Invisible

The man illuminated by my front porch light hesitated for a moment as he peered through the entryway. I’d greeted him when he’d started climbing the stairs, and had asked if he’d found my place without trouble. As I held open the screen door, he looked up at me and said, “So it’s okay? You want me to come in?”

“Sure,” I said, thinking that maybe the way I was holding open the handle impeded him. I gestured the man in. Once the door was closed and we were hidden from the neighbors’ prying eyes, I put my hands on his biceps and drew him in close, so that we could make out. The guy had soft lips with just the right amount of give; there was something about the way he kept them puckered that spoiled the kiss a little for me—but just a tiny bit. He regained points for the passion he betrayed when he reached up and put his arms around my neck and pulled me into him, hungrily. We made out for a long, long moment, lit only by the stained glass table lamp in the far corner. “Let’s go upstairs,” I suggested.

Once in the dark bedroom, I pushed him down onto the mattress and ran my hands up and under his sleeveless T-shirt. My partner for the evening was a short gentleman whose online profile had several photos of his body and nothing more; I knew he had a generally muscular build from those. In person, he was attractive as hell, with wide brown eyes and dark eyebrows set on a masculine, broad brow. Like many Greek men, which is what I guessed he was (and I was right), his short hair was silvering beautifully, with dark, deep undertones.

I undressed him as I ran my jaw and beard over his smooth body. I found out quickly that he liked it when I raked my fuzz over his belly, his hips, the undersides of his rib cage. He sighed softly and gasped when I flicked my tongue over his nipples, and outright groaned when my teeth seized upon them and nipped. “What are you?” he asked into the darkness.

“I beg your pardon?” I said in a normal voice. Because if he was going to ask if I was a Nordic alien. . . .

“What sign?”

I blinked a few times before answering. “Aquarius.”

“I would not have guessed,” he sighed, and relaxed back into the pillows as I lifted and parted his legs.

I can tell when a man is surrendering to me. When it’s a fellow I’ve never met before, he gives in muscle by muscle, starting at the neck and shoulders, then moving down past his pecs and abs. His legs grow weak, calves first and then the thighs. The dick usually never relaxes—and that’s fine. I like it when they’re hard and dripping as I pay attention to other parts of the body. But oddly, it’s always the hole that gives in last. Even as I pulled apart the Astrologer’s ass cheeks, he resisted slightly. My tongue lapped at the little pucker; he shivered and gasped when I blew a stream of cold air directly upon the wet flesh. “Oh man,” he whispered.

While I munched at his ass, he writhed and squirmed. I went at it for a good, long time. My place was free for the entire night. I had nowhere pressing to be, nothing to do save enjoy myself, and make the Astrologer enjoy me. As I licked and sucked and dove in deeper, all tenseness left his cheeks. His hole blossomed and opened, slowly, until I knew it was ready to surrender to me.

I settled him onto a pillow so that his little hips were propped up at a good angle for me, and reached for the lube. “Are you sure you want me?” he asked.

“Oh fuck yes, I want you,” I replied. I slapped a generous amount of lube onto his hole and began to work it in. He groaned, and instinctively ground his hips forward. I used the remainder of the sticky stuff on my dick, stroking it with an overhand motion to get it ready. When I pressed the head against his ass, he pushed back. The guy was tight—he’d warned me about that—but not as tight as he had feared. All my ministrations had relaxed him so that he had no choice but to want me. I’d reduced his options to precisely one, and he was enjoying the hell out of it.

I fucked him slowly at first, with only the top half of my dick. The sensation of my head popping in and out of his outermost ring drove him crazy with pleasure. He clutched at the slats of the headboard so tightly that I worried they’d snap like matchsticks. “Give me more,” he finally rasped out. “Please give it all to me.”

“I can do that,” I said, and agreeably drove in the rest of my inches. I dug in a little harder, just to ensure he felt it. Then, when I was as deep inside him as I could go, I flexed and swelled. His head flew back. His lips parted to release a wordless prayer. Through the very faint light drifting through the wooden blinds, I could see his eyes were open, but he seemed sightless. Whether he saw stars, or simply had given up all his senses so he could relish that feeling of the ultimate in penetration, I could only guess.

With my hands on his shoulders and my body as erect as my dick, I continued to fuck into him for long minutes. He drew up his knees as far as he could, in that position, giving me complete access to his ass. I took advantage of it, driving in long and deep, and occasionally pausing to swell and make him gasp. I only stopped when he started to shake and shudder. “Are you okay?” I asked, checking in.

“Yes,” he said. He sounded almost as if he were close to tears. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

I slipped in deep, then pressed myself against him so that my mouth was against his ear. My arms wrapped around him, and together we rolled onto our right sides. I lifted his left leg into the air and slipped slightly underneath him, so that I could hug him tight as I continued fucking in our new position. His nipples were tight and hard, little erasers beneath my wrists and fingertips. “Is this okay?” I murmured directly into his ear.

“Oh god yes!” he said aloud. “God yes!”

“Good,” I whispered. “I like holding you like this, while I fuck you.”

I’d only been grinding inside him for a good minute or so when my hand drifted down to his dick. It wasn’t a big dick—an average six inches, I’d guess—and I am afraid I hadn’t given it much attention than a few licks when I’d been undressing him. The instant I wrapped my hand around it, though, it began to pulse and throb. He wheezed and jerked. A moment later, I felt warmth and wetness gushing down the back of my hand. “I’m sorry,” he said, without missing a beat.

“Ssshh,” I replied, soothing him.

My thrusting was not as hard as it had been on his stomach, but it didn’t matter. I held him tightly in my embrace as I ground gently in, concentrating on rubbing my head against the sweet spot it hit repeatedly. A few moments later, with scarcely any thrusting at all, my dick began to swell in waves as it pumped out its two-day load. It was the quietest orgasm I’ve had in ages. My breathing was jerky, but soft; I didn’t say a word, but I let him hear my tiny gasps as my lips pressed against his ear. His hands clutched at my hips, pulling me into him. As if he could. I was already thrust as deeply inside him as possible.

We lay there in silence for a long while as he savored the sensation of my arms around his chest. His own arms crossed just below mine, our fingers entwined and tight. I stayed hard inside him, but softened enough that I could feel my load slopping out slowly from his chute and down the sides of my nuts. “You’re all right?” I asked again.

“All right!” he said, laughing a little. “I can’t believe you wanted to fuck me.” I didn’t understand. “I mean, a guy of your caliber.”

Suddenly it all made sense to me. The hesitation at the front door, the unbelieving, you want me to come in? The uncertain, are you sure you want me?

I honestly hadn’t put it together until that moment. “Don’t tell me you think you’re not good-looking enough for me,” I said, shocked. He didn’t reply, but I could tell from the way he tensed that I’d hit the mark. “That’s crazy talk. You’re a handsome guy.”

There was a little bit of bitterness behind his answering laugh. “The only other time I’ve had a guy as good-looking as you was when I had sex with a Colt model a few years back, and he was drunk.”

Gentlemen (and ladies), I am no Colt model. Not by a long shot. To be likened to one—well, let’s just say the comparison would be Dewey decimalized as science fiction. As I’ve said, I’m at peace with my looks, but I’m not indulging in false modesty when I proclaim that I’m Not All That. “It kind of baffles me,” I said to the Astrologer, “that someone as masculine and handsome and all-around good looking as you would have some kind of complex about his looks. You should let the rest of us worry about that stuff. You’re the kind who should be bedding whomever you want.” (Yes, sadly, I use whomever in everyday conversation.)

It took a long time for him to answer. “I wish I felt that way.”

“What do you see when you look in the mirror?” I asked, out of curiosity. “Because when I look at you, I see a really handsome guy.”

“When I look in the mirror,” he said, slowly, and it sounded to my ears as if he was being entirely honest and surprised at himself for being so, “I feel as if I’m invisible.”

His admission seemed like the saddest statement in the world.

I held the Astrologist for a long time, and let him talk to me about the stars and their influences on the world, and listened to him talk about his summer vacation. He told me about his job, and the cities where he’d lived, and the boyfriends he’d had and lost. I let him talk and draw a fuller and colorful picture of himself and his life for me, simply so that for that one night, in that one bed, he wouldn’t feel quite so invisible.

When he left an hour or more later, I gave him another hug at the front door. “I hope sometime you see yourself like I did tonight. Mr. Cellophane,” I teased.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his head against my chest. He lingered there a moment and then squeezed me tightly, before I let him out the door and into the muggy night. I watched as he became fainter and less distinct as he walked into the shadows my weak front porch light couldn’t pierce. I only shut the front door once the darkness swallowed him entirely.