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.