A Patient Man

“I’m not going to shoot again,” I told the man, admitting defeat. We lay in the dark, long after midnight, Sunday morning. Both of us lay on our sides, where we’d more or less collapsed after my fourth orgasm. I was still inside him, connected dick to hole.

Anyone looking at us from above would have thought we were complicated puzzle pieces. I was in more or less a fetal position, with most of my weight on my left hip; he lay curled into a ball on his right side, his ankles using the curve of my neck as stirrups. His head lay off the bed’s side. The hall lamp had long ago been turned off by its timer. The neighbors had snuffed out their lights and gone to bed. All that was left to illuminate our faces was the faint glow of my clock radio, and the moon.

“Don’t pull out.” His words were a mere whisper, more command than plea. I was fine with it. All the fucking we’d done had stretched out his hole so that it was a wet, juicy cocoon. I never wanted to have to emerge. We lay there, quiet and tranquil, worn out from our exertions. “So what’s the most loads you’ve left in a guy?”

“In a single guy?” I thought back to my affair with Nurse David, a decade ago, and the long, lazy, rainy afternoon we’d spent just like this one, curled up in the dark on his air mattress. “Seven.” He responded with the gentlest motion of his hips, rocking them back and forth over my quiescent but still-stiff meat. “Why, are you thinking of breaking that record?”

“I might be.”

“I really don’t think I’m going to shoot again,” I said, chuckling a little.

His response was sincere and understanding, both. “I’m a patient man.”

I’d met Martin that night out of a sense of obligation. He’s one of those men connected with one of the big local industries around town. For years, once a week he flies in town for three days out of the week, before returning home to his family in another midwestern metropolis. He’s hit me up many times for sex, but we’d never before connected. Our schedules didn’t mesh, for one thing—he’d be hunting at night when I couldn’t get away, or I’d be looking in the mornings right before he’d be heading off to his meetings for the day.

For another thing, I was slightly prejudiced against the guy. Another top in town to whom I no longer speak had recommended him to me as a good fuck; the fact that Martin had given himself to someone I didn’t like or trust made me irrationally think of him as damaged goods somehow. I intended to get around to him sooner or later, but for a few months, later had been fine with me.

Saturday night, though, I was horny and looking for someone to take me. Martin was online and offered to come to my place. Our schedules were meshing, and extreme horniness has a tendency to erode light ill-will. So I told him to come on over.

None of his photos had shown a face, instead choosing to display his body from the neck down. It was a fine body, lean and muscular and covered with fur that had never seen a pair of clippers. In my head I’d envisioned the kind of face that would sit on top of that body—weathered, salt-and-pepper-haired, a natural complexion from years of no moisturizers. A little homely, maybe. That’s why I was not prepared for what emerged from the dark street as Martin stepped into the pool of light shrining from my porch lamp.

I wrote not so long ago about guys who are ugly-sexy—so unhandsome in traditional ways that they somehow manage to be irresistible. Martin, when he climbed up onto my porch and stood there in his loose sweatpants and white T-shirt, was the opposite of that. He was so incredibly handsome that the force of it struck me like a hideous apparition. I wanted to hold my hand up in front of my face to block out the sight, so intense it was. He was in his forties, like me, but he could easily have been a male model still for some upscale chain of men’s stores who specialize in expensive, rugged wear. His hair was the sort of dark metallic blond that could have been spun into gold thread. His eyes were the paints the Old Masters used for their achingly blue skies. I couldn’t look at him all at once, it was so painful. I could only snatch bits, here and there, and hope the sight didn’t burn my retinas.

Which is why I liked the darkness, where his looks couldn’t blind me. “And what’s the longest you’ve been inside a guy?” he asked, softly rocking back and forth.

I thought back to Nurse David again, that same day I gave him seven loads. “About four hours.”

“Without pulling out?”

“We swapped positions a few times. But except for that, I was inside him the entire time.”

“I was wondering,” he ventured, sounding as if he were being careful, “whether you were like this always, or whether the stiffness was . . . assisted.”

I laughed a little. I like talking in the dark, after sex. It’s one of those times that men open up and speak about anything. The inhibitions are down, the stakes are low. Most of the time, if the guys haven’t fucked it up somehow, they’re feeling kindly and open with each other. He could’ve asked me almost anything after four loads and I wouldn’t have taken it the wrong way. “I took Viagra exactly once. It gave me a killer headache and made my face feel like I was leaning too close to a campfire. My dick didn’t really notice a difference.”

“Nice.”

He was doing something different with his hole, now. He had to have been contracting and releasing his muscles, squeezing and relaxing against my dick. To me it felt as if I was in a hot tub, with my cock being pulled at gently by some kind of whirlpool. “What’s the longest someone has been in you?”

“How long have we been at it?”

“Two and a half hours.”

I could see his dimpled chin nod. “About that, then.”

I felt oddly complimented. “Do you need me to pull out?”

“No. Hell no.” It seemed almost unfair that, gifted in face and body as the man was, his voice was so deep and melodic, and matter-of-fact. “I like a guy who knows what my hole’s made for.”

“What you’re made for,” I corrected.

“What I’m made for,” he agreed.

For a long time we lay there, talking in the darkness. My hands stroked his hairy legs as we talked about the local cruising spots we both enjoyed visiting. He asked if I’d ever fucked in the sling at the local bathhouse; I told him we should visit the place together sometime when he was in town, share a room, and see how many other guys we could get to join us. He told me about his exploits at the local adult bookstore. I told him about mine at the rest stop on the interstate south of the city. We compared notes on the campus libraries of the colleges we knew in the area.

And all the time he kept up the motion with his hips, rocking, rocking, or relaxing and tensing to keep me hard. It wasn’t until he shifted his weight and started to climb back on top of me that I realized what he was doing. “I honestly don’t think. . . .”

“Ssshh,” he said, almost as quiet as the night. “Just let me.”

I wasn’t going to argue with pleasure. Without letting me loose, he pulled his legs into a kneeling position on either side of my rib cage, and began riding me. He’d twined his fingers in mine at first to balance himself, but once he was stable, he pushed them down into the mattress and held them there, so that I couldn’t move. I put up a pretense of fighting back, but he was firm. I was going to lie there, and he was going to ride, in total control.

I was stiff again, but almost couldn’t feel anything. I hadn’t peed in all that time, and fretted about disappointing the guy by not giving him a fifth load. Martin didn’t care, though. He simply wanted my dick in him. His eyes closed. His head tilted to the side, as if he listened to music inaudible to anyone save himself. He was lost in the moment, in becoming a sexual gyroscope that twisted and pulled in every direction. Gradually, I relaxed too. I forgot about my bladder, and about my worries, and just let him grind, and clench, and release.

I was surprised when a few minutes later I felt the familiar sensation of my balls rising, and my scrotum becoming tighter. When I swallowed, my throat was dry. “Fuck,” I managed to rasp out. His eyes opened, then. When he looked at me, those soft blue eyes became hard. Glittering. He pushed down my hands harder, transferred his pressure to the wrists. Then he began to drive harder. Anyone looking at our tangled bodies, might have confusedly thought for a moment that he was fucking me. “You’re stealing it,” I gasped out. “You’re fucking stealing this load from me. Whether I want to give it to you or not.”

The look in his hard eyes was the only confirmation I needed. “I told you I was a patient man.”

When I came moments later, it wasn’t with the violent contractions of earlier in the evening. It wasn’t with obscenities, or frenzied thrusting. It felt like a sweet release, a blossoming, the inevitable unfolding of something delicate and even frail. I breathed, and gasped, and sighed, and almost laughed. My sperm leaked into him, softly and inevitably. He nodded, as if he knew he’d get it from me all along.

And then he leaned down to kiss me. “Good boy,” he whispered, before finally he let me go.

Funny thing, those words. They’re ones I usually use, once I’ve had my way.