Scruffy's Return

What I like about Scruffy is—no, that’s no way to begin. There’s too much I like about Scruffy to narrow it down. I like his boyish looks. His blond hair, so thick and shaggy. I like the snub at the end of his nose, which gives him the innocence of a freckled youngster. I like the slope of his shoulders as he walks, as if he’s not confident enough yet to stand straight and face the world head-on. I like the way his breath eases from his body and develops into a moan as I drive into him.

I like . . . no, I love . . . the way he kisses. His lips purse as he stares into my eyes, then they clasp softly over mine, pulling at them as gently and sweetly as a baby grasping with its tiny fingers. I love the deep, plush pillows of them as we connect. I love his ass, which is round and full and tastes of soap with the tang of fresh-cut grass, somehow.

But what I found I liked most about Scruffy Sunday night, when he came by for a couple of hours, was how thoroughly he forgot about me and indulged himself. Oh, he didn’t forget about me completely. It was my dick he nursed on for a long half-hour the moment he’d parked his car in my garage and made his way into the house. I was certainly there, legs spread, running my hands through his hair. I was the one gasping for air and clutching at the blanket when he’d run his teeth lightly over my engorged cock head, or when he’d suck cool air up and around the shaft.

But Scruffy was the one who completely lost himself in the moment. My dick was the world to him. It was the only thing going through his head as he licked and sucked with a hunger that I’d never seen in him before. When he’d switch to my nuts, doing that thing with them that only he and no one else has ever done, in which he somehow makes them into a rigid column and fellates them as he would a cock until they’re quivering and ready to shoot, he wasn’t doing it for my pleasure. It was solely for his.

The fact that his hunger and my pleasure coincided nicely was only a plus.

I fucked him three times, Sunday night. First on his stomach, with my feet straddling his butt as I pistoned in and out, cowboy-style. The second time he rode me, his feet on either side of my waist, returning the favor. The third time, we came together as I fucked him on his back, standing by the bed’s side as he wrapped his long, furry legs around me and refused to let me go.

When I collapsed on the bed beside him—and I do mean collapsed, in a heavy, huffing heap—I found the entire bed covered with his load. He’d sprayed semen everywhere. The pillows, the sheets, the bed’s far side. “Holy fuck,” I laughed, coming away cold and sticky wherever I touched. “Did you have a quart of cum in you, or what?”

He sounded sheepish in the dark. “I haven’t had sex since July.”

“Seriously?”

He nodded, and snuggled under my outstretched arm. While we’d been making love, right after I’d slowly entered him, I’d whispered into Scruffy’s ear. I know I’m just some guy you fuck around with once in a while, I’d told him, hoping the truth of what I was telling him might sink in. But I want you to know that being with you means something important to me.

You’re not some guy, he’d whispered back to me. You’re the only guy I’ve seen.

When he told me he hadn’t had sex since July, I thought back to the last time I’d seen him. It was at the very, very end of that month, only three days before I’d learned that I was going to be moving. I’d thought he was being abstract and metaphorical, saying I was the only guy he’s seen. Apparently he meant it just as sincerely. “You haven’t had sex since the last time I saw you?” He shook his head. It seemed as if he was close to tears. “Baby. Why not?”

I lay there in the dark as he talked to me, his arms around my chest and his head resting upon it, rising and falling with my breathing. I knew he’d had to move back with his mom at the end of the school year last spring. I hadn’t known that he’d lost his job right after the last time I saw him, and that he’d fallen into despondency for several weeks after. I didn’t know about one of his siblings’ problems with the law, or his mother’s inability to find employment. It was all those reasons that had kept him ninety miles away without seeing me for three months, while all the time I’d worried that the declarations we’d exchanged last July had scared him off.

With night as our blanket we lay together, arms around each other like little boys, best friends. He talked. I listened, and spoke when it seemed right.

And at the end, he left with a handful of Dum Dums and halloween candy, and the biggest smile upon his face.

I texted him Monday evening to thank him for seeing me. You really made my week, I told him.

He texted back only moments later. No, thank you. You made my year. You’re always so good to me.

I thought about it a moment, then texted back, You make being good a pleasure.

Because that’s what it should be all about in the end, right? Two people in the dark, being good to each other, and reaping the mutual benefit.

I think so, anyway.