Text Message Sex Roulette

Jim had to leave after one load, Monday morning. I showered and cleaned up and tried to settle down to do the work I’d sworn I’d do earlier. I’d barely sat down to my computer when my phone’s screen lit up. Hey handsome, read a message from a vaguely local number. What r u up to today?

I had no idea who it was. When I looked at the text message history from that person, there were only two of the briefest clues. One was a message from him saying On my way now on the fifteenth of the month. The other was from me a couple of minutes later, saying, See you soon! with a smiley face. I looked at my calendar for the fifteenth and remembered it being the day I’d spoken to that all-female college class, but I had no recollection of how I’d spent the morning or afternoon. My journal didn’t help. The name ‘Mike’ meant nothing. Everyone I know is named Mike. There are so many of them in my life that I refer to them by different monikers—Canadian Mike, Accountant Mike, Irish Mike, My Brother Mike—whatever helps to label them.

Frankly, I was a little embarrassed that I couldn’t keep track of my tricks. But you know, that’s what comes of being a bit slutty and having so few memory cells that I have to offload everything into my journals. Besides, I was still horny, so I decided to play Text Message Sex Roulette and see what I got. Come on over! I texted this mysterious Mike. How bad could it be? I couldn’t remember having sex with anyone who truly repelled me other than the porn star guy in the bathhouse last week, and I certainly didn’t give him my number.

It took him about a half hour to arrive. The minute the car pulled up in front of the house I remembered exactly who this Mike was. He’d been a fifty-year-old guy from Manhunt whose profile boasted a bunch of leather-clad photos of himself looking tough and butch and mean. In our brief correspondence he’d seemed like a nice guy, so I’d had him over the day of that college lecture. He’d strutted into my house in jockwear and an artfully-battered baseball cap, but there were a couple of things that his gear-focused photos didn’t really reveal. The first was that he was quite short. Not quite Lollipop Guild-short, but getting there. That’s fine. I’m six-foot-three and just about everyone's short to me. I like short guys. The other was that when he opened his mouth—nope, it wasn’t his voice, that was fine—he had a pair of incisors that were just a touch longer than his other teeth. When I'd seen them for the first time, a couple of weeks before, I’d automatically given him the nickname of Gopher Mike.

I know. Awful. I can’t help what my brain does sometimes. He was a sweet guy and hot in the sack—I’d fucked three loads into him the first afternoon we’d met and was getting dressed when he wrestled me back down to my bed, cleaned off my dick with his mouth, and somehow managed to talk me into giving him a fourth. The guy has a sexy tattoo-covered body and I like his aggressiveness in bed, even when he’s bottoming. There’s nothing gopher-like about that.

Monday we started making out the second he walked in. I wrestled him out of his leather jacket and grabbed his ass. He rubbed the long bulge snaking down the right leg of my jeans. I didn’t waste any time. “Let’s go upstairs,” I said.

He’d dressed in a red jockstrap and a white tanktop that showed off his pecs. Obviously he enjoyed stripping for me; I enjoyed watching him take off his clothes slowly and deliberately with his eyes locked on my face. I’d shucked my jeans before I’d cleared the door, and lay on my back with my dick point at the ceiling, stroking it for him. When he opened his mouth and began to swallow it, the last thing I was thinking about was his teeth.

“Put your legs up,” he growled. “I want to eat your hole.”

I did him one better. I hopped up to put my face in the pillows and flipped right over for him. He took both arms and hauled up my waist to meet his mouth, and buried his face in there. I really enjoy being rimmed by someone who knows what he’s doing, but I’m awfully shy about asking a guy to do it. Never mind that I could rim for an entire night without surfacing for air—it always seems to me an imposition to ask a guy to eat me out. (Maybe it, occurs to me, because when I rim it’s usually as a prelude to fucking the hole, and I feel badly about asking someone to rim what they’re not likely going to fuck. I don’t know. Everyone has hangups.) I was glad, then, that he just took it.

When he came up for air long minutes later, I’d dripped a puddle of pre-cum on the blanket. “That’s it,” I said. “Not waiting any more.” It was his turn to eat the pillows. When I reached between his buns, I found that he’d already lubed up his hole before he arrived.

(Which means what, every fuck I’ve had in the last five days has been pre-lubed? I’m not going to say I don’t like it. I do. But is this a trend, all you bottoms out there? Or don’t you like the brand I use?)

Regardless. I drove into him, already frenzied by the nerve endings tingling in my hole. “I love eating your ass,” he gasped out. “You’ve got such a hot ass.”

“I don’t have an ass,” I told him, fucking harder. “It’s flat.”

“I like that.” We were mating like breeding dogs, but gasping out conversation to each other when we could. “There are two things I like,” he said, a few words at a time. “One is tall guys. And you’re really tall. The other is small asses.”

“Well thank you,” I told him. Then I pushed his face down into the pillows, thrust once hard, and shot my second load of the day—his first. Immediately I rolled over to the side with him, and reached down. His six inches were hard and pre-cum oozed all over the shaft. “Beat my dick,” he told me.

I grabbed the meat with my left hand and jacked it with my left hand while pulling him against my chest with my right arm. “Wait a sec,” he said, bounding up. “Let’s do it this way, like last time.”

The last time he’d visited, Mike had perched me at the very edge of the mattress, and then had stood up and lowered himself down on my dick. He was short enough that he could ride up and down without bending his knees very much at all, and he took my still-slick dick without even a gasp. While I fingered his nipple he bounced up and down, beating himself furiously.

It only took him a minute to shoot. “Can you do it again?” he asked.

I only laughed, flipped him over and onto his knees, and then entered him from behind. It’s my favorite position. I like looking down and seeing my meat stretching the hole wide, and I love the sight of a round ass lifted up for my pleasure. When I see that, it’s as if all is as it should be.

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After my third load—his second, I flopped face-down on the bed again. He lay beside me. “You know,” he said, “I could eat your ass all day.”

“PLEASE DO,” I said, in all capital letters.

He laughed. “You’re a nice guy.”

“Thanks.”

“What I really wanted to do was fuck it,” he said, unexpectedly. I raised my eyebrows. “I wanted to eat you and make you feel real good and then just kind of move up and slide in you, just a little bit. I'm not that big. It wouldn't have hurt. Then I would have pulled out and eaten you a lot more, and then put a little more in you. Just to show you how good it feels. I wouldn't have done it all the way. But I didn’t know if you wanted that.”

I didn’t know if I wanted that, either. Though I admit it sounded appealing, on a certain level. “You’re a nice guy too,” I told him at last, not committing to anything.

“I just want to make you feel as good as possible so you’ll keep having me back.”

I watched as he sat up and pulled on his tank top. “That’s not going to be an issue,” I said, before giving him a big bear hug.