Dumb Fuck: Part 2

Sometimes people ask me why I’ve kept a journal since I was seventeen—which at this point is bumping up against thirty years of self-reflection on almost a daily basis. Lately I’ve been saying it’s because picking out the moments I want to write down and remember gives me the ability to look at something perfectly commonplace and see the extraordinary that lies beneath.

And when Bobby’s clothing flew off his body and landed on my living room floor in an explosion, like some kind of musical comedy punchline, I felt like I was being treated to the extraordinary that was concealed by layers of the drab and everyday. Bobby was really the most astonishingly good-looking guy I’ve met in recent months. His body belonged to a porn actor, or one of those smiling, welcoming models on the login screen of an adult site. His upper right arm was sleeved in inks of blue and green in a way that only accentuated the size of his bicep; another tattooed creation lay on the flat planes above his right hip, revealed when he lifted his arms above his head, hooked his hands behind his head, and stretched. Somehow he cracked his back in a way that displayed to best advantage his lean and muscular torso, his nipples the size and color of old pennies, and the wispy hair beneath his arms, yet didn’t seem at all calculated to show off.

I was still astonished. “You really are beautiful,” I told him.

His smile was slow and sleepy. When he flashed it at me, his eyes narrowed to mere slits. “Aw, gee, you don’t have to say that. You are too though.”

“You definitely don’t have to say that,” I echoed, still looking him over. Then, suddenly aware that anyone walking or driving by would be looking him over too, through my front windows, I said, “Let’s go upstairs.”

My bedroom was dark when we walked inside. “You mind if we have some light?” he asked. “I want to see that big dick when I suck it.” My reply was to flip on the bedside lamp and then to drop my pants. I’d only been wearing a pair of camo shorts from the hamper, with no underwear beneath. I’m not sure whether it was because of the anger I’d had toward him when he’d been pulling his stunt with not being able to find my house, or whether I’d simply been so overwhelmed at the sight of the guy’s magnificent little body, but my dick had yet to catch up with the arousal my mind was feeling. “Let me get that hard for you,” he whispered, pushing me back onto my bed. I settled some pillows behind my back and sat up as I watched him spread my legs and crawl between them. He took my stiffening dick in his hands and opened his mouth to receive it.

I watched as his eyes closed and he let himself slip into the abandon of sucking at my dick. His mouth was a good fit for me. The tip of my cock nestled into his throat just above the base. Bobby would let it push there against the invisible tightness within, then lower himself just a little more in order to let me feel my cock head spearing the innermost throat muscles, as his lips tickled my pubes and his tongue would dart out to tease my nuts. My dick was slick and moist after a few moments, then seemed to get even more glossy and sleek. When he’d remove it from his mouth and come up for air and to look at his handiwork, it glistened in the light. Satisfied, he’d absorb it back into his mouth and continue.

“I’m getting you close, huh?” he asked at one point.

I’d had to remove his mouth from my dick completely because I’d been so near to orgasm. “Ye-es,” I breathed, astonished again at the brilliance of his eyes and the sheer beauty of his face as he looked up at me.

“Well if you cum in my mouth you’re gonna have to have another load ready for my ass,” he said. Then, with a boyish wriggle, he jumped up to his knees flopped face-down on the mattress beside me. He was still wearing that colorful jock.

When I got up on my own knees, Bobby looked exactly like he had in that first photograph I’d seen of him. “You have the perfect butt,” I announced.

He giggled—and it was definitely a giggle, not a chuckle or a laugh. “Thanks dude.”

“My pleasure.” Then to prove my statement, I spread his legs and buried my face in that beautiful, perfectly round butt. His hole was lightly furry. I swirled the hair as I worked my tongue inside, alternating my licking with biting and kissing.

“Oh,” he said. He arched his back and swung his pelvis so that it mashed back against my face. His eyes closed yet again, and he grabbed the pillow to hang onto. “Oh!” he said, over and over again as I continued to rim him for long, slow minutes. No matter whether I was gentle or whether I was ravaging the hole with my mouth and beard, that was the only word he’d say. Sometimes it was an exclamation, and sometimes a whisper, but somehow he managed to milk a hundred different meanings from the syllable.

I had to fuck him. The sucking has left my dick dripping with his spit, but rimming always gets me rock-hard and ready to plow. I rubbed lube from the bottle on my nightstand onto my dick and spared a little for his hole. He settled back onto his knees and presented his pucker, letting it pulsate against the open air. My knob pressed against it, and then slid in, almost unimpeded by resistance. “Oh shit,” I said, when I reached bottom. “You feel so good. So warm.”

“Oh god,” he said, curling himself up. “Your dick is so big.”

I slid in and out of him slowly at first, keeping our bodies close as I left gentle kisses on his shoulders, his spine, his neck. My hair hung down around my face as I whispered dirty words into his ear and told him how beautiful he was, and how wonderful he felt.

He responded to every movement, every thrust, and every word with the faintest and sweetest of high-pitched grunts, as if caught at the pleasurable peak between distress and desire. His dry lips worked, trying to produce words. “You fuck so good,” he finally said. “I love your big dick in me.”

“Get on the side of the bed,” I ordered him.

He obeyed my order instantly, putting his knees on the mattress’ edge. He curled himself up into as small a ball as possible as I stood on the cold wooden floors and entered the furnace temperatures of his hole once again. I’ve seen a certain type of guy assume that position before, making themselves as tiny as possible by ducking their head to their chest, arching their backs, folding their arms, and keeping their ankles closed. I recognized the trained submissiveness of it. “Fuck me, daddy,” he whispered. “Please.”

I couldn’t help myself. His posture brought out my rough side. After I’d accommodated myself inside him once again, I started to slam in and out, moving around and stabbing at his guts with such violence that the bed began to move across the floor. I followed it, determined not to miss an inch of the fuck. He let out a series of little yips, high-pitched grunts, and ohs! that made me determined to fuck him harder—to make sure he felt what I was dishing out to him. “You want my cum?” I asked when I was getting close.

It was a moot question. He was going to get it whether he wanted or not. “Yes,” he answered, in the smallest voice. “Please.”

“I thought so.” I upped the savageness of my thrusting. He met me, bang for bang, his hips slamming back against me as roughly as I shoved into him. When I came, it was explosive. I grabbed his pelvis and yanked him against me so that I could be as deep as possible inside him as I let loose with my sperm. He thrashed around like a fish on a hook. Eventually the two of us subsided, and I collapsed on top of him on the bed.

“Can I cum?” he begged after a few moments. “Is that okay?” I told him it was, and he asked if I could be inside him when it happened. We eventually settled on a position in which I was lying on my back, and his little body lay at an angle across it, riding my still-hard dick. It was then for the first time that he pulled down the pouch of his jock, letting flop out an enormous, thick, uncut dick. It struck me briefly as unfair that anyone as pretty as this guy should be gifted with such a fucking huge cock, but when he started playing with himself that he was a show-er and not a grow-er. Though soft it had been a fat six inches, hard it was pretty much the same size.

I continued thrusting in him, enjoying the sensations of my cum oozing out onto my nuts, as he played with himself. “You like daddy’s dick deep in that hole?” I whispered at one point. He responded so automatically and with such intensity to the words that I knew I was on the right track. “You love knowing daddy bred that hole deep, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he whispered, jacking himself more furiously.

“It’s like you were made for daddy’s dick, wasn’t it?”

“Oh. Yes. Oh!” He moaned, and writhed, and without warning let loose. His sperm spattered his belly and rib cage, landing as far as those penny-colored nipples. His breathing, which had been labored and rasping, eased into something more normal. Then he lay there atop me, sprawled out and nearly unconscious, his arms above his head.

We rested there for a few moments, both of us almost half-asleep in the late hour. “Tell me about your ink,” I said at last. My hands had been traveling over the intricate patterns, none of which had been derived from any tattoo artist’s standard book of designs.

He grinned sheepishly. “This one’s all about chess,” he said, letting his fingers tickle over the pattern above his hip. “I like to study chess. It’s a real old game from Persia, you know, so these are Persian figures.” He explained in detail the significance of the various chess pieces that made up the work, and the alterations he’d asked for to suit his own personality and life, while I listened to him. I didn’t absorb half of what he said. I was too busy marveling at the notion that anyone who couldn’t figure out that streets were usually divided into odd and even sides could manage a game requiring as much forethought and insight as chess, plus being delighted that all my misconceptions about him were being stripped bare.

“Wow,” I said, when Bobby was finished. “That’s beautiful.”

His palm stroked over the larger of the two tattoos, almost protectively. “This one’s of Icarus,” he told me. “You know about Icarus? He flew too close to the sun and his wings melted. That story always freaked the shit out of me when I was a kid, but now I kind of like it. Icarus is me, you know?”

“Why?” I asked.

He looked at me through his pretty, slitted eyes and smiled. I knew he wasn’t going to tell me. There was some story there. I wasn’t close enough to hear it, though. Not yet. “Hey,” he said, eyes widening. His expression was suddenly impish. “You know why Icarus was a bottom?”

I didn’t really understand the question. “Why?”

He gestured to his tattoo. “So he’s flying, you know, and his wings melt all over the place, because they’re held together with wax and feathers, right? Even though Daedelus was like, dude, don’t fly that high, he did it anyway." His tone was the kind of intimate I really only hear in those sweet moments after sex, when all a man's inhibitions and barriers have melted away. Usually I hear it when I'm lying in the dark with the man, our skin still warm and sticky and connected. Bobby was standing up, and I was cross-legged on my bed, listening, like a child listening to a teacher's story, but the connection was the same nonetheless. "He just flew so high, and so far, that he couldn't even hear what Daedelus was telling him." He pronounced Daedelus with a hard A sound. "Do you know this already?"

"Tell me," I said, not wanting to cut short the tale. My eyes dropped from his, so I could examine more closely the artwork decorating the skin. In the middle of the painterly expanse of blue and green inks lay a naked male body, reclining as if he floated in the water, his body a backward curve. Lean and pink, motionless, yet forever caught in his downward trajectory. The artist had given him a tiny comma for a navel. It was a detail that made the figure look all the more vulnerable.

Bobby had a far-away look in his eyes. "So here Icarus is, falling, and falling, with all this sky and sun above him and nothing but all that space and what he knows is gonna happen, below. And he’s totally fucked.” He grinned at me, changing the mood on the turn of a dime. “That’s why Icarus is a bottom.”

I stared at this beautiful guy as a genuine smile spread across my face. And I realized that, no matter how dumb and pedestrian I’d assumed this guy to be, someone exceptional lived inside that perfectly-sculpted frame. “You really charmed me just now,” I told him, feeling solemn.

“You think?” He sounded astonished. “Guys have told me that before. I just don’t see it. Huh.”

Looking at something commonplace and seeing the extraordinary beneath. That’s why I keep my journal.