He’s greedy when he sits on my dick. He’s lost in his own world once I slide in. I don’t really exist for him, anymore. He rocks back and forth, his knees digging into the fleece blanket imprinted with a giant tiger, that covers the mattress resting on the bare floor. All he cares about is how deep he can take me, how much of me he can accommodate in that tight ass of his.
Not that I mind. The Mover has a body that’s worth looking at—natural muscle formed from daytime shifts of lifting furniture into trucks. I can study the tattoos inked over his Puerto Rican golden skin. The picture of his mother, on his pectoral; the flying swallow on his bicep, the stars and one-word brands of inspiration on his forearms, his hip, the inside of his thigh. I can look at his gap-toothed grin, a private smile generated from the sensations of my hard pole sinking into him, again and again. I can notice the way his hands push down on my chest as if he’s restraining me, preventing me from leaving, until he’s gotten what he invited me for.
I’m getting pleasure from the encounter, of course. Every time he rocks back and forth, his slick ass grips and releases at my dick. I can feel the precum oozing out in small squirts, making our point of connection even more slippery. I’m rock hard inside the warmth of him, secure and breathing heavily as he sits on and uses my cock the way he wants. The way he needs. It’s enough of a distraction to take my attention away from his ‘room,’ as he calls it.
Ever since The Mover managed to get out of his sister’s crowded apartment—three generations crammed into two small bedrooms—he’s bombarded my phone with text messages about how we can meet all the time now that he has his own ‘room.’ The first time I took him up on his invitation to host me, I didn’t really understand how literally he meant the word; it’s a square cell in the basement of a boarding house, with no shower, no sink, not even a real closet. In anyone else’s residence the dim little room with a single window covered with burglar bars wouldn’t be fit even for a workroom or an exercise room. I would’ve used it to store old boxes and Christmas decorations, back in Michigan. Here, though, it’s a cheap living space. I know I shouldn’t be a snob about these things, and beggars can’t be choosers, but an unheated room in someone’s basement, copulating on a mattress on a bare floor covered by stained linoleum, isn’t exactly the green promise of luxury Connecticut living. Especially when I’ve had to sneak in through the side door while the family occupying the first floor was busy at their dinner.
“Mmm, feels so good,” he moans, in his heavy accent. Then he remembers I’m there, and leans down to plant his lips on my mouth. He kisses like an untrained little boy, all eagerness without any actual technique. “I love it. You feel good, lover.”
“So do you,” I say, jerked back to the moment.
“You give me your seeds?” he asks, not opening his eyes. “You will fill me up, my lover?”
“I’ll seed you, “ I promise.
His dirty talk inspires me. When he rocks forward to get as much of inside him as possible, I thrust up. I can tell I’m hitting that little button of pleasure, both from the way it indents my swollen cock head, and from his ecstatic reaction. “Yesssss,” he hisses. His eyes are mere slits, revealing on the slightest glint. “Yessss.”
“You like that?” I ask. “You like—?”
Whatever I’m about to ask him is interrupted by a commotion at the closed and locked door to his room. It’s an explosion; it’s the hammering of a pair of fists against the cheap wood. Adrenaline courses through my veins, making me cold, and then hot. My heart accelerates and thuds so heavily in my chest that I’m certain The Mover can hear it. We both free, mid-grind. Outside the door is a male voice, deep and gruff, cursing in Spanish. I can’t make out what he’s saying with my fading memories of high school Spanish, but I can tell the tone. It’s angry. Enraged, even.
The Mover looks at me with big, dark eyes. “Oh, fuck,” is all he says. Then he pushes me back onto the bed and covers my lips with a finger before I can reply. He yells back in Spanish. I can’t understand a word of it.
In reply, the guy outside the door attempts to kick it in. I can hear the wood cracking in the frame. The only point at which the door is securely fastened is at the latch, where the lock is only a push-button in the knob. The Mover climbs up from the mattress and off my dick, then crosses to the door. He puts his head against the wood as if to listen, and then recoils when the guy on the other side once again assaults it.
In the shock and confusion of the moment I don’t know what I’m supposed to be thinking. I’m surprised to see that I’m still rock-hard, mostly. I’ve stayed erect through worse yelling, though. The pair of them begin arguing with each other at the tops of their voices while I consider what I should be doing. Crawling across the floor to retrieve my clothes next to where The Mover is standing, maybe? Hiding underneath the tiger blanket?
The argument goes on for about a minute, but it seems infinitely longer. The volume decreases slightly, then more. At last they’re arguing in only raised voices, rapidly and unintelligibly. Finally, The Mover shakes his head, rolls his eyes, and pads back to the mattress. “Estúpido. He is stupid,” he proclaims.
“What’s going on?”
“Oh, my neighbor. He all the time wants money for drugs. I tell him no, but you see how he gets.”
Oh, fantastic, I think to myself. A drug-hungry addict high enough almost to break down a door in a boarding house to extort money from his neighbor, who’s naked and having gay butt sex with a strange white guy. That’s really I need in my life. I raise myself from the mattress, rise to a standing position, and move for my clothes.
He begs me to stay. He wants my dick—no, he needs my dick. But I’m too far past the point of excitement now, after that nerve-shattering barrage. I’m sweaty, and my head is throbbing almost as loudly as the addict’s fists against the door had pounded. I just want to get out as quickly and quietly as possible. I dress, and apologize as best I can. Once he’s unlocked the door and peeked out in the basement to make sure the coast is clear, I stealthily make my way out, and onto the street with its mix of houses and light industrial businesses.
And to be honest, I haven’t been back since.
Showing posts with label the mover. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the mover. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
51 Photos
After two encounters in a row, within a couple of days of each other, that ended up as a poopy mess, I have to confess that I was a little gun-shy about hooking up again. With anyone. But when my local Puerto Rican fuckbuddy, the sexy, muscular furniture mover, messaged me last Thursday night, I couldn’t help but feel the stirrings of longing down in my pants.
sup lover?, he asked.
I was sitting in a Taco Bell at the time, having a solitary early dinner. I had the evening to myself, and didn’t have either the inclination to cook or to spend that much time or money on my meal. I’d planned to head home and work on a couple of projects I have cooking. But this sounded better. How are you, sexy man? I wrote back.
let me have your big dick my love, he texted. i got my own room now we can meet.
That was right. I hadn’t seen my little Rican lover in a few weeks because he’d been in transition. He’d been living with his sister—along with her husband and her husband’s mother and her two daughters—in a cramped two-bedroom apartment when I’d first met him. Since the new year, he’d found a place of his own, which would make getting together easier.
Let’s do it, I texted, after a moment’s hesitation. Those projects at home could wait. My dick was hard, and needed a place to unload.
I picked him up in front of his sister’s high-rise a very few minutes later. He’d been having dinner there. He hopped into my car and, to my surprise, gave me a big kiss on the lips right then and there. His hand went straight to my thigh, and squeezed. The street was dark and its sole lamp was at the far end, but I could tell my mover looked good. He wore a pair of sweatpants that fit tight around his round rear, and hung slack over his muscular legs and thighs. His pecs were barely contained in a wife-beater scooped low enough that I could see the religious tattoos inked on his chest. “Papi,” he breathed, as he put his hand on the back of my head and pulled my face down to him.
I had hastily to put my car into park so that I wouldn’t lose control of it during our kiss.
His new place was only two blocks away. (“Remember the ice cream store and that is my street. Now when you think of ice cream you will always think of me!” he said with delight, on the drive over.) I followed his directions and parked the car in front of an auto shop that was closed for the night. We walked up the street, and paused in front of a large bungalow that had definitely seen better days. He stopped right when we’d stepped through the uneven swinging front gate that needed a coat of paint. “Stay here, papi, while I check to see if it is clear,” he told me.
I was a little taken aback when finally he came back and snuck me through the front door and down the stairs into the basement, past a vibrating washing machine and through a door at the cellar’s far end. When he meant he’d gotten a room, he meant a room. It was a square box of a room with no bathroom, no sink, no kitchen. Just a small window set high near the ceiling, a mattress on the floor, a TV propped on a plastic milk crate, and a closet full of his overalls and casual clothes. On the mattress was spread a fleece bedspread printed with a giant picture of Jesus, holding up a pair of fingers either to bless someone, or perhaps test which way the wind was blowing.
My mover smiled at me with delight. “Now we can be alone when we like, my love,” he said, pushing me down onto the floor and the mattress. “And I get your beautiful cock all to myself.”
When he put it that way, there wasn’t much to which I could object. Right?
Personal confession time. One of the things I rarely write about is how bad my eyesight really is. I usually wear contact lenses, but a couple of times a week I’ll switch things up with my glasses, which are spectacularly nerdy and (I think) rather cool, but without which I’m pretty damned helpless. I was wearing my glasses that night. But I have to admit—once my mover had gently removed them from my nose and ears and folded them up in a safe place on the floor, I wasn’t paying attention to the shabbiness of that room anymore. Nor to the fact that he was removing my clothes while someone from upstairs was sorting their laundry not four feet on the other side of the locked door, or that he was holding down my hands over my head and licking out my pits right there on Christ’s face.
“This is my dick,” he kept saying, after it was loose and free. He put it into his mouth and sucked it all the way down before coming back up for air. “This dick belongs to me, right, pa? All for me?”
“All for you,” I murmured dreamily. Not being able to see him put me into something of a dream state. I just allowed myself to enjoy the sensations, to ride the crest of the wave of pleasure.
“All for me,” he agreed. He had a small bottle of lube on the deep window sill high above the bed. He spread some on his hole and then a little more on my dick, surrounding it with his fist. Then he straddled my hips with his knees and slowly lowered himself down onto my. My eyes opened when I felt the tight ring of his hole surround my flared head. They opened further when he settled right down onto me and slid to the base.
His hips wriggled as he reached bottom. He leaned forward, forced my arms above my head and held them there once more, and kissed me.
We fucked like that for a long time. I would thrust up, and he would grind down. It was slow, and unhurried, and languorous, like a summer afternoon’s fuck. When we came, it was together—him slightly ahead of me, as he jerked his uncut dick until it spewed droplets of clear fluid all over my chest, me only a little behind, with his ass still contracting around my meat. Then we remained connected together as if the orgasms hadn’t happened, for a very long time, still grinding, still moving our hips in their circular orbits around each other’s suns.
When he finally rested on his knees and lifted himself up, he went for the windowsill again. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but after a moment I felt something cold and wet and soft on my dick. He had a packet of baby wipes that he was using on my dick and balls, and he cleaned me off so sweetly and thoroughly that all I could do was sigh and dream and enjoy the sensations against my dick, my pelvis, my balls, my taint. Even if he had been dirty (and I don’t think he was) that was the way to take care of it after.
“I want a photo of you inside my ass, love,” he whispered, when he was done.
I was game. I shrugged and told him sure.
He ran to his closet and a moment later emerged with a battered digital SLR camera. I was a little surprised at how expertly he fiddled with the lens, but I should have remembered he’d told me he’d gone to an art school, in Puerto Rico. “Can I?” he asked, pointing between my legs.
I relaxed. “Okay,” I said. Then with pleasure, I watched as his blurry outline knelt down on the floor, pointed the camera at my three-quarters-hard dick, and snapped a shot.
“Let me take pictures of you, love,” he whispered. “So I can remember.”
Normally I’m wary about letting guys snap photos of my body and face after sex, because I’m not that convinced I’m porn material above the waist. There have been also a couple of times in the past when I’ve seen photos of myself that men have snapped that make me seem as if I’m nothing but a big dick and a couple of huge cavernous nostrils, or who manage to make me look as if I have the worst outbreak of acne possible, even on days my complexion is clear. But my mover was so sweet, and what I could see of him naked and crouched before me was so sexy, that I just held my dick in my hand until it was hard again, pointed it up for the camera, and posed.
The shutter clicked, over and over again. He eased me back against Jesus and shot photos of me smiling at him, my hair wild and crazy. He lifted my legs until my knees pointed at the ceiling, and took shots of me masturbating for him. He cuddled down next to me and made out with me while he held the camera at arm’s length and captured the moment. He took photos of me sucking his dick, of him sucking mine. And he had me take the camera and point it at his hole while I slid into him. Then he would grab the device and look at the photos while we fucked again.
I didn’t see any of the photos. He showed them to me, to his credit. But I simply couldn’t see them. My mover would hold out the viewfinder at arm’s length, and flip through the shots. “That is a good one, my love,” he’d say. Or he’d hiss with pleasure and murmur, “Oh, yessssss. I like that. So beautiful.”
But I couldn’t see them, because my eyesight is simply that bad without my glasses. I would have had to pull the camera down and peer at it through one eye, two inches away, to see anything sharply. My vanity couldn’t stand that indignity.
Or maybe, just maybe, I didn’t really care what the photos looked like. If he was happy, I was happy. I like to think that’s the reason I just lay there, and listened to his grunts and watched his smiles from up close, as he reviewed our moments together.
“How many photos did you take?” I asked, two and a half hours later, when I was pulling on my socks.
I was sitting on the corner of his mattress, legs spread, naked, disheveled. He was standing. He looked at his camera. “Forty-nine,” he said.
“Make it an even fifty,” I told him.
He grinned wide, and pointed the camera at me, so he could take another photo of me in that unglamorous pose—hair hanging down in front of my face, knees spread, cock hanging so low that the tip almost scraped the floor. Then he said, “One more.” And he reached down, and smoothed away my hair, and lifted my chin high in the air. “Like that,” he breathed, backing away. I heard the shutter click a final time.
Fifty-one photos. None of which I actually saw. And you know what? For now I’m good with that.
sup lover?, he asked.
I was sitting in a Taco Bell at the time, having a solitary early dinner. I had the evening to myself, and didn’t have either the inclination to cook or to spend that much time or money on my meal. I’d planned to head home and work on a couple of projects I have cooking. But this sounded better. How are you, sexy man? I wrote back.
let me have your big dick my love, he texted. i got my own room now we can meet.
That was right. I hadn’t seen my little Rican lover in a few weeks because he’d been in transition. He’d been living with his sister—along with her husband and her husband’s mother and her two daughters—in a cramped two-bedroom apartment when I’d first met him. Since the new year, he’d found a place of his own, which would make getting together easier.
Let’s do it, I texted, after a moment’s hesitation. Those projects at home could wait. My dick was hard, and needed a place to unload.
I picked him up in front of his sister’s high-rise a very few minutes later. He’d been having dinner there. He hopped into my car and, to my surprise, gave me a big kiss on the lips right then and there. His hand went straight to my thigh, and squeezed. The street was dark and its sole lamp was at the far end, but I could tell my mover looked good. He wore a pair of sweatpants that fit tight around his round rear, and hung slack over his muscular legs and thighs. His pecs were barely contained in a wife-beater scooped low enough that I could see the religious tattoos inked on his chest. “Papi,” he breathed, as he put his hand on the back of my head and pulled my face down to him.
I had hastily to put my car into park so that I wouldn’t lose control of it during our kiss.
His new place was only two blocks away. (“Remember the ice cream store and that is my street. Now when you think of ice cream you will always think of me!” he said with delight, on the drive over.) I followed his directions and parked the car in front of an auto shop that was closed for the night. We walked up the street, and paused in front of a large bungalow that had definitely seen better days. He stopped right when we’d stepped through the uneven swinging front gate that needed a coat of paint. “Stay here, papi, while I check to see if it is clear,” he told me.
I was a little taken aback when finally he came back and snuck me through the front door and down the stairs into the basement, past a vibrating washing machine and through a door at the cellar’s far end. When he meant he’d gotten a room, he meant a room. It was a square box of a room with no bathroom, no sink, no kitchen. Just a small window set high near the ceiling, a mattress on the floor, a TV propped on a plastic milk crate, and a closet full of his overalls and casual clothes. On the mattress was spread a fleece bedspread printed with a giant picture of Jesus, holding up a pair of fingers either to bless someone, or perhaps test which way the wind was blowing.
My mover smiled at me with delight. “Now we can be alone when we like, my love,” he said, pushing me down onto the floor and the mattress. “And I get your beautiful cock all to myself.”
When he put it that way, there wasn’t much to which I could object. Right?
Personal confession time. One of the things I rarely write about is how bad my eyesight really is. I usually wear contact lenses, but a couple of times a week I’ll switch things up with my glasses, which are spectacularly nerdy and (I think) rather cool, but without which I’m pretty damned helpless. I was wearing my glasses that night. But I have to admit—once my mover had gently removed them from my nose and ears and folded them up in a safe place on the floor, I wasn’t paying attention to the shabbiness of that room anymore. Nor to the fact that he was removing my clothes while someone from upstairs was sorting their laundry not four feet on the other side of the locked door, or that he was holding down my hands over my head and licking out my pits right there on Christ’s face.
“This is my dick,” he kept saying, after it was loose and free. He put it into his mouth and sucked it all the way down before coming back up for air. “This dick belongs to me, right, pa? All for me?”
“All for you,” I murmured dreamily. Not being able to see him put me into something of a dream state. I just allowed myself to enjoy the sensations, to ride the crest of the wave of pleasure.
“All for me,” he agreed. He had a small bottle of lube on the deep window sill high above the bed. He spread some on his hole and then a little more on my dick, surrounding it with his fist. Then he straddled my hips with his knees and slowly lowered himself down onto my. My eyes opened when I felt the tight ring of his hole surround my flared head. They opened further when he settled right down onto me and slid to the base.
His hips wriggled as he reached bottom. He leaned forward, forced my arms above my head and held them there once more, and kissed me.
We fucked like that for a long time. I would thrust up, and he would grind down. It was slow, and unhurried, and languorous, like a summer afternoon’s fuck. When we came, it was together—him slightly ahead of me, as he jerked his uncut dick until it spewed droplets of clear fluid all over my chest, me only a little behind, with his ass still contracting around my meat. Then we remained connected together as if the orgasms hadn’t happened, for a very long time, still grinding, still moving our hips in their circular orbits around each other’s suns.
When he finally rested on his knees and lifted himself up, he went for the windowsill again. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but after a moment I felt something cold and wet and soft on my dick. He had a packet of baby wipes that he was using on my dick and balls, and he cleaned me off so sweetly and thoroughly that all I could do was sigh and dream and enjoy the sensations against my dick, my pelvis, my balls, my taint. Even if he had been dirty (and I don’t think he was) that was the way to take care of it after.
“I want a photo of you inside my ass, love,” he whispered, when he was done.
I was game. I shrugged and told him sure.
He ran to his closet and a moment later emerged with a battered digital SLR camera. I was a little surprised at how expertly he fiddled with the lens, but I should have remembered he’d told me he’d gone to an art school, in Puerto Rico. “Can I?” he asked, pointing between my legs.
I relaxed. “Okay,” I said. Then with pleasure, I watched as his blurry outline knelt down on the floor, pointed the camera at my three-quarters-hard dick, and snapped a shot.
“Let me take pictures of you, love,” he whispered. “So I can remember.”
Normally I’m wary about letting guys snap photos of my body and face after sex, because I’m not that convinced I’m porn material above the waist. There have been also a couple of times in the past when I’ve seen photos of myself that men have snapped that make me seem as if I’m nothing but a big dick and a couple of huge cavernous nostrils, or who manage to make me look as if I have the worst outbreak of acne possible, even on days my complexion is clear. But my mover was so sweet, and what I could see of him naked and crouched before me was so sexy, that I just held my dick in my hand until it was hard again, pointed it up for the camera, and posed.
The shutter clicked, over and over again. He eased me back against Jesus and shot photos of me smiling at him, my hair wild and crazy. He lifted my legs until my knees pointed at the ceiling, and took shots of me masturbating for him. He cuddled down next to me and made out with me while he held the camera at arm’s length and captured the moment. He took photos of me sucking his dick, of him sucking mine. And he had me take the camera and point it at his hole while I slid into him. Then he would grab the device and look at the photos while we fucked again.
I didn’t see any of the photos. He showed them to me, to his credit. But I simply couldn’t see them. My mover would hold out the viewfinder at arm’s length, and flip through the shots. “That is a good one, my love,” he’d say. Or he’d hiss with pleasure and murmur, “Oh, yessssss. I like that. So beautiful.”
But I couldn’t see them, because my eyesight is simply that bad without my glasses. I would have had to pull the camera down and peer at it through one eye, two inches away, to see anything sharply. My vanity couldn’t stand that indignity.
Or maybe, just maybe, I didn’t really care what the photos looked like. If he was happy, I was happy. I like to think that’s the reason I just lay there, and listened to his grunts and watched his smiles from up close, as he reviewed our moments together.
“How many photos did you take?” I asked, two and a half hours later, when I was pulling on my socks.
I was sitting on the corner of his mattress, legs spread, naked, disheveled. He was standing. He looked at his camera. “Forty-nine,” he said.
“Make it an even fifty,” I told him.
He grinned wide, and pointed the camera at me, so he could take another photo of me in that unglamorous pose—hair hanging down in front of my face, knees spread, cock hanging so low that the tip almost scraped the floor. Then he said, “One more.” And he reached down, and smoothed away my hair, and lifted my chin high in the air. “Like that,” he breathed, backing away. I heard the shutter click a final time.
Fifty-one photos. None of which I actually saw. And you know what? For now I’m good with that.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Merry Christmas, Lover
u r a artist, lover?? read the text message I got, shortly before Christmas. My fuckbuddy, the muscular Puerto Rican who works as a furniture mover, texts me several times a day. Usually his notes are brief and perfunctory, expressing a need for my dick deep in his hole, or telling me how much he loves me and needs to see me. For the first time, however, he’s asked me what I did for a living. I tell him.
i am artist 2!! he writes back. i go 2 school 4 art in PR. And, lover I want 2 show u my art.
I tend to get on well with artistic types of all sorts, whether they’re painters or poets or photographers or decorators or hair dressers or dancers. I find myself attracted to temperaments that are passionate and express themselves creatively. I can’t prove it save anecdotally, but I’ve always felt that the lovers I’ve had with deep artistic streaks have often been the most passionate in bed; they commit to sex in the same way they commit to their crafts, with joy and excitement and an often total abandonment to pleasure.
And I’d had nothing but pleasure in my encounter with the mover.
It’s Christmas Eve. I’d been to a church service in the afternoon, and had a long, quiet evening ahead of me. Then I get the text from him. my sister is home cannot host, it reads. It’s followed by another. i have present 4 u tho my love. can u meet?
We arrange that I’ll drive over to his apartment complex, park across the street, meet him there. He’s already waiting when I drive up the steep hill that bears his street address and park the car, being careful to put on the emergency brakes. He’s a gray figure in the dusk, barely visible against the brick wall of the parking garage. He peers through the gathering dark at my black car, then beetles over and lets himself in the passenger side door.
“Lover,” he breathes. I admit to a certain thrill at being address so familiarly, after only one encounter with this built little sparkplug of a man. Then his lips are on mine as the internal car lights fade. His mouth is cold, but tastes sweet, like mint candy. His mittened hands run up and down the front of my leather jacket, then down to the warm spot between my legs. His next words are a barely-whispered sight. “Oh, lover.”
“I’ve missed you, baby,” I tell him, as I stroke his hair.
“I can’t stay for long,” he replies, only now looking around to make sure we’re not being watched. “My sister. . . .”
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “It’s nice just being able to see you.”
“But I want to give you this. I made it for you.” He’s been carrying something in his hand that he’d placed on the car’s floor when he jumped in. I’d vaguely noticed it, but since it was wrapped in a brown paper bag, I assumed it was a bottle of liquor.
And lest I be accused of racial stereotyping, I’d like to point out as hastily as I can, that it was also shaped like a bottle of liquor. He put the package in my hand. “In San Juan, where I grow up, I go to school to be artist,” he told me. “For you, I make this. For you. Just for you. On Christmas Eve.”
For a moment, it’s tough for me to breathe. Any gift is an honor. A gift made especially for me is a fucking thrill. “Gosh,” I say, because it’s my go-to phrase when I’m speechless. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Open,” he says, gesturing to the package. “Happy Christmas, love.”
I grin, and nod, and pull down the brown paper. . . .
. . . and I find myself faced with the ugliest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s like—well, I don’t know how to describe it, exactly. It was as if he’d taken an empty wine bottle, covered it in papier-mâché, and then while it was still sticky and wet, attached desiccated jellybeans in a random fashion all over the exterior.Then he’d painted the entire thing orange. Not a nice rust color, or a warm, homey orange. Hazard orange, or construction cone orange. Around the neck hung a sprig of artificial holly from the dollar store. The exterior is lumpy, and rough, and I can see the impressions of his thumbs on the surface.
“Do you like?” he’s asking. He’s anxious to hear the answer.
“Well . . . wow!” I say. The boner that had been bulging in my pants was slowly deflating. Because honestly, all I could think was, Holy fuck what the hell kind of art school TAUGHT YOU TO DO THAT?
“I am so glad, lover!” he said, almost bouncing up and down in the front seat. “So happy to make you happy.”
I’m trying to resist the urge to look around and see if Ashton Kutcher is going to come out and inform me I’ve been punk’d. “Just the fact you went to so much . . . so much trouble is the sweetest thing in the world,” I tell him, honestly. “Thank you.”
He grabs me again, this time so hard that I have to clutch onto the bottle to keep it from flying. The papier-mâché crackles slightly from the pressure, and leaks orange dust onto my console. He gives me a ferocious kiss that begins warming my groin again. Then, with a peck on the cheek, he’s opening the door again. “You make me too happy,” he tells me. “Merry Christmas, lover.”
Then the door closes, and he’s scurrying back to the warmth of the apartment building. I watch him go, bottle still in my hand.
The orange bottle has occupied a place of honor on the floor of my closet, ever since. But don’t get me wrong. How could I dislike any thing made for me especially, by someone who treats me so nicely? It might look like an orange wart, or a kindergarten teacher’s worst craft-time nightmare. It might flake paint like a Republican congressman flakes dandruff. It might even have a faint stench of vino and it’s possible that the paint has never completely dried.
But in the spirit of Christmas, I love that ugly-ass thing.
i am artist 2!! he writes back. i go 2 school 4 art in PR. And, lover I want 2 show u my art.
I tend to get on well with artistic types of all sorts, whether they’re painters or poets or photographers or decorators or hair dressers or dancers. I find myself attracted to temperaments that are passionate and express themselves creatively. I can’t prove it save anecdotally, but I’ve always felt that the lovers I’ve had with deep artistic streaks have often been the most passionate in bed; they commit to sex in the same way they commit to their crafts, with joy and excitement and an often total abandonment to pleasure.
And I’d had nothing but pleasure in my encounter with the mover.
It’s Christmas Eve. I’d been to a church service in the afternoon, and had a long, quiet evening ahead of me. Then I get the text from him. my sister is home cannot host, it reads. It’s followed by another. i have present 4 u tho my love. can u meet?
We arrange that I’ll drive over to his apartment complex, park across the street, meet him there. He’s already waiting when I drive up the steep hill that bears his street address and park the car, being careful to put on the emergency brakes. He’s a gray figure in the dusk, barely visible against the brick wall of the parking garage. He peers through the gathering dark at my black car, then beetles over and lets himself in the passenger side door.
“Lover,” he breathes. I admit to a certain thrill at being address so familiarly, after only one encounter with this built little sparkplug of a man. Then his lips are on mine as the internal car lights fade. His mouth is cold, but tastes sweet, like mint candy. His mittened hands run up and down the front of my leather jacket, then down to the warm spot between my legs. His next words are a barely-whispered sight. “Oh, lover.”
“I’ve missed you, baby,” I tell him, as I stroke his hair.
“I can’t stay for long,” he replies, only now looking around to make sure we’re not being watched. “My sister. . . .”
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “It’s nice just being able to see you.”
“But I want to give you this. I made it for you.” He’s been carrying something in his hand that he’d placed on the car’s floor when he jumped in. I’d vaguely noticed it, but since it was wrapped in a brown paper bag, I assumed it was a bottle of liquor.
And lest I be accused of racial stereotyping, I’d like to point out as hastily as I can, that it was also shaped like a bottle of liquor. He put the package in my hand. “In San Juan, where I grow up, I go to school to be artist,” he told me. “For you, I make this. For you. Just for you. On Christmas Eve.”
For a moment, it’s tough for me to breathe. Any gift is an honor. A gift made especially for me is a fucking thrill. “Gosh,” I say, because it’s my go-to phrase when I’m speechless. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Open,” he says, gesturing to the package. “Happy Christmas, love.”
I grin, and nod, and pull down the brown paper. . . .
. . . and I find myself faced with the ugliest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s like—well, I don’t know how to describe it, exactly. It was as if he’d taken an empty wine bottle, covered it in papier-mâché, and then while it was still sticky and wet, attached desiccated jellybeans in a random fashion all over the exterior.Then he’d painted the entire thing orange. Not a nice rust color, or a warm, homey orange. Hazard orange, or construction cone orange. Around the neck hung a sprig of artificial holly from the dollar store. The exterior is lumpy, and rough, and I can see the impressions of his thumbs on the surface.
“Do you like?” he’s asking. He’s anxious to hear the answer.
“Well . . . wow!” I say. The boner that had been bulging in my pants was slowly deflating. Because honestly, all I could think was, Holy fuck what the hell kind of art school TAUGHT YOU TO DO THAT?
“I am so glad, lover!” he said, almost bouncing up and down in the front seat. “So happy to make you happy.”
I’m trying to resist the urge to look around and see if Ashton Kutcher is going to come out and inform me I’ve been punk’d. “Just the fact you went to so much . . . so much trouble is the sweetest thing in the world,” I tell him, honestly. “Thank you.”
He grabs me again, this time so hard that I have to clutch onto the bottle to keep it from flying. The papier-mâché crackles slightly from the pressure, and leaks orange dust onto my console. He gives me a ferocious kiss that begins warming my groin again. Then, with a peck on the cheek, he’s opening the door again. “You make me too happy,” he tells me. “Merry Christmas, lover.”
Then the door closes, and he’s scurrying back to the warmth of the apartment building. I watch him go, bottle still in my hand.
The orange bottle has occupied a place of honor on the floor of my closet, ever since. But don’t get me wrong. How could I dislike any thing made for me especially, by someone who treats me so nicely? It might look like an orange wart, or a kindergarten teacher’s worst craft-time nightmare. It might flake paint like a Republican congressman flakes dandruff. It might even have a faint stench of vino and it’s possible that the paint has never completely dried.
But in the spirit of Christmas, I love that ugly-ass thing.
Friday, December 16, 2011
My Love
His photos seem designed to make me drool. He’s a Puerto Rican guy in his mid-thirties, and in all his clothed shots he’s wearing baggy shorts that cut off in the middle of his thick calves, showing only a few inches of flesh before it’s taken over by black ankle socks and a fuckin’ huge pair of beat-up sneakers. He’s muscular in that natural way that manual laborers can be. In some of the pictures he’s got a beard, or a goatee. In others, it’s a sculpted soul patch, or a landing strip on his chin.
He’s hot, and he’s horny, and he’s available. He’s also less than a mile from where I live. That’s all I need to know. I tell him I’ll meet him in ten minutes.
There’s a buffer zone between my neighborhood and his—a grid of storage warehouses, landscaping companies (including my own landscaper’s company), and other light industrial facilities. My dick’s still hard from the conversation we had online as I dodge flatbeds carrying small bulldozers and pickup trucks loaded with leaf-blowing equipment. Once I cross under the freeway, I’m into the area where he lives, where wooden houses perch precariously on steep hills. It’s not a poor neighborhood by any means, but it’s by no means as ritzy and pretentious as the one that’s temporarily adopted me. In fact, I always think of it as the Taco Truck Neighborhood, since only two blocks to the north sits a noisy white truck that dispenses in equal enormous quantities both gas fumes and delicious cheap lunches on foam plates.
He meets me at the door of the apartment building, set back from the street. He’s as sexy as his photos, and wearing a floppy pair of sweatpants, a tank top. His bare feet slap on the linoleum as he leads me to the elevator. He’s staying with his sister and her two nieces, he explains as we ride up, but they’re out for the afternoon and he has the place to himself. “Damn, pa,” he says, when he looks me up and down after the elevator door closes. “You so tall.”
All the younger latin guys around here call me pa. I’ve learned to like it. His eyes devour me in the elevator, but we don’t touch. There’s a camera prominently displayed above head level. “Come on, pa,” he whispers, when the elevator doors open onto a hallways that’s pungent with the scent of cumin and sweet onions. “I got things I want to do to you.”
He’s sexy, this one. When he walks down the hall to his sister’s apartment, his butt cheeks twitch up and down with every step. His hair is tousled, as if he’s just gotten out of bed. He strides down the hall as if he’s unobserved, unaccompanied, even pausing to scratch his beautiful round butt as he unlocks the door. Once it’s shut, though, he’s all over me. He’s standing on tiptoes to thrust his mouth against mine. It tastes of coffee and mint candy. “Oh baby,” he moans. “I want you so bad.” His dick is tenting the fabric of his sweats.
I shuck myself out of my leather jacket. It falls to the floor with the thump. “I want you,” I murmur back. I’ve got his face between my hands. His beard rasps against my palms. It’s cropped close, and is mostly dark, but there are a few gray hairs already popping up on that sexy face.
He says something to me in rapid-fire Spanish that I don’t comprehend, but I get his meaning when he tugs at my hand and pulls me in the direction of the bedroom. The moment that door is shut and locked—against the possible intrusion of the sister and the nieces, I’m guessing—he’s stripping off his clothes.
Off come the sweats, and out pops his little dick. It’s tiny, and narrow; even erect, it can’t measure any longer than four and a half inches. It’s a hot little pinga, though, and a good inch of overhanging foreskin droops from the tip. His tank top flies in the air, and he’s down to skin that’s the color of caramel sauce. “You like what you see, baby?” he wants to know. His stubby fingers are plucking his nipples.
“God, you’re beautiful,” I tell him. I kick off my sneakers and shimmy out of my sweatshirt. “I love your muscles.”
The compliment makes him shy. “I don’t work out or nothing. It’s just from my job, baby.” He tells me the name of the local furniture store where he works as a mover in the warehouse. He’s running the flats of his palms over his biceps and forearms the entire time. I’ve got my pants off now, and he’s staring at my dick. “Now that’s what’s beautiful, pa,” he breathes.
He’s on his knees, mouth on my dick, pushing me back onto his mattress. The bed is covered with pillows and there’s a half-consumed Pop Tart on a paper plate at the far edge. It’s clean, though, and still carries a scent of laundry detergent and fabric softener. He’s actually using suction on my dick, inhaling as hard as possible as if he’s trying to nurse it. It feels good, though. I hold his head as he makes me feel better and better.
For a long time we alternate between his sucking and him mounting me. He rubs his little dick against mine as we make out. He grunts and groans as we connect and hump. He’s so frantic and desperate that he can’t decide what he wants—my dick down his mouth, his mouth on mine, or my cock up his ass. Sometimes he’ll straddle me and rub my shaft across his hairy crack. When I reach around behind him to grab those meaty cheeks, his eyes roll up and back into his head, and his neck drops back, as if I’ve slid out a toy spine.
I roll him over, and climb on top of him. Now it’s my turn to hump him. My dick’s prodding at his hole, bluntly stabbing at his butt as I make out with him. His own dick is dripping heavily with precum that glistens on my chest, where his foreskin paints it. “Oh, my love,” he says. The words startle me. They sound like dialogue from a telenovella, but he’s just responding to the heat of the moment. “I want you inside me, lover,” he says, in his accented English. “I want your big dick inside me, pa.”
I flip him over. When I spit on my hand, my middle and index fingers slide right in. I add more saliva to my dick, kneel on the mattress, and position myself behind him.
His hands clutch at the mattress and come up with fistfuls of sheet when I start pushing in. “Aieeee!” he moans, as if he’s in pain. “So big!” But then I’m not pushing at all. I’m just holding still while he impales himself with it. He doesn’t seem to care about the pain. He just wants it inside him, desperately. There’s a moment when he reaches the base of the shaft that he seems to think he’s taken too much at once; he tenses, and goes silent, his mouth open and his lips still pursed. Then he pants, and breathes deeply, and begins gyrating his hips.
He feels good. He feels great, in fact. He’s reaching over his head, blindly trying to grasp the back of my head to pull my lips down to his. I make out with him over his shoulder. He awkwardly tries to drive his tongue into my mouth as I begin pistoning in and out of his ass. “Ohhh,” he moans, over and over again. Then he bites his lower lip and shakes his head. He’s really getting into it now. Our rhythm locks. He’s thrusting back while I’m thrusting forward, and his hole is slipping around my meat like a tight-fitting glove.
When I pull him to his knees and begin fucking more vigorously, he starts swearing in Spanish again. His eyes open for the first time since I’ve entered him, and he stares at me over his shoulder with something in his eyes I can’t quite identify. There’s respect, certainly—respect for the meat that’s pummeling him from behind. There’s challenge, as if he wants me to push him further. But mostly I see animal lust.
Maybe he sees the same thing from me, because when our eyes lock, the temperature we’re generating seems to rise exponentially. I throw my dick all the way in, in one swift push that makes him wince. Then he’s looking straight at me again, nodding, telling me without words how much he fucking loves it.
His legs are spread wide. He’s pulling wide his ass cheeks, trying to admit as much of me as he can. He wants it all. Every millimeter. When he gets it, he still wants more. He slams down on it as if he’s trying to keep it for himself, as if he expects to walk away with it touching the deepest places inside him. Then I start to come. He’s listened to my breathing and knows when it’s arriving. “I want your babies,” he says.
His hand flies back and he twists around, trying to kiss me while I shoot. At the same time, he arches his back and sits back on my dick as it throbs and squirts into him. He’s shuddering himself. It takes me a while before the haze before my eyes clears, and I realize he’s shot his own load onto the mattress. His foreskin is dripping with sperm. There’s a trail of it across the bed, up to the pillow, where he’s shot.
And yet he hasn’t touched himself. He’s been on his hands and knees the entire time.
My dick slops out of him noisily when we untie from each other. “No, no, no,” he says. He’s been aggressive since the door shut, but now he’s soft and tender. With gentle hands he pushes me down onto the mattress, helping me avoid the spots he’s covered with his load. “I will be right back, my lover.”
The apartment’s overheated, I realize. I’m sweating up a storm. Through the open door I hear sounds of running water from the bathroom, and then he’s back with a washcloth. It’s discolored, but wet and warm, and he’s down between my legs, softly wiping off my dick. He runs the rough cloth under my balls, down my thighs, on the soles of my feet. Then he kisses the tip of my cock, still semi-hard, still dripping sperm.
“I love your cock, pa,” he says. “It makes me feel amazing. My love.”
When he calls me by that phrase again, I feel my dick stir.
He notices it. “My love,” he whispers, planting a kiss on my thigh. “My love,” he says, when I begin to harden again. Then, he’s covering my meat with kisses, whispering, “My love, my love. My love.”
And that that moment, right before we begin again, they’re the sweetest two words in the world.
He’s hot, and he’s horny, and he’s available. He’s also less than a mile from where I live. That’s all I need to know. I tell him I’ll meet him in ten minutes.
There’s a buffer zone between my neighborhood and his—a grid of storage warehouses, landscaping companies (including my own landscaper’s company), and other light industrial facilities. My dick’s still hard from the conversation we had online as I dodge flatbeds carrying small bulldozers and pickup trucks loaded with leaf-blowing equipment. Once I cross under the freeway, I’m into the area where he lives, where wooden houses perch precariously on steep hills. It’s not a poor neighborhood by any means, but it’s by no means as ritzy and pretentious as the one that’s temporarily adopted me. In fact, I always think of it as the Taco Truck Neighborhood, since only two blocks to the north sits a noisy white truck that dispenses in equal enormous quantities both gas fumes and delicious cheap lunches on foam plates.
He meets me at the door of the apartment building, set back from the street. He’s as sexy as his photos, and wearing a floppy pair of sweatpants, a tank top. His bare feet slap on the linoleum as he leads me to the elevator. He’s staying with his sister and her two nieces, he explains as we ride up, but they’re out for the afternoon and he has the place to himself. “Damn, pa,” he says, when he looks me up and down after the elevator door closes. “You so tall.”
All the younger latin guys around here call me pa. I’ve learned to like it. His eyes devour me in the elevator, but we don’t touch. There’s a camera prominently displayed above head level. “Come on, pa,” he whispers, when the elevator doors open onto a hallways that’s pungent with the scent of cumin and sweet onions. “I got things I want to do to you.”
He’s sexy, this one. When he walks down the hall to his sister’s apartment, his butt cheeks twitch up and down with every step. His hair is tousled, as if he’s just gotten out of bed. He strides down the hall as if he’s unobserved, unaccompanied, even pausing to scratch his beautiful round butt as he unlocks the door. Once it’s shut, though, he’s all over me. He’s standing on tiptoes to thrust his mouth against mine. It tastes of coffee and mint candy. “Oh baby,” he moans. “I want you so bad.” His dick is tenting the fabric of his sweats.
I shuck myself out of my leather jacket. It falls to the floor with the thump. “I want you,” I murmur back. I’ve got his face between my hands. His beard rasps against my palms. It’s cropped close, and is mostly dark, but there are a few gray hairs already popping up on that sexy face.
He says something to me in rapid-fire Spanish that I don’t comprehend, but I get his meaning when he tugs at my hand and pulls me in the direction of the bedroom. The moment that door is shut and locked—against the possible intrusion of the sister and the nieces, I’m guessing—he’s stripping off his clothes.
Off come the sweats, and out pops his little dick. It’s tiny, and narrow; even erect, it can’t measure any longer than four and a half inches. It’s a hot little pinga, though, and a good inch of overhanging foreskin droops from the tip. His tank top flies in the air, and he’s down to skin that’s the color of caramel sauce. “You like what you see, baby?” he wants to know. His stubby fingers are plucking his nipples.
“God, you’re beautiful,” I tell him. I kick off my sneakers and shimmy out of my sweatshirt. “I love your muscles.”
The compliment makes him shy. “I don’t work out or nothing. It’s just from my job, baby.” He tells me the name of the local furniture store where he works as a mover in the warehouse. He’s running the flats of his palms over his biceps and forearms the entire time. I’ve got my pants off now, and he’s staring at my dick. “Now that’s what’s beautiful, pa,” he breathes.
He’s on his knees, mouth on my dick, pushing me back onto his mattress. The bed is covered with pillows and there’s a half-consumed Pop Tart on a paper plate at the far edge. It’s clean, though, and still carries a scent of laundry detergent and fabric softener. He’s actually using suction on my dick, inhaling as hard as possible as if he’s trying to nurse it. It feels good, though. I hold his head as he makes me feel better and better.
For a long time we alternate between his sucking and him mounting me. He rubs his little dick against mine as we make out. He grunts and groans as we connect and hump. He’s so frantic and desperate that he can’t decide what he wants—my dick down his mouth, his mouth on mine, or my cock up his ass. Sometimes he’ll straddle me and rub my shaft across his hairy crack. When I reach around behind him to grab those meaty cheeks, his eyes roll up and back into his head, and his neck drops back, as if I’ve slid out a toy spine.
I roll him over, and climb on top of him. Now it’s my turn to hump him. My dick’s prodding at his hole, bluntly stabbing at his butt as I make out with him. His own dick is dripping heavily with precum that glistens on my chest, where his foreskin paints it. “Oh, my love,” he says. The words startle me. They sound like dialogue from a telenovella, but he’s just responding to the heat of the moment. “I want you inside me, lover,” he says, in his accented English. “I want your big dick inside me, pa.”
I flip him over. When I spit on my hand, my middle and index fingers slide right in. I add more saliva to my dick, kneel on the mattress, and position myself behind him.
His hands clutch at the mattress and come up with fistfuls of sheet when I start pushing in. “Aieeee!” he moans, as if he’s in pain. “So big!” But then I’m not pushing at all. I’m just holding still while he impales himself with it. He doesn’t seem to care about the pain. He just wants it inside him, desperately. There’s a moment when he reaches the base of the shaft that he seems to think he’s taken too much at once; he tenses, and goes silent, his mouth open and his lips still pursed. Then he pants, and breathes deeply, and begins gyrating his hips.
He feels good. He feels great, in fact. He’s reaching over his head, blindly trying to grasp the back of my head to pull my lips down to his. I make out with him over his shoulder. He awkwardly tries to drive his tongue into my mouth as I begin pistoning in and out of his ass. “Ohhh,” he moans, over and over again. Then he bites his lower lip and shakes his head. He’s really getting into it now. Our rhythm locks. He’s thrusting back while I’m thrusting forward, and his hole is slipping around my meat like a tight-fitting glove.
When I pull him to his knees and begin fucking more vigorously, he starts swearing in Spanish again. His eyes open for the first time since I’ve entered him, and he stares at me over his shoulder with something in his eyes I can’t quite identify. There’s respect, certainly—respect for the meat that’s pummeling him from behind. There’s challenge, as if he wants me to push him further. But mostly I see animal lust.
Maybe he sees the same thing from me, because when our eyes lock, the temperature we’re generating seems to rise exponentially. I throw my dick all the way in, in one swift push that makes him wince. Then he’s looking straight at me again, nodding, telling me without words how much he fucking loves it.
His legs are spread wide. He’s pulling wide his ass cheeks, trying to admit as much of me as he can. He wants it all. Every millimeter. When he gets it, he still wants more. He slams down on it as if he’s trying to keep it for himself, as if he expects to walk away with it touching the deepest places inside him. Then I start to come. He’s listened to my breathing and knows when it’s arriving. “I want your babies,” he says.
His hand flies back and he twists around, trying to kiss me while I shoot. At the same time, he arches his back and sits back on my dick as it throbs and squirts into him. He’s shuddering himself. It takes me a while before the haze before my eyes clears, and I realize he’s shot his own load onto the mattress. His foreskin is dripping with sperm. There’s a trail of it across the bed, up to the pillow, where he’s shot.
And yet he hasn’t touched himself. He’s been on his hands and knees the entire time.
My dick slops out of him noisily when we untie from each other. “No, no, no,” he says. He’s been aggressive since the door shut, but now he’s soft and tender. With gentle hands he pushes me down onto the mattress, helping me avoid the spots he’s covered with his load. “I will be right back, my lover.”
The apartment’s overheated, I realize. I’m sweating up a storm. Through the open door I hear sounds of running water from the bathroom, and then he’s back with a washcloth. It’s discolored, but wet and warm, and he’s down between my legs, softly wiping off my dick. He runs the rough cloth under my balls, down my thighs, on the soles of my feet. Then he kisses the tip of my cock, still semi-hard, still dripping sperm.
“I love your cock, pa,” he says. “It makes me feel amazing. My love.”
When he calls me by that phrase again, I feel my dick stir.
He notices it. “My love,” he whispers, planting a kiss on my thigh. “My love,” he says, when I begin to harden again. Then, he’s covering my meat with kisses, whispering, “My love, my love. My love.”
And that that moment, right before we begin again, they’re the sweetest two words in the world.
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