Gun Oil

Scruffy stood me up last night. We’d made plans earlier in the day that he’d come to my place between eight-thirty and nine. It was somewhere between then that he texted me to say that he wasn’t feeling well and that he was going to lie down. I didn’t hear from him again. It’s okay—I’ve been fucking the kid for three months now, twice a week or more, and every single time he’s been courteous and polite and shown up exactly when he’s said he would. I mean, I just dicked him yesterday.

I just like the kid, that’s all, and I’d ignored all the guys hitting me up via email all day, sniffing around with the spouse gone. I’d had that abortive rest stop sex in the morning that left me horny all day. So when Scruffy called off our planned fuck, I fired up the web browser and began seeing what I could get.

Finally I got one of my regulars from barebackrt.com to invite me to his place. Dennis lives about a mile south of me. He’s thirty-eight, a sandy blond shorty who goes to lengths to show off his little jock body. He wears shirts with deep cuts that show off his biceps, the curves of his pecs, and down to his cut abs; in all his profile photos (the ones with clothes, anyway) he’s wearing a baseball cap, beat-up sneakers, and shorts that show off his muscular legs. The fucks with Dennis are always the same. I give him a heads-up when I leave my house, and five minutes later he props open the door to his apartment building. I park, walk in the building, let myself into his unlocked apartment, and make my way to the back bedroom, where he’s got the blinds drawn and the TV playing porn. Tonight it was some Treasure Island movie I didn’t recognize. He was lying on the bed, poppered up and rubbing gun oil in his hole.

“Wife must be gone,” he said while I kicked off my shoes and removed my hoodie. He watched as the pants came off. I wasn’t wearing trunks underneath—just the thickest of my chrome cockrings. I was mostly hard already. The sight of all those furry muscles stretched over Dennis’ tiny frame has a tendency to do that to me. “When did you fuck her last?”

“Do you really care?” I asked him.

“No,” he admitted.

“Put your ass up.”

“I’m all greased up already,” he said, though he turned over.

“Don’t care.” I shoved him down on the bed and put my face against his hole until my mouth and beard were covered with the sweet-smelling gun oil. His pucker blossomed out against my tongue, and he grunted as I sucked at it. Then, after a few minutes of that, I got up on the bed and flipped him over, my hand still working at his butt. We made out some, but he was weird. Distracted. Usually Dennis is a deep kisser who goes helpless when I’ve got my mouth over his. Last night he tongue kept darting in and out like a cuckoo clock. When I lifted his legs and got my cockhead in, he started giggling to himself.

But I was wound up enough that I didn’t care if he’d been tweaking. When I finally drove all the way in he gasped and his toes curled tight around my ears. Then he relaxed and accepted it. I’d been at a simmer all day, so I knew I wasn’t going to last long, my first load. When I told him so, he said, “I don’t care . . . just get off on you . . . getting off. I was thinking . . . nah, you don’t care, just . . . stuff going through my head, doesn’t really . . . have to do with you.”

He had been tweaking, or something. The bed was covered with his shit. The giant pump bottle of gun oil was banging between our legs while I fucked him. He kept losing his popper bottle and having to roll around to retrieve it. Towels were everywhere, and the two remotes for the DVD player and the TV were digging into my back when I finally flipped us both onto our sides. He’s so tiny that fucking him with my arms around him always gets me off; I pulled him down hard on my dick while it spat its first load into his guts.

“God, you’re still hard,” he said, after a minute.

“Yup.”

“I got the impression it was a big load.”

“Your impression is right,” I said.

Then I grabbed his hand and put it at the base of my dick, where his hole was stretched around me. When he held it up and looked at it in the television’s light, it was slick with sperm. “Fuck,” he said, slathering it onto his own dick and rubbing furiously.

I fucked him again right after, ignoring the fact that he was talking to himself most of the time. By the time I bred him a second time, he was telling me all about how he’d comparison-shopped for his television and thought it was supposed to be among the best, but he hated how the porn looked on it. I didn’t really give a shit what kind of substance-addled rant he was on; I’d just wanted his hole for an hour. I pulled on my clothes and shoes, got the hell out, and went home to sleep in my empty bed.

I would’ve much rather have been with Scruffy. At least he’s present when I fuck him. Then again, I’ve never known Dennis to be anything less than horned up and eager for it—maybe it’s just an off day for everyone.