Conundrum

It’s the second night that Spencer has come to stay the evening. “Did you dress up pretty just for me?” I ask him in the bedroom, casting an appraising eye over his trim vest, his shirt printed with flowers, his pressed but still-rumpled khakis.

Immediately he lets loose with one of those grins that stretch his chin and cheeks into an impossible triangle. “I’m wearing clothes,” he said. I could tell by his sheepish reaction that he had indeed dressed to make an effect. Those were date clothes. Not the kind of clothes meant to land on someone’s bedroom floor. “I wear clothes when I leave the house!”

“Not for long, you won’t,” I murmur into his ear. I turn off the bedside lamp then, and push him into the bed.

We kiss for a long while. From time to time he pulls back and looks at me. In the light of the nearly-full moon in which we bathe atop the mattress, his dark eyes glitter. My hand is beneath his shirt, running over the valleys and crests of his rib cage, enjoying the warmth of his skin, before we speak again. “Why are you a conundrum?”

He blinks several times before realizing why I’d asked. Our first night I’d noticed the tattoo running down his right leg, beneath the knee—that single word, conundrum, traced out into block letters that wouldn’t have been out of place on a Sesame Street sketch. “I’ve always been out of step with everyone,” he says at last. His forehead pushed against my shoulder. “My best friend growing up was my grandmother. Not the kids at school, not anyone I knew from church or anything, but my freakin’ grandmother. Later on, in school, I would hang out with the teachers instead of going to recess with everyone else. I was a little adult from the time I was a kid. No one could ever figure me out. So that’s me. Out of step. A puzzle to everyone. A conundrum.”

By his hushed tone, I guess I’ve hit on something important to him. I sit him up and remove his sweater vest, drawing his hands up over his head as I might undress a sleepy child. “That’s sweet.”

He butts his head against me. “Most people my age have to ask me the definition.”

His flowered shirt is next. I snap open the buttons and expose his chest, his shoulders. He shivers a little at the sudden breath of cold air on his back from the cracked window. I fold the garment and place it atop his sweater on my dresser. Then I help him out of his pants, and add them to the neatly-stacked pile. He wears nothing beneath the khakis. His thick hard-on flops against his abdomen, already twitching. Spencer plops back against the pillows with his arms hugging his chest, conserving his warmth. He seems shy to be looked at.

“You truly have a beautiful body,” I tell him in a whisper.

“Thank you for thinking so,” is his automatic response back. I’m going to have to break him of that. Before I can say anything, though, he sits up with a rush and begins to remove my shirt.

What follows is a long and passionate exchange of pleasure. We kiss and neck like teenagers in the back seat of our father’s jalopy. I gently suck his nipples, and he chews on mine. He straddles my chest and lets me suck on his dick while he lodges mine deep into his throat. And then I rim him for a long, wordless time that’s punctuated only by his appreciative sighs and my own animal grunts as I try to wedge my tongue in more and more deeply. When he’s slick and wet from my mouth, I rise and enter him—but only for a few moments.

He whimpers when I withdraw. “Lie down,” I tell him, turning him onto his side. “Relax.”

I think Spencer knows what’s coming. We’d discussed it the night before, as a part of his sexual diet. “What are you doing?” he asks, grinning from ear to ear.

I don’t answer. He already knows what I intend. From the nightstand I withdraw a tub of lube I’d set inside earlier. I unscrew the top and take a dollop of the creamy gel and apply it to his hole, teasing it in with my middle finger.

Spencer’s left leg extends into a straight line with a dancer’s pointed toe; his right curls up to his chest, stretching his ass cheeks wide. He groans. In the meantime I’ve taken another glob of goo and pushed it into his hole with my middle and index finger together, enjoying the slick wetness within.

“What’s it like?” he asks, as a third finger joins the other two, then a fourth. I ease them around, slowly, deliberately teasing him.

“Like dipping my hand into warm water.”

There’s a note of teasing in his voice. “Or an apple pie?”

“I’ve never put my hand into an apple pie.” Before he can say anything smart—and I can tell he’s about to—I add, “Or fucked one.”

Any rejoinder he might have had is silenced when my thumb joins the others. He inhales sharply; his head raises into the air. Then it’s down in the pillows as he buries his face in the cool sheets.

I’m at the point at which I can feel his body speaking to me, rather than his mouth. His spine is a perfect concavity. Those beautiful cheeks of his are open. His hole pulses and throbs around the forefront of my hand. Hungrily it backs up and onto me, trying to take the rest in.

After I apply more of the lube around the perimeter of where my hand meets his hole, I let him have it. The thickest portion of my right hand, south of the thumb’s joint, slips in. His open hole closes around my wrist. The moan he lets out is long and slow, a perfect wave of pure vibration that seems endless. When he begins to move again after the shock of taking something so wide in his ass, I know it’s all right to twist. I keep my fist in a ball as slowly I rotate it in his ass. My thumb moves from the noon position to nine o’clock, and then to three, before slowly moving backward again.

“Oh,” he finally says. “You’re . . . amazing.”

“I absolutely am,” I tell him. I’m sitting upright beside him, wrist-deep in the boy’s hole. My left hand rests on his abdomen, judging the rise and fall as he breathes. Whenever he speaks or groans, my palm tingles. I feel him chuckle slightly, but in his sensation-dazed state, it’s almost too much effort.

“I have goosebumps,” he whispers.

Gently I pat him to let him know it’s all right to enjoy the feelings without feeling obligated to tell me. The forest of raised follicles springing from his body already told me what I needed to know.

“I like knowing . . . you're inside me,” he breathes out. Then he follows it up with, “I like . . . knowing it’s you inside me like this.”

It seems almost a shame to spoil this quiet and sacred moment with words, but I’m touched by his. “That’s what I like the most about fisting,” I tell him. “The intimacy. You and me. Connected. Reach down and touch,” I tell him.

Immediately his hand searches for where my hand is disappearing inside him. I feel his fingers around my forearm. “Oh, fuck,” he says.

“Connected,” I repeat. “You and me.”

My fist remains inside him only for a few more moments. He’s reached the end of his tolerance; his legs are shaking. After I give my lube-covered hand a rinse in the bathroom and he hops into the shower to get the remainder from his hole, we join each other in bed once more. “You’re incredible,” he repeated, happily content.

“Thank you,” I said this time, meaning it most sincerely. “It’s an honor.”

I’m playing with his flaccid dick. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It short-circuits after I’m fisted like that.”

I don’t want to hear apologies. Side by side, we rest our heads on the pillow and kiss, softly and sweetly. After a mere moment of making out, his dick begins to swell in my grasp. A bead of pre-cum oozes into my palm. He barely protests when I push him onto his other side and, after moistening the head and first three inches with a glob of spit, shove into him. The moment I hit bottom, his dick blossoms into full hardness. I spit into my right hand and apply the slippery liquid to his meat, then wrap my hand around it and begin to beat. Just as it had for my fist inside him, his body reacts to both my cock grinding at his hole and my hand around his inches. “I just want to bring you as much pleasure as you can stand,” I whisper into his ear. “That’s all I want.”

“Oh god, you do,” he rasps out. My words have pushed him over the edge. Spencer’s body buckles and jerks. I feel a warm jet of semen cross the sides of my fingers and spray onto the blankets. Over and over he thrashes and shoots, until at last I clutch his cock still and tight and hold him to me.

It’s a very long time before he can say anything. When he does, it’s with a voice made weak from exertion. “I’ve never had a man—not a single man—who could, A), make me shoot by sucking me, or B), make me shoot by jerking me off. You’re the first. The very first. . . .” His words trail off, as if he’s drifting to sleep in my arms.

“So what you’re basically telling me is that I have work to do on part A,” I say in a normal voice.

He laughs. “You’re amazing,” he says once again.

“Mmm,” I concede.

But what I’m really thinking is that one of these days, I’m going to have to knock that other item off his list.