chatting to me about it online, or remotely, or hearing about it from the guy himself, if I’ve been busy.

This guy was one of the silver foxes—a tall and handsome older guy who lived with his lover in a big house not far from me. He turned out to be a good lovemaker, once I got him to shut up talking about taking down his Christmas decorations and the weather. I fucked him three times and was in an almost-unconscious bliss for a half-hour when he treated me to a back and neck rub. Then I went down on my knees, right before I left, and sucked him off—start to finish, in less than two minutes.

“Holy shit,” he said, staggering back into the wall so hard that his tchotchkes leapt alarmingly on the ornamental shelves behind him. “Your brother didn’t tell me you could do that.”

Apparently I need to get Mikey to write some better agent letters.

Memorial Day Questions: Scruffy vs. Mikey Smackdown Edition

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Happy Fifth Birthday

“Do you like me?” I asked Mikey yesterday, when I was lying on his bed.

It was not the question I expected to hear coming out of my mouth. I regretted it even as the words floated between the steep inclines of his bungalow ceilings. It was a child’s question, a plaintive bleat of need and want that should never have been voiced. Mikey was straddling me when I asked it. Though we both were still in T-shirts and shorts, I could feel the warmth of his groin against mine, and the hardness through the cotton. “Now why the fuck would you be asking that?” he demanded.

Because basically sometimes, no matter how well two people know each other, or how close they might be, the stupid little everyday detritus of everyday life clogs up the works. Mikey has been quitting smoking. The last month and a half has been a living hell for him. He’d been taking some kind of drug—Chantix, I think?—to help him back off what’s been a forty-five year habit. It gave him nightmares and made him so depressed that he first cut down the dosage and eventually stopped taking it altogether. It took two weeks to get out of his system, though, and Wednesday was the first day he told me he felt human again. As for why I asked the question . . . let's tactfully say that it was a long and trying six weeks.

“What do you need?” asked Mikey. His hands rested on the mattress on either side of my shoulders. I looked up into his face. “What do you need today?” he wanted to know.

“I’d like to be held,” I told him. “I’d like someone to be nice to me.”

Very simple things, those. Childish things, even. And truthfully, it’s what I wanted most.

Though the second floor bedroom was warm from the sun shining through the skylight, I didn’t mind in the least when Mikey pressed his body against mine. His arms scooped under my back; his hands curved up to my shoulders and held them from behind as his mouth fitted against mine. His embrace was firm, and strong. My own long arms wrapped around his skinny chest. We made out, grinding and squeezing and thrusting against each other, trying to close every minute gap that separated us. “I’ll be nice to you,” he said at last, when he separated his mouth from mine. He pulled my legs apart and ran his hands over their length, watching as my blond fur sprang from flat to erect as his fingers passed over it. “I’ll be real nice to you.”

He hoisted my hips and began to pull down my underwear. I’d been wearing a plain pair of gray trunks. Once they were off, he held them to his nose and inhaled deeply. “Don’t do that,” I laughed. “They’re not fresh.”

“They don’t gotta be fresh,” said Mikey. “They smell like you.”

“Oh, stop.”

“I’m gonna steal ‘em,” said Mikey. “I’m gonna steal ‘em, kid, and wear them the rest of the day.” Before I could protest his silliness any further, he grabbed my legs and lifted them in the air, exposing my ass. He’d done the same thing the first time we’d been naked together, a long time ago. As he stared at me, he spread my cheeks and buried his face in my hole. I gasped. My breath came in sharp halts and stutters as he licked and bit my hole.

For a long time that’s all he did. One of his hands supported the small of his back while the other held my legs aloft. Months of shoulder stands during yoga helped me maintain the position with no effort. As always, I began to feel guilty after a few minutes of pleasure down there. “Is it okay?” I found myself asking. Yesterday was my day for stupid questions.

“Is what okay?”

“Is it okay if I enjoy this?” I improvised, lamely.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he gently lay me back down. He was out of his clothes by now. His penis, flaming red and choked off by a tight cock ring, pointed in my direction. A bead of precum had stuck to my thigh and left a glistening thread between us. He sucked on his thumb and lowered it. I felt the tip push against my hole, followed by pressure. Mikey watched me steadily while he slowly moved the digit inward. I, in the meantime, panicked. My hands clutched at his, pushing him away, trying to move him out. “Am I hurting you?” he asked. I couldn’t answer. “Am I hurting you?” he persisted. “Or scaring you?”

“Scaring me,” I admitted.

“Even after all this time? How long has it been? Twenty-five years?”

Upset with myself, I growled, “Yes. I’m sorry.” Because even after all that time, I still am somewhat affected by the memory of a single night in which a man used violence to have his way with me. It’s silly, and stupid, and in my conscious mind I know I shouldn’t let one very cruel bastard have such a long reach. But the experience is a part of me, and sometimes I can’t help my reactions.

He nodded, and pulled out his thumb. Without hesitation, he rolled me over onto my front. I felt his breath along the cleft of my butt cheeks, and the flick of his tongue between them. “Have you seen that television commercial? I think it’s AT&T. The happy birthday one?” I gasped a little. “No? The boy on it looks just like you. Just like you, with hair that's only a touch longer. You haven’t seen it?”

“You know I usually—” I drew in my breath sharply as his hands and mouth traveled up my back and left trails of lovely sensations in their wake. “—I usually flip through the ads.”

“I think it’s AT&T,” he repeated. “And it’s got this bearded man on a park bench, only it’s on a rooftop, I think, and he’s looking mighty sad. And he looks just like you. I think that every time I see it, and watch, and peek around, and think, how the hell come nobody else is seeing how much like you he looks? So he’s sitting there, and the guy on the voiceover says something like, ‘Remember when you were five and everything was possible? Well happy fifth birthday.’ And then the man on the bench lights up like a Christmas tree, just like you do when you let loose with one of those smiles. He’s so pretty. That's like you, too.” His mouth was near my ear by then. “Oh, my. You turned out to be such a handsome man.”

“Let me fuck you,” I said. Much as I was enjoying the attention, and the huzz of his voice in my ear, I wanted to get back into control, back to a scenario I knew and in which I felt comfortable. “Please.”

He pulled out a towel and laid it on the bed, and then knelt down on it. Mikey spat in his hand and rubbed it on his hole. I added some more saliva to his and entered him, easily and smoothly, as I always did. “Fuck me,” he moaned, as I reached the bottom. “I want your seed. I want your seed inside me.”

The fuck didn’t last long. I hadn’t unloaded in a couple of days, and Mikey’s hole always feels good. I’m accustomed to it; I know how to use it for my pleasure. I had pulled him down to his side and was thrusting hard inside him when I came a few minutes later, hugging him tight around the waist.

Only when I was spent, and panting, did Mikey plant a kiss on my cheek. “Happy fifth birthday." He brushed some hair from my face. “Try not to be sad.”

“I’ll try,” I promised. But I had my head turned when I said the words, so that he wouldn’t see my own disappointment with myself. I doubt I fooled him for a minute.

Before I left, Mikey made off with my underwear. “Oh, jeez,” I said, laughing. “Are you really going to keep it? You haven’t done something like that in years.”

“I told you I was!” he said, seeming surprised I’d even question him. “Here. How’s it look?” He pulled on the trunks, and I had to admit they looked better on him than on me—probably because his dick was still thick and hard, and hung to one side, filling it out.

“Great!” I said. I pulled out my phone and snapped a photo, then showed it to him.

(An image has been removed to comply with Blogger's

draconian new censorship policies: 2/26/15)

“Let me give you a pair of mine.”

“You’re so silly,” I laughed, but he went through his underwear drawer and picked out a pair of white trunks still in their wrapper, soft and silky-feeling. “They’re kind of big.”

“Are you calling me fat?” he demanded.

“You’re skinnier than I am. I’m saying you buy underwear that’s too big,” I explained. After that, my mood lifted. We walked around his garden so I could see what he’d done, and played with his cats until it was time for me to leave.

The first thing I did when I got home was to look for that AT&T ad. And damn. I really do look like that sad guy.

Networking

There’s a particular kind of exasperating online bottom whom I recognize as the sort who never intends to get naked with me. He never intends to meet. In fact, he never intends to leave the safe warm glow of his computer monitor, but wants to sit there until the end of time, whacking off and asking tops this question within the first three sentences of conversation:

Do you know any other top guys you can whore me out to?

My answer to this not-so-rare breed of men is usually polite and couched in as soft and reconciliatory a form as possible, keeping in mind my experience that these guys never show up and never want to do anything but masturbate to their fantasy of being a bad boy to multiple men. And my carefully-worded answer is thus: NO.

Then I pretty much stop talking to them.

Here’s my thing about bottoms who want more than one top. Number one: do you know how very difficult it is to find another top in some cities? If a top guy asked me to find multiple bottoms for a party I could swing a bottle of lube and knock over a dozen volunteers without even opening my eyes. Tops though, are in pretty short supply. Number two: even if I did find a couple of other guys willing to top, do you know how hard it is to coordinate a time when they can all show up? Number three: do you know how many will flake out?

My sorry little preface is all because contrary to what I just said, Monday I went to my third gangbang in a week. All three had one bottom and multiple tops. So maybe I’m just a big ol’ crab who doesn’t like to throw parties.

I only went to the Motel 6 gangbang, Monday afternoon, because I very much like the top who was throwing it. Phil is a lean, tall top—leaner and taller even than I—with a bald head and a dark red goatee that makes him look like a mean fucker. He’s a hell of a nice guy, though. A good kisser. Friendly. And when he hosts a party, I go if I can and contribute a load or two to his pet bottom for the day. He enjoys watching me fuck, I get to pump out a load, and the bottom gets a load in his hole.

It’s a networking thing. It’s all about networking.

I didn’t have much time this afternoon to play—and frankly, after two gangbangs last week I really wasn’t in the mood for another big group. I’d been craving some tender one-on-one sex for days, and my Scruffy hasn’t been available. The impersonality of a group just wasn’t satisfying-sounding for me. However, like I said: networking. So I went right at the party’s start, knocking on the Motel 6 door precisely at three o’clock in the afternoon.

Phil opened the door and smile. He was naked save for a yellow jockstrap and a pair of boots. “Well hey,” he said. “Right on time.” He closed the door quickly behind me so that the men working on the dumpster directly across couldn’t see. “Usually it’s the best for last. This time I guess we got the best for first,” he said to the bottom.

I looked across the room. On the bed was a good-looking guy wearing a blindfold. His hair was crispy and spiky from gel, and he knelt on the bed with his butt in the air already. On the bed beside him lay a number of toys—a couple of dildos, a butt plug, a leather paddle. A tub of lube and a squirt bottle sat on the bedside table. Phil had brought his portable sling and set it up in the middle of the hotel room. It was quite the setup.

“Got you a real big dick for the first one,” said Phil to the bottom. “Turn around and get him hard.”

I unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans and let the bottom get to work. I didn’t know his name. I couldn’t tell much about him other than he had a fairly good body and appeared to be in his mid to late thirties. He sucked me to hardness in a matter of seconds, though. “Now I’m gonna rim your pretty ass,” growled Phil into my ear. He shoved me over.

It was kind of tough to find a position in which I could feed the bottom my dick while giving Phil access to my hole, but at last we all compromised on me leaning over the bottom’s shoulders and back while he continued to suck, and Phil prying apart my ass so he could spit on it and probe it with his tongue.

3:05. I slapped some lube on my dick and turned the bottom around so I could fuck him. Phil reached out and guided my dick in. I was still in my pants and shoes when I knelt on the bed to ease forward; Phil yanked off my Chucks and then removed my pants and shorts and placed them all in a neat pile in the corner. When I started fucking, he went back into rimming position and drove me absolutely crazy by licking and sucking at my hole and nuts while I slid in and out of the bottom soft, smooth butt.

3:12. I pulled the bottom up to his knees at the bed’s edge, so I could give Phil the show he really wanted. He likes to throw these parties for the up-close-and-personal porn. The more up close and more personal, the better. When Phil saw me standing up and slow-dicking the bottom from behind, he shouted, “Oh yeah!” and threw himself down onto the motel room’s carpet. He settled his head on the box springs and stared up between our legs, watching me slide in and out of that ass from only inches away. I took long, slow strokes so he could see every inch gliding; I took tiny stabs so that just the head popped in and out of that outer ring. I ground my hips from side to side. Every conceivable motion I could have used to fuck that hole, I employed, all so Phil could enjoy.

“Gimme a taste,” Phil begged. The bottom had only moaned softly the entire time. I don’t know whether he was under orders to remain silent, or whether he was just in a dick-induced haze. I let my dick flop out; the tip struck Phil on the nose. Greedily he gobbled it down and sucked off the bottom’s ass juices before he shoved the tip back into the hole. For a few minutes more I alternated between the bottom’s butt and Phil’s hungry mouth.

3:20. Phil had to get up to answer a knock at the door; in walked Jeremy, a reed-thin black kid I’d fucked before. “Good to see you,” I said, nodding at him. Jeremy blinked a few times as he walked past to find a place to undress. Phil didn’t even greet the guy. He was too busy closing the door and rushing back to lie down and watch me finish.

3.24. While Jeremy stroked his monster dick to hardness, Phil licked at my nuts until I felt the old familiar feeling beginning to churn in my nuts. My breathing hastened; my pace quickened. I didn’t have an earth-shaking orgasm, but it was nice and sweet and doubly tingly from the mouth still playing around my balls. I emptied deep inside the bottom and remained there for a moment. I could feel my load, the bottom’s first for the day, oozing out around my dick and down my sac, where Phil was ready to receive it. “C’mon,” Phil said, urging me to pull out. “Give me what I want. You know what I want. It’s all I ask.”

Phil likes to rim a load out after it’s been deposited. That’s his price for admission to these things. He’ll pay for the hotel and the lube and order the extra towels and bring the sling and the toys and set up and tear down. All he asks is that the guys shoot their loads in his bottom and allow him to clean them out with his mouth and tongue. Who am I to argue with that? “You taste so fucking good inside him,” Phil said to me. His words were muffled by the fact that his face was firmly planted in his bottom’s hole. “So fucking good.” Like a baby sucking at a mother’s nipple, he moved his face back and forth, back and forth, nursing out all the seed. I ran my hand over his head and breathed heavily until he was done.

3:27. While I was putting on my clothes, the fuck bus let off its passengers, apparently. Jeremy was fucking when Phil answered the door, and four guys walked in. Mikey was one. I’d fucked one of the others, but didn’t know the other two. They hadn’t actually driven together. It was just coincidence that they’d all arrived at the exact same time. “You gotta leave already?” Mikey asked.

“You missed your brother’s performance,” Phil said to him. He’s another of the ones who knows about Mikey and me. As did all the other men in the room, after that statement. Phil slapped me on the ass and went to watch Jeremy fucking. I’d done my duty for the day.

“I’ve got to go,” I told him, giving him a peck on the cheek.

“I missed it?” He sounded put out.

I gestured to the three men already naked, and the three others in various stages of undress. “I think you’ll have plenty to keep you occupied.”

Sometimes Mikey acts like he’s my junior. “But I don’t know any of these guys,” he growled at me, trying to keep it quiet.

I clapped him on the shoulder before I left. “Networking, Mikey,” I told him. “It’s all about networking.”

Happiness Is a Warm Washcloth

The best part of Wednesday afternoon was this: when Mikey stood in the doorway of the bathroom, a wet washcloth in his hands, and said across the darkened room to me, “You want me to clean off your dick before you go?”

“Yes,” I said, almost shyly. “I’d like that.” I got up from the bed. The pig lying there with his legs in the air opened his eyes to watch me go, as did the lean, grizzled top man holding his legs. They’ve known for a long time what Mikey is to me. The black man who’d come late didn’t blink, but kept pounding away at his hole. I padded across the carpeting and into the bathroom, where Mikey was running hot water into the sink. He held the washcloth beneath the tap, wrung it out, and then very, very gently wrapped the hot cloth around my penis.

That was the best part of the afternoon.

This is how I got there.

Mikey called me in the middle of the morning to ask if I wanted to go to a gangbang with him. The bottom who’d pulled it together was a furry pig we’d topped a few times together and someone I’d seen on my own several times since. The pig was, in fact, one of the very very few tricks somehow ever to become one my friends on my real-life Facebook profile. He’d spent the morning on that site posting links to political screeds against Sarah Palin, and then apparently was planning to use his lunchtime to take every dick he could find. That’s what I call breadth of interest.

“I don’t want to,” I told him. “I just went to a gangbang yesterday. I lost a sock. I was kind of hoping you might be wanting to come spend time with me by myself today.” But he wheedled. He did that thing where he tells me he just wants the best for me, and how much he enjoys watching me fuck other men. Eventually I gave in.

I regretted it an hour later, though, when I found myself sitting on an expressway not moving an inch for over twenty-five minutes. I have to explain that Mikey fancies himself psychic. I don’t buy it. Not only because I don’t believe in paranormal activity, but because usually Mikey’s so-called psychic ability is limited to looking at the daily 4 lottery numbers and saying something like, “God damn it, I knew I should have played today! That was the age mom died, and the number of my first apartment!”, or “That was the number of the month Uncle Bill was born, and the number of cats I had living with me when I was down in Atlanta!” Yeah, right.

Today, though, when I text messaged him to say that I was stuck behind a 6-car pileup in which two of the cars had rolled over, he messaged back, I had one of my feelings about 696, little brother, so I took the surface streets and I’m already there.

Thanks asshole, I texted back. After all, what’s the point of having a goddamned self-proclaimed psychic in the family if he’s not going to share his traffic premonitions with me?

When I got to the cheap and sleazy motel along one of Detroit’s less savory avenues, I admit I was in a mood. I really hadn’t wanted to drive across town. The accident had upset me. Plus I was twenty-five minutes late. The hotel seemed to be filled with transients.

But the sex was good.

I shucked my clothes as soon as I got inside. Mikey helped me out of them; though the room was totally dark, there was enough of a glow from the pig bottom’s laptop screen that I could see Mikey’s lean and naked body as he helped me out of my jeans and sneakers. The bottom was on his back, legs in the air as another top ground his hips into him. I knew the other top; we’d shared bottoms before. His name is Sir Clay—which isn’t a blogger’s nickname for him. He actually requests that everyone, top and bottom alike, refer to him as Sir Clay. He doesn’t kiss, he doesn’t suck, and his dick isn’t as big as mine, but Sir Clay he is and Sir Clay I’ll call him.

There wasn’t much talking at all, as we played. That was something of a relief, because I’d exhausted my repertoire of toppy exhortations the day before. Mikey sucked me as only he can suck me while I watched Sir Clay fuck the bottom. The pig is a furry beast of a guy with an unruly mop of gray hair, though he’s younger than I; he squirmed and moaned with every thrust. I let Mikey suck until Sir Clay pulled out, held up the pig’s legs, and motioned for me to start fucking.

“Hi,” said the pig, with a shy smile on his lips, when I mounted.

I’d been fucking for maybe about ten minutes when someone knocked at the door. Mikey tried looking through the peephole to see who was outside, but either it wasn’t working or it was too bright out, because finally he said, “Are you expecting someone?”

“Yes,” said the pig and Sir Clay in chorus. Mikey opened the door and let in way too much sunshine. We all squinted. I’m sure that my balls-deep humping of the pig was visible from across the street, but I didn’t much care. I kept going at it.

A big bulldog of a black man entered the room. Without saying a word, once the door was shut again he removed his jacket and kicked off his shoes. He disappeared into the bathroom, presumably to remove the rest of his clothing. I moved the pig to the bed’s edge and set him on his knees, so I could slide in and out more freely; Mikey took up a spot behind me and nuzzled at my shoulders and played with my nipples as I continued to fuck. His hard dick pressed against my hip. I could feel its sharp curve lie snugly against the bone.

The black guy came out of the bathroom naked and hard and sporting a metal cockring. He was a good looking brute with a carefully-trimmed three-day growth of beard, a barrel chest, enormous arms, and a tattoo of the Jesus Christ Superstar logo on one bicep. He didn’t so much push Mikey out of the way as take his place when Mikey stepped aside. Next thing I know, the black stud was reaching between my legs and yanking hard on my nuts. His thumb plunged up my ass, like a cork.

The abrupt sensation could’ve done two things. It might have pulled me out of my fuck trance altogether, or it could have pushed me over the edge. I’d been fucking long enough that it did the latter. I squirted immediately while everyone urged me on in whispers. When I pulled out, the big bulldog dropped to his knees and immediately began cleaning me off.

I was actually pretty turned on that this enormous beefy guy was kneeling down to eat my dick when it was still dripping with juice, but unfortunately he didn’t stay on it for long. He spat on the pig’s hole, stood up, and shoved his own dick in, then gave the pig a rough fucking that had him gasping. Sir Clay took the opportunity to shove his dick in the pig’s mouth, and Mikey and I sat on the bed corner, watching. This time I held him in my arms, rubbing my big hands up and down his body, resting my cheek against his shoulder.

I can tell why sometimes people think we’re lovers—that is, lovers of a more traditional sort. We have all these intimacies we share without thinking. We hang on each other’s shoulders, or stroke each other absently, or offer each other a hand of comfort or a cupped chin or a soft kiss on the neck. It’s not the kind of thing that strangers do, certainly, or even fuck buddies. The black guy noticed. Though he continued to pound, he jerked his head in our direction and said to Sir Clay, “Are these two boyfriends or what?”

“No,” said Sir Clay, chuckling. “They’re not boyfriends.”

We left it at that. The black guy shot his load with a single, brutal thrust and a shout. When he backed off, he slapped the pig’s ass so hard that the pig actually let out a squeal. Then, without warning, he dropped to his knees and sucked me again, while Mikey and I made out.

Sir Clay fucked the pig. I fucked the pig, and came again. Mikey went in right after me and was so turned on to fuck in my load that he shot almost immediately, with a little quiver that made the end of his mustache tremble. Then the black guy started fucking once again, and I grabbed my T-shirt and socks. Mikey said, “You want me to clean off your dick before you go?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’d like that.”

The warm washcloth around my penis was almost too hot—but it wasn’t, really. It was just on the edge. Four times Mikey rinsed off the towel and wet it again, then quietly and gently wrung it out. I stood there in the ghastly pink motel bathroom with my arms crossed over my chest, shivering, with my eyes half-closed and a smile on my face. His face was only inches from my dick. He treated me so reverently that I felt like I was posing for a Mannerist painting of Martha washing Jesus’ feet, or some profane variation thereof. “Fucking washclothes are like sandpaper,” Mikey snapped, spoiling that particular illusion.

“It’s okay,” I told him, still smiling. I ruffled his hair.

“I just didn’t want to hurt you, little brother,” he said softly.

I shook my head. “You don’t hurt me.”

Once again he cleaned out the cloth and warmed it again. I felt its soft lick against my balls, the insides of my thighs, and scraping across the outside of my ass. Funny, but all I’d really wanted was this quiet moment, and I’d had to sit through ambulances and rescue squads and way too much traffic and dark room fucking to get it. The thought made me huff amused air through my nose. Mikey looked up. “Are you laughing with me or at me, peanut?” he asked, using an old nickname.

“I’m laughing because this is the—”

“—best part of the afternoon,” he finished saying along with me, at exactly the same time.

You know, maybe Mikey is psychic, after all.

Brothers on the sofa

This will be my last installment on the pig party from last Saturday. I was there for so long, and the evening had several moods. It was difficult to roll them all into one entry.

There was a moment before the sex started, though, when all of us were down in the basement and outside of the dungeon door, removing our clothes. I was talking to Chaz, whom I’d very much enjoyed at the first of Hardy’s pig parties. When we weren’t fucking that first night, we’d spent a lot of time on Hardy’s sofa, talking about concerts we’d both attended and musical groups we admired. We were kind of catching up, Saturday night, as we removed our clothing at the bottom of the stairs, when out of the blue he asked, “So does Mike ever come with you to these things?”

“Mmmmike?” I repeated, not really understanding. Hardy’s friend, out-of-town Mike, was standing across the room. “He’s from Ohio. He’s Hardy’s friend, not mine.”

“Not that Mike,” said Chaz, gesturing with his head to the guy near us. “Your Mike. Mikey.”

I blinked several times, and realized exactly who he was talking about. I also realized that Chaz was letting me in on the fact he knew what Mikey was to me. “Oh. Mike. Well, I’m sure he would, but he and Hardy don’t know each other.”

Hardy was walking down the stairs, carrying bowls with the snacks I’d brought. “Who is this?” he asked, overhearing.

I opened my mouth to speak, though I didn’t know exactly what I planned to say. Chaz stepped in and smoothly announced, “One of his friends.” There was a certain flatness to the word ‘friends’ that let me know, if I’d had any lingering doubts, that Chaz had talked to Mikey at some point.

It wasn’t until later in the evening, after I’d fucked everybody there and fisted both out-of-town Mike and Hardy, that Chaz and I got a chance to talk again. We sat on the sofa, naked. Our limbs were intertwined together. He reached up and rubbed the back of my neck, hard, making me purr like a kitten. Hardy had laid down a towel on the cushions on my other side, and was leaning against me. “So I’m the only person who didn’t get to be in a sling tonight,” I said, after a moment.

The Silver Fox and out-of-town Mike were still playing with each other across the room. We watched them idly. “Did you want to be in a sling?” asked Chaz.

I kind of did, actually. If someone had offered to give me a really good rim job in one, I would’ve hopped right up. I would’ve tried the deceptively simple wrist restraints, and put my feet in the straps. No one asked, though, and I worried slightly about what would have happened after that, so I kept my mouth shut on the topic. “I got in my first sling at the age of fifteen,” I told them.

“No way,” said Chaz.

“Get out,” said Hardy. I nodded. It was the truth. “How old were you when you started messing around with guys?”

“Twelve,” I told them. “Started getting fucked at twelve, started whoring at fourteen, first sling at fifteen.”

They seemed both delighted and appalled by the confession. “I had a friend who put himself through school with money he made whoring himself,” he said. “He got me into it for two weeks because he told me it was easy cash. I didn’t like it, though. I wasn’t cut out for it.”

I grinned. “In my mid-twenties I actually made the down-payment on my first house with money I earned from selling myself in my teens.”

“Oh my god. You.” Hardy hopped to his feet, cracked his knuckles, and wandered off. I could tell he didn’t know whether to believe me or not.

Chaz ruffled my hair. “Was Mikey your first sling?”

I laughed. “No. Hardly.” Since we were alone, I decided to ask. “You know that Mike’s more than my friend, right?”

“He told me. We talked.” His hand reached down to my dick and began to stroke. After about four hours of non-stop action I was a little worn down, but I had enough oomph in me to get hard again.

“Okay. As long as you aren’t freaked by it?”

“I was surprised, but not really surprised,” he admitted. “My brother and I were active with each other when we were kids.”

“Younger or older?”

“He was older. So you and I are both younger brothers. Cool. Yeah, we played around for about four years, then he went totally straight. He’s married now, two kids. I try talking to him, but there’s always something left unsaid between us. I know he’s got to think about it. We just never talk in that direction.” When I let my hand drift down to between his legs, I discovered that Chaz was rock hard again as well. “So when Mike told me that you two . . . well, I kind of gathered you still do stuff.” I inclined my head to agree. “It’s hot.”

“Guys either find it totally hot, or totally repellant,” I admitted.

“I think my brother worries, when he looks at me. When he looks at me. . . .”

“. . . You think he’s worrying that he made you what you are? I think Mikey worries about that a lot.”

I’d spoken too soon, and wrongly. “No, I think he worries I might come on to him,” said Chaz. He thought about it a minute. “Maybe I should. Maybe I should just grab him and bone him. Bone the shit out of him.”

His voice was kidding, but his dick was not. “Mikey tends to be very competitive with me. We . . . compare notes,” I said. “Talk about things. Guys. After I tell him I’ve been with a man, three days later I’ll find out he’s sweet-talked his way there too.”

“Hilarious,” said Chaz, squeezing me. He kissed me. “And hot.”

“Mark my words. By Tuesday you’ll be writing me an email to say he’s been over to your place. It’ll happen.”

Hardy wandered back then with a drink, so we changed the topic to other, more general things. The Fox and out-of-town Mike finished up their fuck, and collapsed on the floor near us. The party was due to break up soon. We all could sense it, but we sat there for a few minutes and shot the shit until our heads had cleared enough to dress and go on our ways. “Say hi to Mike for me,” said Chaz as we parted.

“Who’s this other Mike person you guys keep talking about?” Hardy asked.

This time, both Chaz and I spoke simultaneously. “A friend.”

“Three days,” I told him, as I waved goodbye and walked off down the dark suburban street where I’d parked my car. “Mark my words.”

I got an email from Chaz, Monday night. It only took two, he wrote.

Face Down

He likes to find me face down.

When he comes over other times, family times, he'll knock at the door like anyone. He'll sit at the kitchen table, or help himself to the food in the fridge, or join us at night in the den and watch television.

But this is how we do it, the times Mikey comes over when I'm alone. I'll leave the side door unlocked, and head up to my bedroom. I'll strip down to my shorts and place my head on the pillow, then close my eyes. There's no radio, no porn on the television. Nothing but the whirr of the ceiling fan overhead, the chirps and cries of the birds outside, or the distant noise of someone mowing their lawn. He lives only a couple of miles away, so it never takes long for him to arrive. I'll hear the house exhale and inhale as he enters through the door, then the shuffle of him crossing the dining room, the living room, and finally his foot on the carpeted stairs. There'll be the creak of wood as he stands in my bedroom doorway.

There's always a pause, then. It's a long silence in which I know he's looking at me, studying me. Appraising me. I'm an entirely different person from the first time he looked at me face down on my bed in my underwear. Every atom in my body had to have changed since then. He still makes the same sound at the sight, though—long and drawn out, half sigh, half hiss of pleasure.

It's followed by the sound of his belt unbuckling.

After knowing each other so long in this way, there aren't a lot of frills to our sex. There's an economy to it that's come from years of walking down the same paths. But we're not rushing to get each other off as quickly as possible—there's no rapid-fire jerking, or frantic grinding. Nothing perfunctory. We simply cut right to the things the other enjoys the most, without having to ask, or fumble. He'll ease off his pants and open his shirt and straddle me. The fire of his groin meets the warmth of my ass as only two thin layers of cotton separate them. It's the heat that makes his cock grow. I'll feel it unfurl itself against me as it becomes rigid.

He knows what I like best, and it's the simplest thing in the world: the feel of his hands over my back. Like mine, his hands are long and narrow. He lets his fingers drift over my neck, the most sensitive part of my body. His palms meet my skin, skimming lightly over me and raising goosebumps in their wake. This is the best thing he can do for me: to touch my beck and back, to bring pleasure that renews and reawakens itself with every pass. All I can do is gasp, and clutch at the blanket, and pray that it doesn't end.

Soon, but not too soon, it does. He'll tug at the elastic of my trunks and ease them down until they tangle around my ankles. I'll feel his fingers probe at my crack and pull apart my ass cheeks. Then I'll feel first his mustache, and then his chin, and then his mouth and tongue against my hole. He knows what I like; he buries his face in my ass and eats me with a vengeance. When he pauses to bite at my cheeks and rake his teeth over the skin, my head flies up and I gasp. It will be the first time my eyes open. Over my shoulder I'll see him behind me—the top of his gray-haired head, the arc of his shoulders, his pale white ass up in the air as he kneels at the bed's edge. At long last he'll surface, panting for air. He's in his late fifties, but he's still a handsome man. "I missed you," he'll say.

He says it every time, no matter how long it's been. If he's visited a couple of days before for dinner and drinks, he still means it, but if he's been away, as he has for the last six weeks, it rings especially true. "I missed you too," I'll say sincerely.

He'll push my back down to the bed and raise my legs so that they naturally hug his waist. I'll feel the hardness of his dick as it nudges against my balls. He's shorter and lighter than me, though we both share an almost identical spareness of frame, and largeness of dick. Our chests and mouths press together, and we kiss. His mustache grinds into my beard, and my beard into his chin, and his chin into my neck as his lips travel to my ears. "I've missed you so much," he'll repeat, grinding into me. "I've missed that pretty butt of yours. I've missed your lips and your mouth."

It's my turn to please him. I'll turn him onto his back until he's in a half-reclining, half-sitting position. He likes to wear a metal cock rings that turns his dick into something deep red and savage, and pushes his balls out. I'll make a hiss of my own at the sight of that dick, the dick I know better than any other. I take it between my lips, and begin moving my mouth up and down the shaft. His precum tastes like my own, mostly sweet, a little salty. Like me, he pumps it out in quantity. It seems as if whenever I surface from the base, a new batch of it oozes out onto the tip of my tongue.

I've never seen any other man who's been able to suck him to completion. I know how. My thumb and forefinger wrap around the very base, where soft flesh turns to stiffness. My other fingers touch his balls lightly, barely scraping the skin as my sucking moves them up and down. I don't slide my fingers up and down his seven inches, as I do with most men. I let the tightness of my mouth do that work for me. Though I've seen other cocksuckers labor for long minutes, even an hour, to coax a load from him, I'm proud that my technique does the trick. After only a very few moments his breath will start to catch. His stomach will tighten and drawn inward. I'll feel the touch of his hand on my hair, and then my neck. Finally, with no more noise than a whoosh of air through his mouth and nostrils, he'll let loose. I'll find my mouth flooded with his sperm—one enormous gush, all at once. It's usually so much that it takes me three swallows to finish it all.

He's done what I've liked best, and I've done what he likes best. Now we do what we both equally enjoy. Onto our sides we'll roll, with him spooning against my belly. I'll lick my hand and rub it on my dick, then spit once again to moisten his hole. He's not tight. Entering him is no struggle, the way it is when he's tried to open me the last few years. He accepts my dick with a sigh, pushing back against me so that he's pressed tight against my ribcage. I hold him in my arms, moving back and forth with the slightest of motions at first, grinding in a circular pattern. We both love the feeling, and curl together to enjoy it. It's sexual, yes, but it's comforting for us both.

Mikey will remain curved into an almost fetal position as gradually I straighten out and lengthen my body. My grinds become thrusts, in and out, longer and longer. Without my having to ask, he'll squeeze and clamp down on my dick when I'm in at my deepest, clutching at it with his hole as if he never wants it to leave. For long minutes we'll do this without saying a word. And then, every time, he'll reach out and twine my fingers between his, pull my hand where my hips meet his, and touch my fingers to the cock making love to his ass. "That's where you should be," he'll say. "That's where you belong, little brother."

Every time it's enough to push me over the edge. I'll shift my weight and pin him down, driving in deeper than I thought possible. When I shoot with Mikey, I don't explode. I don't blast. I release. It's a smooth transfer of my sperm from my nuts to inside him, soft and gentle, like a stream. He'll relax. Almost immediately, I'll feel the sticky sensation of my essence puddling around my balls.

We'll lie there, me on top of him, until our breathing is back to normal. The outside world begins to trickle back in, then, one distant telephone ring and chirp and huzz of a fan or lawn mower at a time as we lie there and return to ourselves. Then his chest will rumble with the faintest of laughter. "I really love you," he'll usually whisper.

It's nice to be able to say it back.